walking behind them."

Bessie Fairfax looked up. Lady Latimer was her supreme admiration. She
did not think that another lady so good, so gracious, so beautiful,
enriched the world. If there did, that lady was not the Viscountess
Poldoody. Bessie had a lively sense of fun, and the Irish dame was a
figure to call a smile to a more guarded face than hers--a short squab
figure that waddled, and was surmounted by a negative visage composed of
pulpy, formless features, and a brown wig of false curls--glaringly
false, for they were the first thing about her that fixed the eye,
though there were many matters besides to fascinate an observer with
leisure to look again. She seemed, however, a most free and cheerful old
lady, and talked in a loud, mellow voice, with a pleasant touch of the
brogue. She had been a popular Dublin singer and actress in her day--a
day some forty years ago--but only Lady Latimer and herself in the
rectory garden that afternoon were aware of the fact.

Grand people possessed an irresistible attraction for Mr. Wiley. The
Viscountess Poldoody had taken a house in his parish for the fine
season, and came to his church with her niece; he had called upon her,
and now escorted her to the orchard with a fulsome assiduity which was
betrayed to those who followed by the uneasy writhing of his back and
shoulders. With many complimentary words he invited her to distribute
the prizes to the children.

"If your ladyship will so honor them, it will be a day in their lives to
remember."

"Give away the prizes? Oh yes, if ye'll show me which choild to give 'em
to," replied the viscountess with a good-humored readiness. Then, with