“Why have you fallen out of rank?  You ought to have kept your ranks until you had sung grace before tea.  Get into line again quickly, for here come the buns;” and there was Miss Thusy O’Flynn, perched on a mole-hill, in an attitude of command, waving her parasol and demonstrating how they were to stand.

“The buns, indeed!  It is time, I’m sure,” muttered Miss Buff, substantial in purple silk and a black lace bonnet.  Her rival was a pretty, red-haired, resolute little girl, very prettily dressed, who showed to no disadvantage on the mole-hill.  But Miss Buff could see no charm she had; she it was who had given leave for a game, to pass the time before tea.  The children had been an hour in the orchard, and the feast was still delayed.

“Perhaps the kettle does not boil,” suggested Miss Wort, indulgently.

“We are kept waiting for Miss O’Flynn’s aunt,” rejoined Miss Buff.  “Here she comes, with our angelical parson, and Lady Latimer, out in the cold, walking behind them.”

Bessie Fairfax looked up.  Lady Latimer was her supreme admiration.  She did not think that another lady so good, so gracious, so beautiful, enriched the world.  If there did, that lady was not the Viscountess Poldoody.  Bessie had a lively sense of fun, and the Irish dame was a figure to call a smile to a more guarded face than hers—­a short squab figure that waddled, and was surmounted by a negative visage composed of pulpy, formless features, and a brown wig of false curls—­glaringly false, for they were the first thing about her that fixed the eye, though there were many matters besides to fascinate an observer with leisure to look again.  She seemed, however, a most free and cheerful old lady, and talked in a loud, mellow voice, with a pleasant touch of the brogue.  She had been a popular Dublin singer and actress in her day—­a day some forty years ago—­but only Lady Latimer and herself in the rectory garden that afternoon were aware of the fact.

Grand people possessed an irresistible attraction for Mr. Wiley.  The Viscountess Poldoody had taken a house in his parish for the fine season, and came to his church with her niece; he had called upon her, and now escorted her to the orchard with a fulsome assiduity which was betrayed to those who followed by the uneasy writhing of his back and shoulders.  With many complimentary words he invited her to distribute the prizes to the children.

“If your ladyship will so honor them, it will be a day in their lives to remember.”

“Give away the prizes?  Oh yes, if ye’ll show me which choild to give ’em to,” replied the viscountess with a good-humored readiness.  Then, with a propriety of feeling which was thought very nice in her, she added, in the same natural, distinct manner, standing and looking round as she spoke: 

“But is it not my Lady Latimer’s right?  What should I know of your children, who am only a summer visitor?”