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Java How to Program, 11/e Multiple Choice Test Bank 1 of 4

Chapter 9 Object Oriented Programming: Inheritance

Section 9.1 Introduction
9.1 Q1: Which of the following statements is false?
a. A subclass is often larger than its superclass.
b. A superclass object is a subclass object.
c. The class following the extends keyword in a class declaration is the direct superclass of the class
being declared.
d. Java uses interfaces to provide the benefits of multiple inheritance.
ANS: b. A superclass object is a subclass object.

9.1 Q2: Inheritance is also known as the

a. knows-a relationship.
b. has-a relationship.
c. uses-a relationship.
d. is-a relationship.
ANS: d. is-a relationship

Section 9.2 Superclasses and Subclasses

9.2 Q1: Which of the following is not a superclass/subclass relationship?
a. Employee/Hourly Employee.
b. Vehicle/Car.
c. Sailboat/Tugboat.
d. None of the above.
ANS: c. Sailboat/Tugboat. A Sailboat is not a superclass for Tugboats. Both sailboat and tugboats
would be subclasses of Boat.

9.2 Q2: An advantage of inheritance is that:

a. All methods can be inherited.
b. All instance variables can be uniformly accessed by subclasses and superclasses.
c. Objects of a subclass can be treated like objects of their superclass.
d. None of the above.
ANS: c. Objects of a subclass can be treated like objects of their superclass.

Section 9.3 protected Members

9.3 Q1: Which of the following keywords allows a subclass to access a superclass method even when the
subclass has overridden the superclass method?
a. base.
b. this.
c. public.
d. super.
ANS: d. super.

9.3 Q2: Using the protected keyword also gives a member:

a. public access.
b. package access.
c. private access.
d. block scope.

© Copyright 1992-2018 by Deitel & Associates, Inc. and Pearson Education, Inc.
Java How to Program, 11/e Multiple Choice Test Bank 2 of 4

ANS: b. package access.

9.3 Q3: Superclass methods with this level of access cannot be called from subclasses.
a. private.
b. public.
c. protected.
d. package.
ANS: a. private.

Section 9.4 Relationship between Superclasses and

Subclasses
9.4 Q1: Which of the following statements is false?
a. A class can directly inherit from class Object.
b. It's often much more efficient to create a class by inheriting from a similar class than to create the class
by writing every line of code the new class requires.
c. If the class you're inheriting from declares instance variables as private, the inherited class can access
those instance variables directly.
d. A class's instance variables are normally declared private to enforce good software engineering.
ANS: c. If the class you're inheriting from declares instance variables as private, the inherited class
can access those instance variables directly. (Actually, if the class you're inheriting from declares
instance variables as protected, the inherited class can access those instance variables directly.)

Section 9.4.1 Creating and Using a CommissionEmployee

Class
9.4.1 Q1: Every class in Java, except ________, extends an existing class.
a. Integer.
b. Object.
c. String.
d. Class.
ANS: b. Object.

9.4.1 Q2: Overriding a method differs from overloading a method because:

a. Overloaded methods have the same signature.
b. Overridden methods have the same signature.
c. Both of the above.
d. Neither of the above.
ANS: b. Overridden methods have the same signature.

Section 9.4.2 Creating and Using a

BasePlusCommissionEmployee Class
9.4.2 Q1: To avoid duplicating code, use ________, rather than ________.
a. inheritance, the “copy-and-past” approach.
b. the “copy-and-paste” approach, inheritance.
c. a class that explicitly extends Object, a class that does not extend Object.
d. a class that does not extend Object, a class that explicitly extends Object.
ANS: a. inheritance, the “copy-and-past” approach.

© Copyright 1992-2018 by Deitel & Associates, Inc. and Pearson Education, Inc.
Java How to Program, 11/e Multiple Choice Test Bank 3 of 4

Section 9.4.3 Creating a CommissionEmployee-

BasePlusCommissionEmployee Inheritance Hierarchy
9.4.3 Q1: Consider the classes below, declared in the same file:
class A {
int a;
public A() {
a = 7;
}
}

class B extends A {
int b;
public B() {
b = 8;
}
}

Which of the statements below is false?

a. Both variables a and b are instance variables.
b. After the constructor for class B executes, the variable a will have the value 7.
c. After the constructor for class B executes, the variable b will have the value 8.
d. A reference of type A can be treated as a reference of type B.
ANS: d. A reference of type A can be treated as a reference of type B.

