“Let Bawn do it.  I went to visit Lady Ardaragh the other day, and she gave me tea in her dairy.  It is coming into fashion to be housekeepers and dairymaids once more.”

“Would you like to go to the Creamery, Bawn?” asked my grandmother.

“I should love to,” said I.  “And to have a herd of little Kerries like Lady Ardaragh.  The dairy is as pretty as ever, but it wants washing, and the fountain is broken.  I believe Michael Friely could mend it.”

My grandfather made no objection when he heard of the plan, only saying something with a laugh about fine ladies liking to play dairymaids.  So it was settled I should go to the Creamery; and Bridget Connor made gowns of cotton for me to wear at the Creamery, and white aprons to go with them.

I think my grandmother looked on it as a child’s play for my diversion, and she would have Bridget make me as pretty as she could.  I dare say I did look as though I played at work, for I caught sight of myself in the Venetian mirror on the wall of my grandmother’s boudoir as she turned me round about, her maid, Bridget Connor, who learnt dressmaking in Paris, pinching here and letting loose there.

The walls of my grandmother’s boudoir are covered with mother-of-pearl which glows splendidly when the lamps are lit.

I glanced at the Venetian mirror and saw myself like a rose in my rosy frock, with the apron of spotless muslin and the mushroom hat with a wreath of pink roses.  My grandmother said something about dairying at the Petit Trianon, but indeed my intentions were of the most business-like.

I remember that it was the month of May, and all the pastures were richest gold and snowiest white, drifts of gold and white.  The thorn-trees were all in bloom, and the banks were covered with the white stitchwort and blue speedwell.  The birds were in full song, and the mornings and evenings were especially delicious.

I was to attend the Creamery for three months, so as to become proficient in dairymaid work, and then I thought I could do some good among our own people who could not afford to send a girl to the Creamery to learn her business.  Or it might be where there was no girl, and the vanithee-that is to say, the good woman—­did her work in her own way, not half pressing the water out of the butter, so that it became rancid after a few hours, or letting the cream become rancid before she churned it.  I had hopes that I could persuade even the most obstinate of them to mend their ways; and that perhaps was an indication of my youth.

CHAPTER IV

RICHARD DAWSON

I used to go to Araglin every day, wet or dry.  It is about three miles from the Abbey as one goes to it through our own park, and by Daly’s Wood, which is a little wood, barely more than a coppice; the entrance to it faces a gate in our park wall, and when you have traversed its short length you have cut off a mile of the distance to Araglin if you went by road.