For it was evident to the meanest capacity that Mrs. Mangan had now paid her footing in society.

CHAPTER XIV

“Go away from me, Miss Christian!” shouted Mrs. Twomey (but this was merely an ejaculation of pleased surprise, not to be taken literally).  “Go-to-God-he-did-not!”

“He did, indeed, Mrs. Twomey!” replied Christian, rooting at her habit pocket, and extracting her purse.  “He said that he’d won the scholarship, and he knew you were praying hard for him or he wouldn’t have got it, and he said I was to give you this, with his love.”

“This” was a golden sovereign, a coin that did not often in its beauty and entirety come Mrs. Twomey’s way.

She curtseyed so low that since—­as has been said—­she was but little over four feet, Christian had to lean low over Harry’s withers in order to drop the sovereign into her hand.

“That the sun may shine on his soul, my lovely gentleman!  That he may never want crown, pown’, nor shi’n, nor you nayther!  The Kingdom o’ Heaven is your due, the pair of yee, and may yee be long going there!  Amin!”

A silent and prayerful moment followed on the benedictions, and Mrs. Twomey’s bright little eyes rolled devoutly heavenwards.  This concession to the solemnity of the occasion disposed of, the beneficiary became normal again.

“Look!” she resumed, while she bestowed the sovereign in an incredibly old bag-purse with a brass rim; “tell him there’s always one foolish in a family, and what it is with Masther Larry, he’s too give-ish!  That’s what he is!”

“You can tell him so yourself,” replied Christian.  “He’ll be home in a week.”

“Very good, faith!  There’s a welcome before him whatever time he’ll come!  Sure I thought he’d be kept back in England till the Christmas?”

“He’s finished with school now,” said Christian.  “He’s going abroad for a bit after Christmas, and then he’s going to Oxford!”

The glory in Christian’s voice conveyed more to Mrs. Twomey than any statement of fact could achieve.

“Well, well!  I’m proud out of him, the poor child!  But I wisht it was home in his own house he was to be,” she replied, raising her skirt, and stuffing the purse into a large pocket that hung round her waist over a red flannel petticoat; “han’t he lessons enought learnt?”

“Oh, but he loves going to Oxford, Mrs. Twomey,” said Christian; “he’s looking forward to it awfully; and I’m going to France to do lessons, too!  I’ll be talking French to you, Mrs. Twomey, when I come back!”

Mrs. Twomey uttered a screech of well-simulated horror.

“For God’s sake, child, do not!” she exclaimed; “didn’t I know one o’ thim in Boyshton, a docther he was, and a German.  He had as many slishes and sloshes as’d fill a book!  Sure I thought I’d lose me life thrying could I make off at all what he said to me!”