9.4.3 Q2: Which of the following is the superclass constructor call syntax?
a. keyword super, followed by a dot (.) .
b. keyword super, followed by a set of parentheses containing the superclass constructor arguments.
c. keyword super, followed by a dot and the superclass constructor name.
d. None of the above.
ANS: b. keyword super, followed by a set of parentheses containing the superclass constructor
arguments.

Section 9.4.4 CommissionEmployee-

BasePlusCommissionEmployee Inheritance Hierarchy
Using protected Instance Variables
9.4.4 Q1: Which superclass members are inherited by all subclasses of that superclass?
a. private instance variables and methods.
b. protected instance variables and methods.
c. private constructors.
d. protected constructors.
ANS: b. protected instance variables and methods.

9.4.4 Q2: Which statement is true when a superclass has protected instance variables?
a. A subclass object can assign an invalid value to the superclass’s instance variables, thus leaving an
object in an inconsistent state.
b. Subclass methods are more likely to be written so that they depend on the superclass’s data
implementation.
c. We may need to modify all the subclasses of the superclass if the superclass implementation changes.
d. All of the above.
ANS: d. All of the above.

© Copyright 1992-2018 by Deitel & Associates, Inc. and Pearson Education, Inc.
Java How to Program, 11/e Multiple Choice Test Bank 4 of 4

Section 9.4.5 CommissionEmployee-

BasePlusCommissionEmployee Inheritance Hierarchy
Using private Instance Variables
9.4.5 Q1: private fields of a superclass can be accessed in a subclass
a. by calling private methods declared in the superclass.
b. by calling public or protected methods declared in the superclass.
c. directly.
d. All of the above.
ANS: b. by calling public or protected methods declared in the superclass.

9.4.5 Q2: When overriding a superclass method and calling the superclass version from the subclass
method, failure to prefix the superclass method name with the keyword super and a dot (.) in the superclass
method call causes ________.
a. a compile-time error.
b. a syntax error.
c. infinite recursion.
d. a runtime error.
ANS: c. infinite recursion.

Section 9.5 Constructors in Subclasses

9.5 Q1: When a subclass constructor calls its superclass constructor, what happens if the superclass’s
constructor does not assign a value to an instance variable?
a. A syntax error occurs.
b. A compile-time error occurs.
c. A run-time error occurs.
d. The program compiles and runs because the instance variables are initialized to their default values.
ANS: d. The program compiles and runs because the instance variables are initialized to their default
values.

Section 9.6 Class Object

9.6 Q1: The default implementation of method clone of Object performs a ________.
a. empty copy.
b. deep copy.
c. full copy.
d. shallow copy.
ANS: d. shallow copy.

9.6 Q2: The default equals implementation of class Object determines:

a. whether two references refer to the same object in memory.
b. whether two references have the same type.
c. whether two objects have the same instance variables.
d. whether two objects have the same instance variable values.
ANS: a. whether two references refer to the same object in memory.

