"Moriarty," said the child at last, "how would you like to have a governess?"
This question brought Moriarty back from his reverie, and he rose to his feet.
"Come along," said he, taking the donkey's reins, "it's moidhered you'll be gettin' with the sun on your head and you without a hat."
"I'm going to have a governess," said the child; "she's coming this day week, and she's forty years old. What'll she be like, do you think, Moriarty?"
"Faith!" said the evader of questions, "it's I that am thinkin' she won't be like a rosebud."
Miss French drew a letter from the pocket of her skirt as Moriarty led the donkey towards the path. It was a letter written purposely in a large, round hand that a child could easily read; each character was neatly printed, and though the contents were simple enough, the thing spoke volumes about the good heart of the sender.
Mr. French was in Dublin, but every day during his absence he wrote his little daughter a letter like this--a pleasant trait in a man living in a world the keynote of which is forgetfulness of the absent. The child read out the letter as Moriarty guided the donkey down the steep hill path.
It was a funny letter. It began as though Mr. French were writing to a child; it went on as though he were writing to an adult, and it finished as though the age of his correspondent had just occurred to him. It told of what he was doing in town--of a visit to Mr. Legge, the family solicitor, and of bother about money matters.
"However," said Mr. French in one passage, "Garryowen will put that all right."
As Miss French read this aloud Moriarty emphasised his opinion on the matter by striking a drum note on the donkey's ribs with the butt of his stick.
"I've got a governess for you at last," said Mr. French. "She's forty, and wears spectacles. I haven't seen her, but I gather so from her letter. She's coming from England this day week. I'll be back to-morrow by the 5.30 train."
"I know," replied Moriarty. "Mrs. Driscoll had a postcard. I'm to meet the train wid the car. Now, Miss Effie, here's your cloak, and on you put it."
"Bother," said Miss French as Moriarty picked up the discarded cloak from the ground.
She put it on, and they resumed their way, till they reached the boa.