her, as I did!  That was the comforting angel upon earth—­look and voice, and heart and all!  Oh, that she was here present, this minute!—­But did you scald yourself?’ said the widow to Lord Colambre.  ’Sure you must have scalded yourself; for you poured the kettle straight over your hand, and it boiling!—­O DEEAR! to think of so young a gentleman’s hand shaking so like my own.

Luckily, to prevent her pursuing her observations from the hand to the face, which might have betrayed more than Lord Colambre wished she should know, her own Grace came in at this instant.

‘There it’s for you, safe, mother dear—­the lase!’ said Grace, throwing a packet into her lap.  The old woman lifted up her hands to heaven, with the lease between them.—­’Thanks be to Heaven!’ Grace passed on, and sunk down on the first seat she could reach.  Her face flushed, and, looking much fatigued, she loosened the strings of her bonnet and cloak—­’Then, I’m tired;’ but, recollecting herself, she rose, and curtsied to the gentleman.

‘What tired ye, dear?’

’Why, after prayers, we had to go—­for the agent was not at prayers, nor at home for us, when we called—­we had to go all the way up to the castle; and there, by great good luck, we found Mr. Nick Garraghty himself, come from Dublin, and the lase in his hands; and he sealed it up that way, and handed it to me very civil.  I never saw him so good—­though he offered me a glass of spirits, which was not manners to a decent young woman, in a morning—­as Brian noticed after.  Brian would not take any either, nor never does.  We met Mr. Dennis and the driver coming home; and he says, the rent must be paid to-morrow, or, instead of renewing, he’ll seize and sell all.  Mother dear, I would have dropped with the walk, but for Brian’s arm.’—­’It’s a wonder, dear, what makes you so weak, that used to be so strong,’—­’But if we can sell the cow for anything at all to Mr. Dennis, since his eye is set upon her, better let him have her, mother dear; and that and my yarn, which Mrs. Garraghty says she’ll allow me for, will make up the rent—­and Brian need not talk of America.  But it must be in golden guineas, the agent will take the rent no other way; and you won’t get a guinea for less than five shillings.  Well, even so, it’s easy selling my new gown to one that covets it, and that will give me in exchange the price of the gold; or, suppose that would not do, add this cloak,—­it’s handsome, and I know a friend would be glad to take it, and I’d part it as ready as look at it—­Any-thing at all, sure, rather than that he should be forced to talk of emigrating; or, oh, worse again, listing for the bounty—­to save us from the cant or the jail, by going to the hospital, or his grave, maybe—­Oh, mother!’

’Oh, child!  This is what makes you weak, fretting.  Don’t be that way.  Sure here’s the lase, and that’s good comfort; and the soldiers will be gone out of Clonbrony to-morrow, and then that’s off your mind.  And as to America, it’s only talk—­I won’t let him, he’s dutiful; and would sooner sell my dresser and down to my bed, dear, than see you sell anything of yours, love.  Promise me you won’t.  Why didn’t Brian come home all the way with you, Grace?’