Once we were nearly caught, Mrs. O'Kelly returning from a district visitors' committee meeting earlier than was expected. Hastily I was hidden in a small conservatory adjutting from the first floor landing, where, crouching behind flower-pots, I listened in fear and trembling to the severe cross-examination of the O'Kelly.
“William, do not prevaricate. It was not a hymn.”
“Me dear, so much depends upon the time. Let me give ye an example of what I mean.”
“William, pray in my presence not to play tricks with sacred melodies. If you have no respect for religion, please remember that I have. Besides, why should you be playing hymns in any time at ten o'clock in the morning? It is not like you, William, and I do not credit your explanation. And you were singing. I distinctly heard the word 'Sally' as I opened the door.”
“Salvation, me dear,” corrected the O'Kelly.
“Your enunciation, William, is not usually so much at fault.”
“A little hoarseness, me dear,” explained the O'Kelly.
“Your voice did not sound hoarse. Perhaps it will be better if we do not pursue the subject further.”
With this the O'Kelly appeared to agree.
“A lady a little difficult to get on with when ye're feeling well and strong,” so the O'Kelly would explain her; “but if ye happen to be ill, one of the kindest, most devoted of women. When I was down with typhoid three years ago, a tenderer nurse no man could have had. I shall never forget it. And so she would be again to-morrow, if there was anything serious the matter with me.”