’Well, ’tis, let me see.  Some wild young rogue, with a plenty of money, I warrant, if I could only think of him—­come, don’t keep me all day—­who the plague is he, Toole?’ urged the young lady, testily.

‘Dan Loftus,’ answered Toole, ‘ha, ha, ha, ha!’

’Dan Loftus!—­the grand tour—­why, where’s the world running to?  Oh, ho, ho, ho, hoo! what a macaroni!’ and they laughed heartily over it, and called him ‘travelled monkey,’ and I know not what else.

’Why, I thought Dr. Walsingham designed him for his curate; but what in the wide world brings Dan Loftus to foreign parts—­“To dance and sing for the Spanish King, and to sing and dance for the Queen of France?"’

’Hey!  Dan’s got a good place, I can tell you—­travelling tutor to the hopeful young lord that is to be—­Devereux’s cousin.  By all the Graces, Ma’am, ’tis the blind leading the blind.  I don’t know which of the two is craziest.  Hey, diddle-diddle—­by Jupiter, such a pair—­the dish ran away with the spoon; but Dan’s a good creature, and we’ll—­we’ll miss him.  I like Dan, and he loves the rector—­I like him for that; where there’s gratitude and fidelity, Miss Mag, there’s no lack of other virtues, I warrant you—­and the good doctor has been a wonderful loving friend to poor Dan, and God bless him for it, say I, and amen.’

‘And amen with all my heart,’ said Miss Mag, gaily; ’’tis an innocent creature—­poor Dan; though he’d be none the worse of a little more lace to his hat, and a little less Latin in his head.  But see here, doctor, here’s my poor old goose of a mother (and she kissed her cheek) as sick as a cat in a tub.’

And she whispered something in Toole’s wig, and they both laughed uproariously.

‘I would not take five guineas and tell you what she says,’ cried Toole.

‘Don’t mind the old blackguard, mother dear!’ screamed Magnolia, dealing AEsculapius a lusty slap on the back; and the cook at that moment knocking at the door, called off the young lady to the larder, who cried over her shoulder as she lingered a moment at the door—­’Now, send her something, Toole, for my sake, to do her poor heart good.  Do you mind—­for faith and troth the dear old soul is sick and sad; and I won’t let that brute, Sturk, though he does wear our uniform, next or near her.’

’Well, ’tisn’t for me to say, eh?—­and now she’s gone,—­just let me try.’  And he took her pulse.

CHAPTER XXX.

CONCERNING A CERTAIN WOMAN IN BLACK.

And Toole, holding her stout wrist, felt her pulse and said—­’Hem—­I see—­and—­’

And so he ran on with half-a-dozen questions, and at the end of his catechism said, bluntly enough—­

’I tell you what it is, Mrs. Mack, you have something on your mind, my dear Madam, and till it’s off, you’ll never be better.’

Poor Mrs. Mack opened her eyes, and made a gesture of amazed disclaimer, with her hands palm upwards.  It was all affectation.