296 TJic Real Charlotte. 



cure to ye ! Can't ye make haste ! I suppose ye think it's 

 to be standin' lookin' at the people that ye get four pounds 

 a year an' yer dite ! Thim gerrls is able to put annyone 

 that'd be with them into a decay," she ended, as Bid Sal re- 

 luctantly withdrew, " and there's not a word ye'U say but 

 they'll gallop through the counthry tellin' it." Then, drop- 

 ping into a conversational tone, *' Nance was sayin' Lambert 

 was gone to Dublin agin, but what signifies what the likes 

 of her'd say ; it couldn't be he'd be goin' in it agin and he 

 not home a week from it." 



Mary Holloran pursed up her mouth portentously. 



" Faith he could go in it, and it's in it he's gone," she said, 

 beginning upon a new cup of tea, as dark and sweet as 

 treacle, that Norry had prepared for her. " Ah, musha ! 

 Lord have mercy on thim that's gone ; 'tis short till they're 

 forgotten ! " 



Norry contented herself with an acquiescing sound, 

 devoid of interrogation, but dreary enough to be encourag- 

 ing. Mrs. Holloran's saucer had received half the contents 

 of her cup, and was now delicately poised aloft on the out- 

 spread fingers of her right hand, while her right elbow 

 rested on the table according to the etiquette of her class, 

 and Norry knew that the string of her friend's tongue would 

 loosen of its own accord. 



" Seven months last Monday," began Mary Holloran in 

 the voice of a professional reciter ; " seven months since he 

 berrid her, an' if he gives three more in the widda ye may 

 call me a liar." 



" Tell the truth ! " exclaimed Norry, startled out of her 

 self-repression and stopping short in the act of poking the 

 fire. " D'ye tell me it's to marry again he'd go, an' the first 

 wife's clothes on his cook this minit ? " 



Mary KoUoran did not reveal by look or word the grati- 

 fication that she felt. " God forbid I'd rise talk or dhraw 

 scandal," she continued with the same pregnant calm, " but 

 the thruth it is an' no slandher, for the last month there's 

 not a week — arrah what week — no, but there's hardly the 

 day, but a letther goes to the post for — for one you know 

 well, an' httle boxeens and re/'^^tered envelopes an' all sorts. 

 An' letthers coming from that one to him to further ordhers ! 

 Sure I'd know the writin'. Hav'n't she her name written 



