She adjusted the stool and recommenced.
“Shure, mem, I doesn’t belave thim gossoons would run fur red-skins at their heels—the lave of ’em are Oirish!”
“And they haven’t got sense enough to run,” commented the mistress. “What d’ye peel my hose that way for, you vixen—you’ll take the skin as well as the stocking!”
“An’ they does the goose-sthep mos’ beautiful, mem, an’ mark time illigint. But that was for punishment,—caught in Keowee Town, gambling wid the Injuns. Larry O’Grady an’ a shquad war kep at ut, mem, for hours by Ensign Raymond’s ordhers, Pat Gilligan tould me, till they wuz fit to shed tears.”
“Shed tears—the hardened wretches!” said Mrs. Annandale, interested nevertheless, faute de mieux, in the simple annals of the garrison. For the days were monotonous, and even Arabella, who one might deem had much to think of, were it only to join George Mervyn in planning the alterations at Mervyn Hall and the details of her future reign, lingered to listen beside her aunt’s fire, lounging in a great chair, dressed in faint blue, and slipping languidly from one hand to the other her necklace of pearls, her beautiful eyes a little distrait, a little sad, it might seem, fixed on the glowing coals.
“Shure, mem, weepin’ is all the fashion in the garrison now. Since Ensign Raymond shed tears in public the tale of it tickles the men so that if a finger be p’inted at one of ’em a whole shquad av ’em ’ll bust out sobbin’ an’ wipin’ their eyes,—but Sergeant Kelly says if they don’t quit ut, be jabbers, he’s give ’em something to cry fur.”
“You insolent wretch!” squealed Mrs. Annandale, “how dare you say ‘be jabbers’ in my presence?”
“Shure, mem, ’twuz Sergeant Kelly shpakin’—not me,” said Norah, well frightened.
“Sergeant Kelly ’shpakin’ here in my room, you limb!”
But Mrs. Annandale could not divert the inquiry—she would fain expunge the very name of Raymond from the rolls.