table, which had the effect of keeping the poor
lady quiet for some time.

The conversation was carried on in groups of
two and three. The Reverend Malachi Dawson
and his fair betrothed sat side by side, but they
were not talking with each other. Augusta
was busily engaged in giving Jane Fluke an
idea of her design for the bridesmaids' dresses
at the approaching ceremony, and the
bridegroom elect was mildly listening to Mr. Fluke's
exposition of the plan of the new school-house
and chapel at Duckrell: an exposition which
the elder clergyman illustrated by an utterly
incomprehensible arrangement of all the plates,
knives, and forks within reach of his hand;
clattering steel, silver, and china together with
his accustomed vehemence, and twisting his
napkin into a wisp with both hands, in the
heat of his discourse.

Of the rest, Mrs. Charlewood and Miss Fluke
were discussing the last new curate of
St. Philip-in-the-Fields, Walter was relating to Mrs.
Dawson some anecdote intended to impress her
with an idea of the brilliant social position of
his most intimate and particular friend, the
Honourable Arthur Skidley, recently appointed
Aide-de-camp to his Excellency the
Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland; and Mr. Charlewood and
Miss O'Brien were absorbed in their respective
letters. Clement alone sat silent and unoccupied.
His chair was placed next to that of the
Irish girl, and he had paid her all the due
attention which such neighbourhood demanded,
but now he remained quite silent, looking
straight before him with an absent musing
expression that had latterly become habitual with
him.

Suddenly Geraldine O'Brien looked up from
her letter.

"Does anybody know a Hammerham young
lady of the name of Bell?" said she.

The question, although couched in this
general form, was addressed more particularly to
Clement, Miss O'Brien having perceived him
to be the only disengaged member of the
party.

"A Hammerham young lady of the name of
Bell?" repeated Clement, smiling; "why, my
dear Miss O'Brien, there may be fifty
Hammerham young ladies of the name of Bell."

"So there may, to be sure; or five hundred.
But I'm asking, do ye happen to know one
particular one?"

"Bell! Bell! N—no; I think not. One of
the bricklayers in my father's employ is called
Bell, I think; and he has a large family of
daughters. But it is scarcely likely to be one
of those young ladies that you're inquiring
about."

"Ah, now be aisy wid yer nonsense," said
Miss O'Brien, with a comical little assumption
of the brogue which it pleased her now and then
to indulge in amongst intimate friends. "I'm
asking you a serious question, Mr. Clement
Charlewood."

"Well then, seriously, I, at all events, do not
know any young lady of that name."

"Humph! It's odd too, for she is mentioned
as having been a friend of the Charlewood
family."

"What are you saying, Geraldine?" asked
Mrs. Dawson, who had caught her niece's last
words.

"Why, aunt, it's the funniest thing in the
world; quite a romance. Dear fairy godmother
always does get hold of the most wonderful
people. See here now, I'll just read you a bit
of the letter. You must know, Mr. Charlewood,"
said Miss O'Brien, turning to Clement,
"that Lady Popham is, as she says herself,
'fanatica per la musica.' Indeed, she is
passionately fond of all kinds of art; especially the
musical and dramatic; and when she was living
at Naples, I believe she always had her house
full of fiddlers, painters, singers, and actors.
Wonderful geniuses, whom she flattered herself
she was destined to reveal to the world; but
who, I think, for the most part, turned out
lamentable failures."

Miss Fluke here gave vent to a most
extraordinary sound, that began in a groan and ended
in a snort, and shook her head in a solemn and
lugubrious manner.

"Oh, well, Miss Fluke," said Geraldine, quickly
—for she and the clergyman's daughter had
already had one or two somewhat sharp passages
of arms—"I don't see anything to distress
oneself about in that, after all. Lady Popham was
always generous and charitable, and I'm quite
sure that she did more good than harm on the
whole. However, I was going to say, that my
godmother writes me here six crossed pages of
raptures about two young artists whom she has
picked up in—Kilclare of all places in the
world! Just fancy! Here's what she says:"
and Miss O'Brien began to read aloud from her
godmother's letter. "'My young Paganini came
out here to Cloncoolin a fortnight ago. I sent
for him to a little soirée I got up of a chosen
few. People who have some faint glimmering of
an idea about art. Most of the dear souls here
haven't any glimmering. The lad played divinely.
I tell you so, and tu sais bien que je m'y
connais! I mean to get him to town, where
he must make furore! He's such a handsome
animal too. Ma come! Well, and then I
made him talk to me, and tell me all about
his prospects and his family. He spoke a
good deal about that delicious Ophelia I've
been describing to you. I can see that
he admires her desperately, and, in short,
I have made up a charming little romance,
to end as all orthodox romances should end.
Basta!'

"How like fairy godmother that is!" said
Miss O'Brien, interrupting her reading for a
moment.

"She's terribly impulsive," said Mrs. Dawson,
icily, shutting her thin lips close. Mrs. Dawson,
at all events, was not impulsive.

"Well, but now I'm coming to the point of
the letter," said Miss O'Brien, ''so please read
on:

"'Ophelia—who is perfectly poetical—comes