“Och, worra! Don’t be callin’ to me not to open the door; didn’t Oi tell ye Oi wouldn’t come near ye, and Oi won’t. It’s goin’ down to the bharn Oi am, and ye needn’t be for worritin’, at all, at all,” and receding footsteps proved Mary’s words only too true.
“Now, I’m in a pretty fix, am I not? Like enough she won’t come back for twenty minutes, and here I’ve got to stay. Plague take the old bolt!”
What imp of mischief made Mary return to the laundry by the cellar-door, take up her basket of freshly laundered clothes, and, after carrying them up to Mrs. Rockwood’s bedroom, go on to her own in the third story to dress for the afternoon, must forever remain a mystery. But this she did, and, as Jean heard her go up the back stairs, beneath which she was securely fastened in the pot-closet, she thumped and pounded with renewed energy. But the only response was:
“No, no; not for the whorld, darlint, would Oi disthurbe ye and spoil yer purty picter.”
About an hour later Mrs. Rockwood, returning from her call, met Helen upon the front piazza.
“Has Jean got everything ready to take the pictures?” she asked, eagerly. “It is such a perfect day for it, and I am so anxious that I can hardly wait. It seems too good to be true that we have really got cameras at last, doesn’t it?”
“It seems as though the fairies must have been aware of your great desire to have them, and so took matters into their own hands,” replied Mrs. Rockwood, as she unfastened the front door with her latch-key and held it open for Helen to enter.
As they entered the hall they were greeted with a series of muffled thumps and bangs.
“I do wish Mary would remember what I have so often told her about breaking her kindling upon the cellar floor,” she exclaimed.
Rattle, rattle! Bang, bang! and then a crash as though the roof were falling.