"What ails her?" said the Squire, looking at his wife.

"Ails her, Pat? Nothing that I know of."

"Then you know very little," was his answer. "I never see that sort
of anxious frown between the colleen's brows without knowing there's
mischief in the wind. Somebody has been worrying her, and I won't
have it." He put down his great hand with a thump on the nearest
table.

"Don't, Pat. You quite shatter my nerves."

"Bless you and your nerves, Ellen. I want to give them all possible
consideration; but I won't have Light o' the Morning worried."

"You'll spoil that girl; you'll rue it yet."

"Bless her heart! I couldn't spoil her; she's unspoilable. Did you
ever see a sweeter bit of a thing, sound to the core, through and
through?"

"Sweet or not," said the mother, "she has got to learn her lesson of
life; and it is no good to be too tender with her; she wants a
little bracing."

"You have been trying that on--eh?"

"Well, not exactly, Pat; but you cannot expect me to keep all our
troubles to ourselves. There's that mortgage, you know."