for fearing that John, who might step to an alliance with any one of the proudest houses in the Kingdom, would marry a beggar-maid.  As for Jane, she was the natural prey of a threadbare poet.  Mrs. Lackstraw heard of Mr. Patrick O’Donnell, and demanded the right to inspect him.  She doubted such perfect disinterestedness in any young man as that he should slave at account-keeping to that Laundry without a prospect of rich remuneration, and the tale of his going down to the city for a couple of hours each day to learn the art of keeping books was of very dubious import in a cousin of Captain Con O’Donnell.  ‘Let me see your prodigy,’ she said, with the emphasis on each word.  Patrick was presented at her table.  She had steeled herself against an Irish tongue.  He spoke little, appeared simple, professed no enthusiasm for the Laundry.  And he paid no compliments to Jane:  of the two he was more interested by the elder lady, whose farm and dairy in Surrey he heard her tell of with a shining glance, observing that he liked thick cream:  there was a touch of home in it.  The innocent sensuality in the candid avowal of his tastes inspired confidence.  Mrs. Lackstraw fished for some account of his home.  He was open to flow on the subject; he dashed a few sketches of mother and sisters, dowerless girls, fresh as trout in the stream, and of his own poor estate, and the peasantry, with whom he was on friendly terms.  He was an absentee for his education.  Sweet water, pure milk, potatoes and bread, were the things he coveted in plenty for his people and himself, he said, calling forth an echo from Mrs. Lackstraw, and an invitation to come down to her farm in the Spring.  ‘That is, Mr. O’Donnell, if you are still in London.’

‘Oh, I’m bound apprentice for a year,’ said he.

He was asked whether he did not find it tiresome work.

‘A trifle so,’ he confessed.

Then why did he pursue it, the question was put.

He was not alive for his own pleasure, and would like to feel he was doing a bit of good, was the answer.

Could one, Mrs. Lackstraw asked herself, have faith in this young Irishman?  He possessed an estate.  His brogue rather added to his air of truthfulness.  His easy manners and the occasional streak of correct French in his dialogue cast a shadow on it.  Yet he might be an ingenuous creature precisely because of the suspicion roused by his quaint unworldliness that he might be a terrible actor.  Why not?—­his heart was evidently much more interested in her pursuits than in her niece’s.  The juvenility of him was catching, if it was indeed the man, and not one of the actor’s properties.  Mrs. Lackstraw thought it prudent to hint at the latter idea to Jane while she decided in her generosity to embrace the former.  Oh! if all Irishmen shared his taste for sweet water, pure milk and wholesome bread, what a true Union we should have!  She had always insisted on those three things as most to be desired on earth