© Copyright 1992-2018 by Deitel & Associates, Inc. and Pearson Education, Inc.
Discovering Diverse Content Through
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window; the floor was littered with sticks and cabbage leaves. It was
plain that Mary’s little hands were incapable of rough work! But he
noticed some pathetic attempts at decoration: the dresser exhibited
a large bunch of wild flowers; on the walls was a considerable
gallery of coloured pictures, cut from the illustrated papers; the
window curtains were white, and looped back with strips of pink
calico. As the visitor stood staring about the half-door was thrown
back with a kick, and a thin, tall, peevish-looking woman, with a
basket on her arm and a shawl over her frilled cap, entered,
immediately followed by a red terrier. For a moment she stood
aghast, then recovered and said, “Yer servant, ma’am—yer servant,
sir,” as she dropped two curtseys, and deposited her load with an air
of relief.
“Mary, me girl,” turning to her niece, “where’s yer manners? Won’t
the lady take a sate?”
Mary coloured guiltily as she dusted and offered a chair. “Faix, I’m
forgetting myself. Rap”—aside to the dog, who was sniffing the
visitors—“behave yerself! Ma’am, I beg your pardon, but the house
is all upset, and through other, it being washing day.”
“Lord save us! the cakes is a cinder!” cried the new arrival, hurrying
to the fire. “Mary, girl, I lay my life you’ve been reading a book.
Bedad, ma’am”—turning to Miss Usher—“if she was as good a hand
at rearing pigs and calves as she is for reading and rearing flowers,
we’d all be in clover. Oh, but she’s the terrible girl for a story——”
As she spoke Mrs. Grogan made a desperate attempt to tidy up the
place, carried away the tub, and endeavoured with all the strength
of her lungs to rekindle a few sods.
All this time Mary, her niece, with true patrician unconcern, stood
knitting and talking to Miss Usher, precisely as if she were receiving
her amidst the most luxurious surroundings, and absolutely
unconscious of any shortcomings. If she had been a true-born
Irishwoman she would have been pouring forth an irrepressible
torrent of excellent and plausible excuses. And here, to Mr. Usher,
was yet another incontrovertible proof that in Mary’s veins ran no
Foley blood, but that she was the descendant of a colder race, the
daughter of a hundred earls. Whilst Miss Usher made use of her
tongue, her brother continued to make use of his eyes. The young
woman, leaning against the dresser, with the dog at her feet, was
plainly not in keeping with her background; her pose was grace
itself, unconscious and unstudied—possibly the heritage of centuries
of court life. The short blue cotton skirt revealed a pair of black
woollen stockings and cobbler’s shoes; but even these failed to
conceal a high-arched instep and slim little feet, and the hands that
twinkled among the flying knitting needles might have been painted
by Vandyck or Lely, so delicate, taper, and absolutely useless did
they look.
Mary Foley had a sweet voice and a pleasant and melodious brogue;
she and her visitor had much to say to one another on the subject of
books, and the English lady was secretly amazed at the extent and
variety of the Irish girl’s reading.
“Father Daly lends me the Times Weekly, and Mrs. Hogan at the
hotel gives me all the stray old books and magazines, and I keep her
in stockings; then I buy books myself in Cork.”
“You don’t get much of a selection do you?”
“Oh, ma’am, sixpenny reprints is not too bad—I wish I knew
French!”
“I suppose you only know your language?” put in Mr. Usher.
“The Irish, sir? Yes, I can speak that well, and read it too, they teach
it in the schools now, but it is not much use if one went travelling—
not like French.”
“Do you wish to travel?”
“Sometimes I do. I get a queer roving feeling,—a sort of longing
comes over me; but mostly I am very well content here, and I’ve a
notion that if I ever left this part of the world it would be like tearing
the heart out of me, same as you see the poor people going to
America.”
“Well, Mary, me girl, aren’t you going to ask the lady if she has a
mouth on her?” put in the shrill, whining voice of Mrs. Grogan, who
had been busy with a kettle and some cups and saucers.
The hot soda cake, retrieved from the cinders, sent forth an
appetising invitation. Mrs. Grogan had cut it into large chunks, which
she split and buttered with a generous hand.
“Emily, I really think we ought to be going,” protested Mr. Usher, who
hated and despised afternoon tea, and would as soon partake of
rhinoceros as hot buttered soda cake!
“Oh, but, sir,” pleaded Mary, turning her battery of smiles on him,
“my aunt Bridgie would be shockingly disappointed if you won’t
honour her, after making the tay and all; she’s the real manager and
mistress since me poor mother took bad, and I’m only good, as
she’ll tell you, for a little nursing, and minding the hens and the
flowers. I hope you will stay?”
Bence Usher was astonished to find himself presently drawn up at a
