“Well, aunt, it is not too late to hear it now; and I, for one, am proud of my country,—not of its political station, for it is dependent,—not of its wealth, for it is poor,—but of its genial courtesy, its free-hearted hospitality, its manly patience under many a crushing calamity, and not least of all, its gallantry on every field where England has won honor.”
“I have read of all these things; but my own experiences are limited to the rags and restlessness of a semi-barbarous people. Nay, Miss Martin, I'm not going to discuss the matter. I have lived elsewhere,—you have not. I have acquired habits—prejudices, perhaps you 'd call them—in behalf of twenty things that Irish civilization sees no need of.”
“Would it not be kind, aunt, were you to aid us by the light of these same experiences?” said Mary, with an air of well-assumed humility.
“Certainly not, at the price of intercourse with the natives!” exclaimed her Ladyship, haughtily. “I detest, on principle, the Lady Bountiful character. The whole of the hymn-book, castor-oil, and patent-barley sympathy is shockingly vulgar. Like many things, well done at first, it fell into low hands, and got spoiled.”
The tone of sarcasm in which this was spoken made Mary's cheeks crimson, and the flush spread itself over her neck. Still she made no reply, but bending down her head, continued to work more assiduously.
“When are we to leave this place, Mr. Martin?” asked her Ladyship, abruptly.
“I believe we are only waiting here till it be your pleasure to quit.”
“And I dying to get away this fortnight past! Some one certainly told me that Cro' Martin was not ready for us. Was it you, Miss Martin?”
“No, aunt.”
“It ran in my head it was you, then. Well, can we go at once—to-day—this afternoon?”