“Pat Rooney!” exclaimed Anna Maria, while the rest of the family echoed the name in varying tones of shrill disapproval.

“Aye, indeed,” said Mrs. McNally, dropping into a chair.

“Pat Rooney.  Her mind’s made up, it seems, and ’pon me word, though I thought she’d have looked higher, I can’t altogether blame the girl.  Sure what sort of a husband can she expect, and her without a penny?  An old widower maybe, or maybe a fellow with one leg.  Pat’s gettin’ good wages, an’ the two of them were talkin’ o’ takin’ that little thatched cabin just out of the town—­”

“A cabin!” said Juliana, and began to turn up her eyes, and to make a strange clucking noise in her throat.

“For goodness’ sake, Ju, don’t be goin’ off in highsterics,” cried Nanny quickly.  “Sure what matter if ’tis a cabin itself!  I’ll engage she’ll keep it as clean as a new pin—­and she’s a great hand at her needle, so she is.  Sure she’ll be able to do dressmakin’ for the quality.”

“An’ of course,” said Mrs. McNally, casting a deprecating glance round at the irate faces, “we mustn’t forget she doesn’t rightly belong to the family.  Tis no disgrace to us at all, an’ really an’ truly, girls, I’m almost glad to think she’s comfortably settled.”

“To be sure,” said Bridget, “she’s no relation at all to any of us.  A little girl that me a’nt took in out of charity.  Why wouldn’t she marry the baker—­”

“My blessin’ to her!” said Mary sourly.

Juliana left off clucking, and smiled sarcastically.  “She isn’t breakin’ her heart after you, Mr. Brian, at any rate,” she remarked.  “She wasn’t long in getting over her disappointment.”

“I must say I didn’t think she’d make so little of herself,” he returned, drawing himself up.

“How d’ye like that, Nanny?” said Juliana spitefully.  “I declare Mr. Brian’s quite upset.”

“Ah, the poor fellow, is he?” said Anna Maria, whose good-humour was imperturbable.  “I declare I’ll have to get married to him now if it’s only to comfort him.”

And thereupon she burst into a hearty laugh, in which Brian Brennan joined.

IN ST. PATRICK’S WARD

It was intensely, suffocatingly hot, though the windows on either side of the long room were wide open; the patients lay languidly watching the flies on the ceiling, the sunshine streaming over the ochre-tinted wall, the flickering light of the little lamp which burned night and day beneath the large coloured statue of St. Patrick in the centre of the ward.  It was too hot even to talk.  Granny M’Gee—­who, though not exactly ill, was old and delicate enough to be permitted to remain permanently in the Union Infirmary instead of being relegated to the workhouse proper—­dozed in her wicker chair with her empty pipe between her wrinkled fingers.  Once, as she loved to relate, she had burnt her lovely fringe with that same pipe—­“bad luck to it!”