table, spread with a clean coarse cloth, and seated before a
steaming slice and a steaming cup, tête-à-tête with the two peasant
women.
“No milk,” he cried, remembering the scene on the dresser.
“No milk,” echoed his sister.
“So it goes in families, misliking milk,” remarked Mrs. Grogan gravely.
“I hope the tay is to your taste? I get the best, like me poor sister,
four shillings and sixpence the pound. None of yer cheap mixtures!”
(There is no one in the world so particular respecting her tea, as the
Irishwoman of the lower middle class.)
Mary, he noticed, was exceedingly dainty about her food, and
reduced her share of cake to a mere slice, half of which she shared
with the dog.
“That’s a handsome terrier,” he remarked; “he looks thoroughbred.
Where did you get him?”
“He was given to me mother as a house watch, when he was a pup.”
“Your people are not from this part of the world?” remarked Miss
Usher. “Any one can see that, Mary!”
“Deed then they are, ma’am,” she replied emphatically; “and where
else? Why wouldn’t I be Kerry born and bred?”
“Because you are so unlike the other people, who have dark hair and
blue or grey eyes, and are more strongly built; and you——”
“Oh, yes,” she interrupted, “I’m aware I’m altogether different—very
small-boned, wid red hair and brown eyes, and no colour to spake
of, but it’s just a chancey thing, like a piebald horse—or a blue-eyed
cat; we can’t all be cut out on the same pattern.”
Mary was doing the honours of the feast; her aunt had undertaken
the part of servant, and she now stepped gracefully into the rôle of
hostess. Her manners were charming and fascinating; even Mr.
Usher, laden as he was with care and apprehension, fell under their
spell. In a kind of dream he ate a dangerous supply of soda bread,
and disposed of two cups of strong tea; for as this most fascinating
creature chattered away to him, he forgot both his digestion and his
duties.
“Oh, faix, it’s not every day we have a gentleman to tay, I tell ye! If
me poor mother was stirring, she’d be a proud and happy woman to
see yer honour sitting here,” declared Mary.
“And how is she?”
“Just dozing now within in the room. She’s had one of her bad turns,
but I nursed her out of it. Oh, she’s awfully changed since her mind
gave way.”
“And do you think she really is—peculiar?”
“Think! Sure, don’t we know it? She, that used to be the sensiblest
woman in the parish, and every one running to her for advice, is
now, God help her, teetotally moidered, and wake in herself.” After a
pause, “I see you looking at me very constant, sir. May I make so
free as to ask if ye get a likeness of any one out of me?”
“Oh, I—I—beg pardon,” stammered Mr. Usher. “I’m a bit near-
sighted. I hope you don’t mind. I see you have splendid potatoes,”
he remarked suddenly, pointing to a basketful. “I suppose you like
them?”
“Is it me? Augh, no!” with a gesture of abhorrence. “I hate potatoes;
they just choke me. And when our bag of flour went astray on the
train ’ere last week, I was daggin round for something to keep me
alive, so I was. I’d die on potatoes.”
“And what did you find?”
“Ned Macarthy gave me a couple of salmon trout and a pigeon.”
“Oh, he’s a great poacher!” and she laughed. “So I did finely. I think
I hear me mother calling me, if you’ll pardon me”; and she rose and
hurried into an adjoining room.
“She keeps you all alive, I am sure,” observed Miss Usher, “so full of
life.”
“Aye, you’d never be wanting to go to a theatre or a pantomime as
long as ye have Mary in the house,” assented Mrs. Grogan. “The
chat out of her is wonderful, and she can talk to any one, as ye may
judge! I can’t think how she comes by her freedom, for John and me
sister was not a bit gabby themselves; but every one likes Mary,
though she’s a poor worker. Half the boys are ready to put their
hands under her feet. It’s not the looks, but what ye may call the
cleverality of her!”
“Is her mother really no better?” inquired Miss Usher.
“Yes; she’s in her senses—no more foolish rambling, and rousing the
priest with mad tales. But the head of her is full of pains. Oh, she’s
greatly failed! She’s been lying a good while, and I’m thinking she
won’t be long in it.”
“I suppose you don’t remember Lord Mulgrave coming here?”
ventured Mr. Usher, who had risen, and, with his back to Mrs.
Grogan, was searching for his stick.
“And troth an’ I do, and why wouldn’t I? I remember him well,” she
rejoined, in her whinging voice. “I met him in the woods one day,
and he gave me a great salute. Such a lovely, tall, fine gentleman! I
never seen her ladyship; she never stirred out much. It was at Lota
she died. Oh, but she made the lovely corpse!”
“Indeed!” said Miss Usher.
“Yes, that was an awful affair, and unexpected. They do say”—
lowering her voice almost to a whisper—“she walks! Anyway, no one
will go near the place after dark.”
“Surely you don’t believe that?” protested the lady.
“Well, ma’am, I’ve seen and heard many a quare tale in me time,
