“It’s quare to think of the days when them great things walked the plains of Ireland,” she said at length. “Thank you, miss: it done me good to see it.”
“How are you getting on, Katty?” Norah asked.
“Yerra, the best in the world,” said Katty cheerfully. “Miss de Lisle’s that kind to me—I’ll be the great cook some day, if I kape on watchin’ her. She’s not like the fine English cooks I’ve heard of, that ’ud no more let you see how they made so much as a pudding than they’d fly over the moon. ’Tis Bridie has the bad luck, to be housemaid.”
Norah knew why, and sighed. There were moments when her housekeeper seemed a burden too great to be borne.
“But Mr. Allenby’s very pleasant with her, and she says wance you find out that Sarah isn’t made of wood she’s not so bad. She found that out when she let fly a pillow at her, and they bedmaking,” said Katty, with a joyous twinkle. “’Tis herself had great courage to do that same, hadn’t she, now, miss?”
“She had, indeed,” Norah said, laughing. The spectacle of the stiff Sarah, overwhelmed with a sudden pillow, was indeed staggering.
“And then, haven’t we Con to cheer us up if we get lonely?” said Katty. “And Misther Jones and the groom—they’re very friendly. And the money we’ll have to send home! But you’d be wishful for Ireland, no matter how happy you’d be.”
The telephone bell rang sharply, and Norah ran to answer it. It was Jim.
“That you, Nor?” said his deep voice. “Good—I’m in a hurry. I say, can you take in a Tired Person to-night?”
Norah gasped.