breakfast, his host invariably asks him how he slept. When we came
down, we found Kate and the Irishman alone together in the
breakfast-room. Now it certainly was in keeping with our adventure
when he stepped forward, and, bowing profoundly, asked how we had
passed the night; but, in spite of the gravity of his face, there was
a twinkle in the big brown eyes which showed us that we were being
made fun of; and I felt slightly indignant with our friend, who had
faithfully promised not to betray us to Miss Lucy, and might, I
thought, have saved us from the ridicule of the Irishman. The rest of
the company began to assemble, however, and to our relief the subject
was dropped. But though the Irishman kept our secret, we had every
reason to suspect that he did not forget it; he looked terribly
roguish through breakfast, and was only kept in order by Kate's severe
glances.

"'Always breathe through the nose,' he suddenly began. 'It moderates
the severity of the air, is less trying to the lungs, and prevents
snoring.'

"'Very true,' said the major, who was sensible, and liked instructive
observations.

"'It may be laid down as an axiom,' continued the Irishman, gravely,
'that the man who snores is sure to disturb somebody; and also that
the man who doesn't snore till he dies, is not likely to live to be a
snoring ghost when he is dead.'

"Kate looked daggers. The major laughed, and said, 'Let me give you
some beef.' When he didn't understand a remark he always laughed, and
generally turned the conversation to eatables, in which he was pretty