These words were accompanied by a most insinuating glance of curiosity, mingled up with an air of strong benevolence, to show Alley that it proceeded only from the purest of good feeling.  “Thank you,” replied Alley, “I will take a cup sure enough.  What family have you here? if it’s a fair question.”

“Sorra one but ourselves,” replied Nancy, without making her much the wiser.

“But, I mane,” proceeded Alley, “have you children? bekase if you have I hate them.”

“Neither chick nor child there will be under the roof wid you here,” responded Nancy, whilst putting the dry tea into a tin tea-pot that had seen service; “there’s only the three of us—­that is, myself, the misthress, and the masther—­for I am not countin’ a slip of a girl that comes in every day to do odd jobs, and some o’ the rough work about the house.”

“Oh, I suppose,” said Alley, indifferently, “the childre’s all married off?”

“There’s only one,” replied Nancy; “and indeed you’re right enough—­she is married, and not long either—­and, in truth, I don’t envy her the husband, she got.  Lord save and guard us!  I know I wouldn’t long keep my senses if I had him.”

“Why so?” asked Alley.  “Has he two heads upon him?”

“Troth, no,” replied the other; “but he’s what they call a mad docther, an’ keeps a rheumatic asylum—­that manes a place where they put mad people, to prevent them from doin’ harm.  They say it would make the hair stand on your head like nettles even to go into it.  However, that’s not what I’m thinkin’ of, but that darlin’ lookin’ creature that’s wid the misthress.  The Lord keep sorrow and cross-fortune from her, poor thing—­for she looks unhappy.  Avillish! are you and she related? for, as I’m a sinner, there’s a resemblance in your faces—­and even in your figures—­only you’re something rounder and fuller than she is.”

“Isn’t she lovely?” returned Alley, making the most of the compliment.  “Sure, wasn’t it in Dublin her health was drunk as the greatest toast in Ireland.”  She then added after a pause, “The Lord knows I wouldn’t—­”

“Wouldn’t what—­avourneen?”

“I was just thinkin’, that I wouldn’t marry a mad docther, if there was ne’er another man in Ireland.  A mad docther!  Oh, beetha.  Then will you let us know the name that’s upon him?” she added in a most wheedling tone.

“His name is Scareman, my misthress tells me—­he’s related by the mother’s side to the Moontides of Ballycrazy, in the barony of Quarther Clift—­arrah, what’s this your name is, avourneen?”

“Alley Mahon I was christened,” replied her new friend; “but,” she added, with an air of modest dignity that was inimitable in its way—­“in regard of my place as maid of honor to Lady Lucy, I’m usually called Miss Mahon, or Miss Alley.  My mistress, for her own sake, in ordher to keep up her consequence, you persave, doesn’t like to hear me called anything else than either one or t’other of them.”