put you in their pockits. Ye poor little crather! Oh! Murther! Who
could harm the like of ye? Faix, I hope that ould divil of an aunt
o' yours won't darken these doors, or she'll git what she won't like
from Biddy Mulcahy. There now! There now! 'Tis into yer bed I'll
tuck ye meself, for 'tis worn-out ye are--God help ye!"

She is gone, taking Perpetua with her. The professor rubs his eyes,
and then suddenly an overwhelming sense of gratitude towards Mrs.
Mulcahy takes possession of him. _What_ a woman! He had never
thought so much moral support could be got out of a landlady--but
Mrs. Mulcahy has certainly tided him safely over _one_ of his
difficulties. Still, those that remain are formidable enough to
quell any foolish present attempts at relief of mind. "To-morrow,
and to-morrow, and to-morrow!"

How many to-morrows is she going to remain here? Oh! Impossible! Not
an _hour_ must be wasted. By the morning light something must be put
on foot to save the girl from her own foolhardiness, nay ignorance!

Once again, sunk in the meshes of depression, the persecuted
professor descends to the room where Hardinge awaits him.

"Anything new?" demands the latter, springing to his feet.

"Yes! Mrs. Mulcahy came up." The professor's face is so gloomy, that
Hardinge may be forgiven for saying to himself, "She has assaulted
him!"

"I'm glad it isn't visible," says he, staring at the professor's
nose, and then at his eye. Both are the usual size.