Poor Mrs. McNally’s heavy foot was now heard hastening along the passage, and in another minute she entered—­alone, her kind face was all puckered up with concern, and at first sight of it Elleney knew exactly how matters stood.  She disengaged herself from Nanny and went quietly up to her aunt.

“I hope you explained to him that I didn’t rightly understand what he was sayin’,” she observed with a certain childish dignity that took the others by surprise.  “It was all a mistake, of course, but there’s no great harm done.”

“Not a bit of harm at all, me dear,” groaned Mrs. McNally.  “Not a bit of harm in the world—­only for the disappointment.”

“No disappointment,” returned Elleney; her eyes were steady, though that red under-lip of hers would quiver; “no disappointment, a’nt, I hope.  He’ll be sure to pick out one of the girls, won’t he?”

“I b’lieve so,” answered Mrs. McNally, propping herself against the counter.  “He’s afther tellin’ me his father ’ud be the death of him if—­”

“Sure that’s all right,” interrupted her niece.  “Nanny, you ought to go and see to him.”

“Do, Nanny,” said the mother.  “He was askin’ for you.”

“Then he may ask away,” retorted Nanny.  “Do ye remember the story o’ the Connaught woman who said ‘Purse, will ye have him?’ when the fellow made up to her for her money.  My purse says ‘No.’  Let him try Juliana.  Is that the bar bell ringing?”

“Aye, it is; ye’d best be off an’ see what’s wanted.  Bridget and Mary is so taken up with that young fellow I declare they don’t know whether they’re on their heads or their heels.”

“Aye, indeed,” cried Anna Maria with her jolly laugh.  “I seen them prancin’ round him like a couple o’ goats, as old as they are.”

She vanished, and Mrs. McNally also went away.

Some time later Pat Rooney entered the shop, bearing a large tray of newly-baked loaves.  His face wore a solemn, not to say sulky, expression, and he looked neither to right nor to left.  Before he had finished piling up the loaves in their allotted corner, however, a suspicious sound attracted his attention, and he turned reluctantly round.  A small figure was crouching in the darkest angle of the “dress department,” with its apron over its head.

“Is it cryin’ ye are?” said Pat sternly.

For all answer Elleney sobbed afresh.

The young man drew nearer, and Elleney tilted up one elbow as a hint to him to keep his distance.

“Bedad, ye have no right to be cryin’,” remarked Pat in a withering tone.  “It was the other way wid ye altogether when I looked in through the door a while ago, on my way back from me dinner.  If I hadn’t seen it wid me own two eyes,” he added with scornful severity, “I wouldn’t have believed it was you that was in it at all.”

Elleney jerked down her apron, and looked up with eyes that blazed beneath their swollen lids.