One fine morning, her smart outside car drove up to the hospitable cabin which had sheltered the Clancys, and Pat and his wife were with some difficulty hoisted on to it.  Some twenty or thirty neighbours kindly escorted them, “to hould them on for fear they might fall, the craturs!” With a deal of shouting and huzzahing, the little procession halted at length at Monavoe, where Roseen’s health was drunk in due form, and then Mike’s, and then Pat’s, and then Mrs. Clancy’s, and then Roseen’s again; and at last the escort went reluctantly homewards, and Roseen conveyed her charges to the apartment she destined for them.  It was a comfortable room on the ground floor, larger than the whole of the Clancys’ former dwelling, which, nevertheless, it resembled oddly in many particulars.  For, lo and behold! there in the corner stood their own venerable four-poster, and drawn up by the hearth was Pat’s particular elbow-chair; all their possessions were there in fact, Roseen having carefully collected them previous to installing their owners—­not even the little creepy-stool was absent.

Pat Clancy, who had maintained a certain dignified reserve all day, not quite liking the notion of being regarded as Roseen’s pensioner, and not being certain whether this new move did not involve a sacrifice of independence, was now fairly overcome.  “God bless you, me child!” he said brokenly, “ye were always the good little girl, Roseen.  Herself and me will be quite at home here.”

“Ah then, musha, look at me pot,” cried Mrs. Clancy, who had been troubled by no scruples and whose tongue had been wagging freely during the course of their transit to Monavoe.  “Look at me own i-dentical pot that has biled for me ever since we got married!  I declare I could very near kiss it!  I could never fancy any stir-about the same as what come out o’ that pot!  And there’s the dresser an’ all me cups and saucers widout so much as a crack on them.  Well now, who’d ever fancy anybody that thoughtful?  Sure we’ll be in clover here—­if only we had poor Mike out o’ gaol!”

“He’ll be out soon, never fear,” cried Roseen.  “We’ll get a grand clever lawyer from Dublin to come an’ spake for him, see if we don’t.  But rest yourself now, Mr. Clancy, ye’ll be tired afther the drive.  Maybe Mrs. Clancy would like to wet a grain o’ tay for ye.  Ye’ll find plenty there, ma’am, in the little caddy, an’ I’ll send up Judy with a bit o’ griddle cake.”

“God bless ye, alanna!” said Mrs. Clancy, with shining eyes; “I’ll set on me own little kettle this minute; it’s a grand little wan to bile in a hurry, an’ I’ll make himself a cup of tay in no time.”

Roseen withdrew with a bright nod, her innate delicacy prompting her to leave the couple to themselves for a time.  Mrs. Clancy’s own particular little rusty kettle was soon singing merrily on the hob, and Judy presently appeared with the griddle cake and a roll of butter of Roseen’s own making.