and raw-armed, rude in dress, uncombed in
hair, with high cheek-bones. She might have
gone out a-charing or a-cooking by the day,
or as aid to the scullion, and been accepted
as such without demur or smallest astonishment.
That was Sue. Here was Sal, her
sister: a gawk, long in body, reaching nearly
to her father's head: always in her own way,
in everybody's way. Sal could not so much
as stretch forth her arm without hitting or
knocking something down. Then there was
the imp or Puck of the family, baptismally
known as Hannah Maria, but familiarly (and
without any disrespect in the world) hailed
as Froggy. She was a dwarf, virtually; but
without deformity. She leant over to the
he-side, having a hoarse, gruff voice that
made you start. She did nothing from morning
till night, not a hand's turn for anyone,
save wagging of her tongue in the coarsest
way; being a good one at abuse and at hitting
on stinging names. There was also Jen the
gentle, keeping to her old father like wax.
There was the old French poodle, joint pet
of old Gringe and Jen. There was the African
hound, pet and delight of Tom, Gill, and the
Imp.

The whole crew, men, women, and dogs,
were kennelled together in the huge sitting-
room. But a word—just one word—for Tom.
Tom was the great uncouth member of the
Gringe family. In the Irish tongue he was
gaum; which syllable stands for mouth projected
foolishly; for cerebral conformation on
the lines of the late Messieurs Burke and
Hare; for inarticulate animal noises in lieu
of ordinary sounds of assent or dissent; for
horse-laughter, mild and on draught, always
ready: for, he was of the stables, stably;
having been suckled, weaned, and reared on
those premises. Grooms had been his dons,
and he was senior wrangler of the great equine
university. Ostlery was his classic world; his
Olympian Jove sat aloft on the coach-box. In
short, the Gringe family had no manners, no
breeding, no schooling, no catechism. They
were all in a sort of mourning for their
mother, who was Gringe's second wife. Excepting
little Jen, they were, in fact, none of
his; being brought into the family with her.
However, he accepted them without
complaint; and in his house they grew and
fattened. She, good soul, had been of easy-
going nature and of Jumper persuasion;
having supernatural Jumper lights—the
waiting for which consumed most of her
time. So, having brought them up, as she
fancied, in strict Jumper principles, she had
turned over on her side one morning, and
died with great decency under the hands of
the Reverend Joshua MacScarbriar, Jumping
high-priest. Not, however, before she had
bound up her harum-scarum offspring to
reverence, respect, and care for the father
she left to them. For, in all their
roughnesses they had a soft corner and a sort of
rude attachment to this mother. Nay, Gill,
the savage, was observed shedding big
tears about the size of hailstones. Tall old
Gringe therefore fared well among them.

II.

TOM sits on the floor in sweet fellowship
with the hound, busy cutting up a stick, or
rather, club. He is all in the dust and dirt
of the corner. Gill, who is the savage, is
busy walking up and down, his hands in his
pockets, whistling; making kicks at fanciful
footballs, and rasping his great hobnails on
the floors. It has extraordinary charms for
him, that fanciful football play. Jen is on a
stool at old Gringe's feet: the old French
poodle being in that region too. Sal sits at
the fire, her long legs well out before her,
resting on the hob. Sister Sue asleep, with
her head on her red elbows, as though she
were just come off char, and had had a hard
day of it. The Imp is in the middle, wide
awake indeed; hopping on one leg, and
chattering eternally with that boy's tongue of
hers. Her eyes are shooting busily to all
sides, seeking something to be at, and her
two arms are akimbo. When she gets tired
of standing with arms akimbo, she sets off on
a progress of mischief. For she is highly
ingenious in the discovery of subtle and
annoying tricks. This was her evening's
diversion (his or hers to doubtful stranger)
all the year round: no lack of piquancy in it
for being so often repeated. Thus, to take
this very October night as a sample: Remember
that Sue is sleeping stertorously
after that figurative charing, and that long
Sally is surveying her unnatural feet with a
dreamy stupidity. The Imp—furnished with
a wisp of stout brown paper, which she
ignites gingerly—hops over on tiptoe to where
Sue is nodding over the fire. As comes
natural to stout brown paper, no flame results;
but prodigious clouds of smoke. Then,
turning with a whisk, into the likeness
of Puck, she holds it knowingly under the
nose of unconscious Sue, who snorts uneasily,
and goes through all manner of diverting
convulsions; but in the end is waked up,
only on the bare verge of suffocation. Such
gaspings and clutchings for breath were never
seen: Puck, all the while, shrieking with
laughter. But our char-girl, when somewhat
brought round, fetches up a huge coal and
launches it furiously—to be dodged, however,
by shrieking Puck. It lights on Gill the
savage, who starts with a growl, and swears.
Another shriek from our Puck. But Sue—
just now all but asphyxiated—is not to be
so baulked; and, jumping from the chair
with her big arras squared, offers to fight the
Imp, or any of them. Which, as before said,
was very much the tragi-comedy of every
night of the long year, as well as of this
special Friday night.

All this while Old Gringe had been sitting
thoughtfully back in his high chair, regarding
their antics wearily, with his hands sometimes