“Here, Patsy,” said Mrs Kinsella, when she had led him back to the kitchen by the ear, “take this broom and away with you to the top of the house and give it to Mary, the second housemaid; you’ll find her on the top landing. Go down the passage and across the big hall and up the big staircase, and be back in a minit, or I’ll scalp you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Patsy, and seizing the broom he started.

He went down the passage, crossed the hall and went up the broad staircase, looking about him and wondering at the splendour of the place.

Poor Patsy, the staircase in his father’s cottage was just a ladder. He had never seen a looking-glass in his life, if we except the bit of broken mirror used by his father as a shaving glass.

The first landing was rather dimly lit, and scarcely had Patsy set foot on it when who should he see directly facing him but a red-headed page-boy with a broom in his hand.

He stared at this apparition for half a second. Then promptly he put his thumb to his nose and extended his fingers; the one in the mirror did the same.

“I’ll larn you to make faces at your betters, you ugly-lookin’ baste!” cried Patsy, his red hair bristling like the back of a wire-haired terrier. He brought his broom to the “present,” the other did likewise; then he charged.

“Glory be to God, what’s that?” cried Mrs Kinsella, as the smash of the great mirror, followed by a wild yell of astonishment, reached her ears.

“I dunno,” replied Jane, the kitchen-maid; “but it sounds like Patsy’s voice.”

During the first few days Patsy made several and desperate attempts to bolt back to the freedom of the woods and life in his father’s cottage. Then all at once he settled down and took to his new life and duties with that adaptability which is part of the basis of the Irish character.

The main cause in this transformation was the influence of the children. Miss Kiligrew, the governess, developing measles on the second morning of Patsy’s initiation, and being removed to the infirmary at Tullagh, the children were left pretty much to their own devices, and the first use they made of their freedom was to make friends with Patsy.

One evening Lord Gawdor having in a fit of exuberance kicked a football through the nursery window, and he and his companions having been placed under arrest, Patsy, the other servants being busy, was deputed to carry them their tea.

It was four o’clock and nearly dark, the wind was rattling at the window (William, the gardener, who did all sorts of odd jobs, had put in a new pane), and the fire was flickering and dancing in the grate and casting moving shadows on the walls.

By this light the man driving the pig to market (he formed the pattern of the nursery wall-paper) always seemed more alive; and if you got drowsy enough and fixed your eyes on him, you might see all sorts of things in fancy round the bend of the road down which he was driving the pig. All the pictures in the world were nothing compared to this old picture on the wall-paper seen at dusk by the flickering light of the fire.

Doris, whose head, according to Miss Kiligrew, was stuffed with “nonsense,” imagined castles and knights in armour and swans floating on lakes round the bend of the road; why, goodness only knows, for the man and the pig were the most commonplace figures on earth. Lord Gawdor imagined a market such as took place every month at Castle Knock; he could not imagine, nearly so well as Doris—that is to say, he could only imagine things he had seen.

When Patsy arrived with the tea-tray, Doris was seated on the hearthrug reading out of a book of Welsh Fairy Tales. Lord Gawdor was seated opposite to her with his knees up to his chin, and Selina, spotless in a new frock, was curled up asleep in the old armchair, a Noah’s Ark book which she had just dropped lying face downwards on the floor by her side.

“I’ve brought you jam,” said Patsy, nodding at a huge pot of plum jam on the tray. “I took it out of the cubberd when Mrs Kinsella’s back was turned. I heard the ould—her ladyship sayin’ to her, ‘You’re not to send them up any jam, Mrs Kinsella, for they’ve misbehaved’ she says.”

“Dear me,” said Doris, “what a pity, for now we won’t be able to eat it.”

“Why not?” asked Lord Gawdor.

“Because grandmamma said we weren’t.”

“She only tould Mrs Kinsella not to send it up,” said Patsy; “she didn’t say a word about your not eatin’ it.”

“I say,” said Lord Gawdor, when Patsy had withdrawn, speaking with his mouth full of bread and jam, “isn’t Patsy a——”

“Brick,” replied Doris; “I should think he was.”

That night Patsy went to bed very well pleased with himself and his new situation. Lady Seagrave, though severe looking, was kind and had taken a fancy to him. He got on very well with old James, the butler, and the other servants; Lord Gawdor, Doris, and Selina had taken to him just as he had taken to them.

He had placed his candlestick on the old deal chest of drawers in his bedroom and was in the act of unhooking his jacket, when a light tap at the window-pane drew his attention.

A face was peeping at him through the window-pane, a pale face surrounded with long hair. It was the face of Con Cogan.

Patsy had during the last few days quite forgotten Con and the housebreaking business; but Con had not forgotten Patsy.