‘Welcome home, master! Are you come for good and all to us? It’s the mistress, and Miss Mary, and Catherine, that will be glad to see you. Your servant, sir,’ turning about to me—‘Get down, Cæsar, and don’t be dirtying the gentleman’s clothes; but he’s so proud to see yees all, that he doesn’t know what to make of himself.’
‘Well, Billy,’ said Eugene, ‘how’s the hay getting on?’
‘Mighty well, sir, never better; we finished the low meadow this morning.’
We had now reached the lawn in front of the cottage, where we were met by his mother, ‘Welcome, child,’ said she; ‘is your uncle come home, or is this only a visit?’
‘My uncle arrived yesterday; but he is still so busy that he will not be able to get out to see you until next week—Give me leave to introduce you to a friend of mine, whom I have brought out to see how the wild Irish grow in the country—he has had a specimen of it in the village.’
‘Any friend of Eugene’s is always welcome to me,’ said she, ‘but a soldier in particular; my favourite brother belonged to that profession; he was an officer in the eighty-eighth regiment; but, alas! he is now no more: he fell at the battle of Talavera. Was your regiment in Spain?’
‘Yes,’ replied I, ‘but it had not arrived in the Peninsula when the battle of Talavera was fought.’
‘Come, mother,’ said Eugene, seeing the tear standing in her eye, ‘Let us drop all conversation about “war’s alarms” now—Have you got anything for us to eat? remember we have had a brisk walk. Where’s Mary and Catherine?’
‘They are out in the garden weeding,’ said she, ‘but when they hear you have returned, they will not stop long.’
She had scarcely done speaking, when in bounced a sprightly girl about fourteen years of age, and throwing her arms about his neck, ‘You are welcome back, Eugene,’ said she, ‘we’ve been pining the life out of us since you left home; but you are going to stay now, are you not?’