She then gave a brief account to her kind-hearted friend of her journey to Dublin by the “Fly,” in the first instance, suppressing one or two incidents; and of her second to Mrs. Mainwaring’s, who, after hearing that she had not slept at all during the night, would permit no further conversation on that or any other subject, but hurried her to bed, she herself acting as her attendant.  Having seen her comfortably settled, and carefully tucked her up with her own hands, she kissed the fair girl, exclaiming, “Sleep, my love; and may God bless and protect you from evil and unhappiness, as I feel certain He will, because you deserve it.”

She then left her to sepose, and in a few minutes Lucy was fast asleep.

Whilst this little dialogue between Lucy and Mrs. Mainwaring was proceeding in the parlor of Summerfield cottage, another was running parallel with it between the two servants in the kitchen.

“God bless me,” said Nancy Gallaher, addressing Alley, “you look shockin’ bad afther so early a journey!  I’ll get you a cup o’ tay, to put a bloom in your cheek.”

“Thank you, kindly, ma’am,” replied Alley, with a toss of her head which implied anything but gratitude for this allusion to her complexion:  “a good sleep, ma’am, will bring back the bloom—­and that’s aisy done, ma’am, to any one who has youth on their side.  The color will come and go then, but let a wrinkle alone for keepin’ its ground.”

This was accompanied by a significant glance at Nancy’s face, on which were legible some rather unequivocal traces of that description.  Honest Nancy, however, although she saw the glance, and understood the insinuation, seemed to take no notice of either—­the fact being that her whole spirit was seized with an indomitable curiosity, which, like a restless familiar, insisted on being gratified.

In the case of those who undertake journeys similar to that which Lucy had just accomplished, there may be noticed almost by every eye those evidences of haste, alarm, and anxiety, and even distress, which to a certain extent at least tell their own tale, and betray to the observer that all can scarcely be right.  Now Nancy Gallaher saw this, and having drawn the established conclusion that there must in some way be a lover in the case, she sat down in form before the fortress of Alley Mahon’s secret, with a firm determination to make herself mistress of it, if the feat were at all practicable.  In Alley, however, she had an able general to compete with—­a general who resolved, on the other hand, to make a sortie, as it were, and attack Nancy by a series of bold and unexpected manoeuvres.

Nancy, on her part, having felt her first error touching Alley’s complexion, resolved instantly to repair it by the substitution of a compliment in its stead.

“Throth, an’ it’ll be many a day till there’s a wrinkle in your face, avourneen—­an’ now that I look at you agin—­a pretty an’ a sweet face it is.  ’Deed it’s many a day since I seen two sich faces as yours and the other young lady’s; but anyway, you had betther let me get you a comfortable cup o’ tay—­afther your long journey.  Oh, then, but that beautiful creature has a sorrowful look, poor thing.”