Mr. Murphy was doing penance opposite to Mrs. O'Shanaghgan. He was
dreadfully afraid of that stately lady, and was glancing nervously
round at his wife and the Squire from moment to moment.

"Yes, madam," he was saying, "it's turnips we are going to plant in
that field just yonder. We have had a very good crop of hay too. It
is a fine season, and the potatoes promise to be a sight for sore
eyes."

"I hate the very name of that root," said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan in her
most drawling tones.

"Why, then, ma'am, you don't say so," answered Murphy; "it seems
hard on the poor things that keep us all going. The potheen and the
potatoes--what would Ireland be without 'em? Glory be to goodness,
it's quite awful to hear you abusing the potato, ma'am."

"I am English, you know," said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan.

On this scene Nora and Biddy entered. Mr. Murphy glanced with intense
relief at his daughter. Mrs. O'Shanaghgan slightly raised her brows.
It was the faintest of movements, but the superciliousness of the
action smote upon Nora, who colored painfully.

Biddy, taking her courage in her hand, went straight up to the
august lady.

"How do you do?" she said.