with the chimneysweep, handled brush and
frying-pan, and darned stockings for all
the seven pairs of feet. And the sisters
thought very highly of themselves for
allowing her to make herself so useful.
Besides, they had seen better days, which
made things come hardly upon them;
whereas Witch had only seen just so much
of those days as furnished a sort of golden
rim to the little memories of a very short
childhood. And she took as kindly to the
rough side of life as if she had been made
for it.

They had seen their better days in their
paternal dwelling at O'Thriftless-Town, in
the county of Mayo, where their dear
father had faithfully followed the hounds
as long as his old red coat would hold
together. The six elder sisters had had
their seasons in Dublin, had danced at the
castle, and promenaded in the squares, and
gone a-riding in the Phoenix Park; while
little Witch was enjoying a delicious little
bogtrotting life of her own among the
sweet mountain wilds; while father
0'Thriftless was falling under the table at
fox-hunting dinners, and the poor mother
was striving hard to do her duty by elders
and youngers, to keep the wolf from the
door, and to hold her head high. In this
struggle she had broken down at last, and,
in spite of debt and vengeful tradesmen,
had been allowed to retire peacefully under
the mould, where not the most impertinent
dun would dare to knock upon the door of
her narrow house. Hither, to this home
of freedom, her husband soon followed her,
exchanging his gay old hunting-coat for a
shroud. Then did the wolf at last enter
at that door, long so bravely guarded—
entered at a bound, and devoured everything
in one meal. Then did the sisters, amid
their tears, gather up the mite that was
left for them to live upon, and fly off out of
sight and hearing of their pitying neighbours.
Witch had been for staying in the
country, in a cabin, if need be, within
hearing of the sea, and within reach of the
old graveyard where the two loved heads
had their rest; for remaining on good
terms with the birds and the lambs, at
least, if not with the best country families.
She would have dressed herself all in the
red-flannel peasant garb of the country, and
walked to and fro on the heather in her
pretty bare feet, under the very noses of
the gentry, rather than have left her happy
hills. But this was not to be. The six
sisters packed up their tiny all, and flew off
to bury themselves in the city.

Here, in this dingy street, they had
buried themselves. A very small house
would not hold so many tall young women,
and when they took up their abode in a
dwelling that would contain them, they
shook their bewildered heads and said,
"We must do without a servant." This
was very sad. Bella burnt her fingers and
blackened her face trying to light the fire;
Barbara cut her hands chopping the
vegetables; Kathleen shed tears into the frying-
pan, through mingled grief and smoke;
and Alice fell down the stairs, whilst
descending them backwards for sweeping
purposes. By the time Witch had done
eking out morsels of carpet, and coaxing
scanty hangings to clothe naked window-
frames, she found that she had now got
to nurse every one of her six sisters in
turn. Things were not mended when one
day a carriage dashed up to the door.
Some acquaintance of other times had
found them out, and come to call. Sisters
stood wringing their hands, in the parlour,
in the hall, on the stairs. Which of them
would be bold enough to open that dingy
hall-door? It was bad enough to answer
to the butcher and the baker; but Lady
O'Dowd's footman had carried their prayer-
books to church before now. A subdued
howl of anguish arose from six mouths.

"They do not know me," said Witch.
"Let me go." She twisted her long hair
into a tight knot on her head, pinned over
it a white handkerchief, in the shape of a
round cap, tied a white muslin window-
blind before her for an apron  and had the
hall-door open in a trice.

The ladies were not at home to visitors,
said the neat little maid to the tall footman;
but cards were graciously received.
A few of the sisters cried over the occurrence
all the evening. But Witch thought
they had had a lucky escape. And it was
acknowledged that Witch had found her
vocation.

On the morning before mentioned, after
disturbing her neighbours as has been
described, Witch fulfilled her usual tasks and
finished making her noises. She put the
kettle on the fire. She drew down the
blind in the parlour so that the sun might
not make away with the small bit of colour
that was left in the carpet. The milk had
been taken, and the breakfast bread, when
Witch put on her little old cloak and her
shabby brown hat, tucked a battered tin
colour-box under her arm, shut her hall-
door, and set off at a swift trot, out of
the shabby street, all along a golden path
towards the bristling wood where the rook
lived who came to call her of mornings.