She met him at the door, opening it for him.
"Good morrow, father," she said; "how do you find yourself to-day? I hope you rested well after your long walk yesterday."
"After a while I did, Winny; but the tea you made was very strong, an' I didn't sleep for a long time after I went to bed."
"Well, 'a hair of the hound,' you know, father dear. I have a good cup for you now, too; it will not do you any harm in the morning when you have the whole day before you. And I have a nice potato-cake for you, for I know you like it."
"Troth I b'lieve you have, Winny; an' I smell the carraways that I like. But, Winny, sure the ould blue teapot's not broken, is it?"
"No, father; but I was busy with the potato-cake this morning, and had not time to wash it out last night, so I took out number one to give it an airing; and I put down the other things to match."
The portion of this excuse which was true was far greater than that which was not; and Winny, who as a general rule was truthful, was satisfied with it--and, reader, so must you be.
"Never mind, Winny, you are mistress here, an' I don't want any explanation; it wasn't that made me spake; but I'd be sorry th' ould blue teapot was bruck, for we have it since afore you were well in your teens. You're lookin' very well this mornin', Winny agra."
"Hush, father; eat your cake, and don't talk nonsense. There's an egg that black Poll laid this morning, and here's some butter I finished not five minutes before you came in yesterday evening. Shall I give you some tea?"
"If you please, Winny dear." And the old man looked at his daughter with undeniable admiration.
They then enjoyed a neat and comfortable breakfast, which indeed neither of them seemed in a hurry to bring to an end. The old man was constrained and silent, and left all the talk to Winny, who, it must be admitted, never felt it more difficult to furnish conversation. Old Ned looked at her once or twice intently, as if wondering at her being much finer than usual; and then he looked at the breakfast gear; and the expression of his face was as if he suspected something. These looks, both at herself and the table, did not escape Winny's notice, but she never met them, always interrupting any exclamation which was likely to follow them with some question or remark of her own, such as, "Do you like that cake, father?" "That is the muil cow's butter; I always keep her milk by itself, and churn it in the small chum for you, father; you said you liked it." "Here, Bully-dhu, is a piece of cake for you."