Ruth softly unlatched the door and peeped in.  The front-door opened right into the kitchen, and Mrs. Craven was seated by the fire.

“Hush!” she said, putting her finger to her lips; “he is asleep.”

“I have brought Kathleen O’Hara, granny.  I thought you’d like to see her, and I thought granddad would like to see her.”

“To be sure, child,” said Mrs. Craven, bustling up and removing her cooking-apron.  “Bring Miss O’Hara in at once.  Is she waiting outside?  Where are your manners, Ruth?—­Ah, Miss O’Hara, I’m right pleased to see you!  I am sorry my dear husband is not as well as could be wished; but perhaps if you’d be good enough to sit down for a minute or two, he would wake up before you go.”

Kathleen entered, held out her hand, greeted Mrs. Craven with a frank smile, showing a row of pearly teeth, and then sat down near the fire.

“This is cosy,” she said.  “Aren’t you going to give me a little bit of dinner, Mrs. Craven?”

“Oh, my dear young lady, but we live so plain!”

“And so do I when I am at home,” said Kathleen.  “I do hate messy dishes.  I like potatoes better than anything in the world.  Often at home I go off with my boy cousins, and we have such a good feed.  I think potatoes are better than anything in the world.”

“Well, miss, if you’d like a potato it’s at your service.”

“I should if it is in its jacket.”

“What did you say, miss?”

“If the potato is boiled in its jacket.  Ah!  I see they are.  Please let me have one.”

Kathleen did not wait for Mrs. Craven’s reply.  She herself fetched a plate and the salt-cellar from the dresser, and putting these on the table, helped herself to a potato from the pot.

“Now,” she said, “this is good.  I can fancy I am back in old Ireland.”

Mrs. Craven began to laugh.

“Ruth, do have a potato with me,” said Kathleen; “they are first-rate when you don’t put a knife or fork near them.”

But Ruth had no inclination for potatoes eaten in the Irish way.

“I will go in and see how grandfather is, granny,” she said, and she disappeared into the little parlor.

“You know,” said Kathleen, helping herself to a second potato, and fixing her eyes on Mrs. Craven’s face—­“you know how fond I am of Ruth.”

“Indeed, my dear young lady, she has been telling me about you; and I am glad you notice her, dear little girl!”

“But it is not only I,” said Kathleen; “every one in the school likes her.  She could be the primest favorite with every one if she only chose.  She is so sweetly pretty, too, and such a lady.”

“Well, dear, her mother was a real lady; and her father was educated by my dear husband, and was in the army.”

“It doesn’t matter if her father was a duke and her mother a dairymaid,” said Kathleen with emphasis.  “She is just a lady because she is.”