‘No, I am not wet,’ she said, looking down at her boots; ’it isn’t raining; but if it were Alice would send me out all the same.’

‘Where is she now?’

’Up in her room reading, I suppose; she never stirs out of it.  I thought when we came home from school the last time that we would be better friends; but, do you know what I think:  Alice is a bit sulky.  What do you think, mamma?’

To talk of Alice, to suggest that she was a little jealous, to explain the difficulty of the position she occupied, to commiserate and lavish much pity upon her was, no doubt, a fascinating subject of conversation, it had burned in the brains of mother and daughter for many months; but, too wise to compromise herself with her children, Mrs. Barton resisted the temptation to gratify a vindictiveness that rankled in her heart.  She said: 

’Alice has not yet found her beau cavalier; we shall see when we are at the Castle if she will remain faithful to her books.  I am afraid that Miss Alice will then prefer some gay, dashing young officer to her Marmion and her Lara.’

’I should think so, indeed.  She says that the only man she cares to speak to in the county is Dr. Reed, that little frumpy fellow with his medicines.  I can’t understand her.  I couldn’t care for anyone but an officer.’

This was the chance Mrs. Barton required, and she instantly availed herself of it.  ‘The red-coat fever!’ she exclaimed, waving her hands.  ‘There is no one like officers pour faire passer le temps’

‘Yes, ma!’ cried Olive, proud of having understood so much French; ‘doesn’t time pass quickly with them?’

’It flies, my dear, and they fly away, and then we take up with another.  They are all nice; their profession makes them that.’

’But some are nicer than others; for instance, I am sure they are not all as handsome as Captain Hibbert.’

‘Oh! indeed they are,’ said Mrs. Barton, laughing; ’wait until we get to Dublin; you have no idea what charming men we shall meet there.  We shall find a lord or an earl, or perhaps a marquis, who will give a coroneted carriage to my beautiful girl to drive in.’

Olive tossed her head, and her mother looked at her admiringly, and there was love in the sweet brown deceit of the melting eyes; a hard, worldly affection, but a much warmer one than any Mrs. Barton could feel for Alice, in whom she saw nothing but failure, and in the end spiritual spinsterhood.  After a pause she said: 

’What a splendid match Lord Kilcarney would be, and where would he find a girl like my Olive to do the honours of his house?’

‘Oh! mamma, I never could marry him!’

‘And why not, my dear girl?’

’I don’t know, he’s a silly little fool; besides, I like Captain Hibbert.’

’Yes, you like Captain Hibbert, so do I; but a girl like you could not throw herself away on a thousand-a-year captain in the army.’