"I'll tell you one thing, daddy; I hate—I loathe school!"
"Well, now," said the squire, "I have no fancy for schools myself; it was your aunt's wish. But your aunt, Biddy"—here a twinkle came into his eye—"your aunt rules us, not with a rod of iron—oh, by no means—but just with the little, soft, coaxing, and yet determined ways which no one can withstand. She worked on my feelings for nearly two years, Biddy O'Hara. She said you were a fine girl, and a good one, but that you knew nothing, and that if you were ever to be of any use in the world you must go to school."
"Well, father," said Bridget, "did you really think in your own heart when you and I were alone at Castle Mahun that I knew nothing? What about the music we made in the old hall in the winter evenings? and what about that time when I saved Minerva's life, and what about my dancing? I think, somehow or other, I have a little bit of education, father, and I doubt very much if I have really learned anything at school."
"But you will, my pet, you will. These are early days, and you will learn at school. You will learn that sort of things that will make you a fine lady by and by."
"Father," said Bridget, "I don't want to be a fine lady."
She put her arms suddenly round his neck, and looked into his eyes. "Fine ladies are not good, father—they are not good. A girl can be wild and ignorant, and yet good, very good; but a fine lady—oh, I hate the thought of her!"
"How excited you are, Biddy mavourneen, and how strangely you are talking! Whoever thought of your not being the best sort of fine lady, and what fine lady, except your poor Aunt Kathie, have you ever seen, child?"
"I have never seen any; but I feel down in my heart what they are like; and I will never resemble them, even if I spend fifty years in school. Now let us talk of Minerva and her pups. What are you going to do with the pups?"
The conversation turned into channels of a purely domestic nature, and Biddy, as she talked, forgot the cares which harassed and filled her soul.