and I don’t rightly know what to believe and what not to believe; but
it would be more reasonable-like if she’d stop with her own folk, and
haunt them, instead of scaring poor Irish people, as are black
strangers.”
“Really, Emily, it’s six o’clock,” said her brother, suddenly looking at
his watch. “We must not intrude on Mrs. Grogan any longer. You see
it has quite cleared up now”; and he made for the door.
Miss Usher, an intelligent woman, who wrote a little, and was
particularly anxious to study the Irish peasant, and interiors, would
gladly have thrashed out with Mrs. Grogan the subject of ghosts,
warnings, and Banshees; but her brother was already at the gate.
Should she offer payment? She put her hand to her steel bag, and
looked interrogatively at her hostess, but read an invincible “no” in
those little twinkling greenish eyes.
“Thank you very much. Please say good-bye to your niece for us.”
“Aye, she’ll be sorry to miss ye; but she is mighty taken up with her
mother. She’s a real, good decent girl, for all her funny ways—wan
that always satisfies ye, and me sister cannot spare her out of her
sight—that is when she’s in her right senses. Well, good-bye, my
lady, good-bye. Mind the gander; he’s a bit wicked to strangers”;
and she curtseyed her out.
“Well, Bence!” said Miss Usher, as she came up with her brother, “tell
me frankly what you think of that girl? Is she not beautiful, and has
she not an extraordinary air of refinement and distinction?”
“Oh, yes, she’s uncommon-looking,” he muttered, in a peevish tone.
“Did you notice her slow smile? A family smile, I should imagine; and
yet, of course, I am talking the most arrant nonsense! Can you
believe that her grandmother was some old Kerry woman, who dug
potatoes and smoked a pipe! Now, can you?” she repeated
impressively.
“No, I cannot,” he answered doggedly. All the time he was mentally
making a draft of a letter.
“And yet there is her aunt, a common, ignorant person, as you see. I
rather wanted to give her half a crown as a return for the tea; but
Irish hospitality is a thing by itself. As for Mary, the day I lost my way
I offered her a shilling, and you should have seen how she coloured
up and refused it. I almost felt as if I had offered it to an equal.
Really, one would take her for a lady if she were dressed up—a
somebody, in fact!”
“In fact, Lady Joseline Dene,” her listener mentally added, as they
walked on for some time in silence. The Mulgraves were a
notoriously proud family; ancient, exclusive, wealthy, now dwindled
down to one last branch. What would Owen, Earl of Mulgrave, say to
this Irish heiress who fed pigs, washed and cooked (very badly), and
had adopted the religion, language, prejudices, and
accomplishments of a Kerry peasant? Could she ever be educated,
transformed, and fitted for her high degree?
“Come, come, Bence, you have not opened your lips for half a mile,”
remonstrated his sister. “A penny for your thoughts. What are you
thinking about?”
“That I hope we may have cranberry tart for dinner,” was the
mendacious reply.
“Oh, you greedy person. I fancied you might be puzzling out the
enigma of that red-haired girl. I must confess that she baffles me.
She’s a physiological freak; she’s a white crow. What business has
she to feed pigs with those little taper hands? Tell me that?”
But her cautious companion was not prepared to tell her anything as
yet; he would keep his discovery to himself. Emily had an active
mind, a healthy curiosity, a world-wide correspondence, and in
answer to her question, “Tell me that?” he merely shook his head, in
token of hopeless ignorance.
Personally, he had no shadow of doubt as to the girl’s identity, and
as he strolled up and down the road in front of the hotel after
dinner, he held a long debate as to what he ought to do. Should he
hold his peace, leave Lady Mary to her wash-tub and her gate, or
should he write the wonderful news to the earl, her father?
 CHAPTER XII
From the slated cottage at the corner of a country lane it is a long
step to an historical castle in Perthshire. Here the Marquis of
Maxwelton is entertaining a large party for the twelfth. His moors
are as celebrated as his gaunt old fortress, built after the French
fashion, in the time when the Guise family held sway in Scotland.
The château has been modernised, and the gardens and grounds
are unsurpassed for beauty and originality.
Among the guests are the Earl and Countess of Mulgrave and Miss
Tito Dawson—the Countess’s daughter by a former alliance. The
ladies are lounging in the gardens, the earl is on the moor with the
guns. He is a fine shot and a keen sportsman. A tall, slim man of
fifty with clearly cut profile, grizzly hair, and a pair of deep-set,
melancholy eyes. He has a polished manner, a pleasant voice, is an
agreeable acquaintance and popular landlord; but the real Earl of
Mulgrave lives far behind those melancholy eyes, entrenched in an
impenetrable reserve. Thus far and no further his guests can go. He
is ready to entertain them, to shoot, play billiards, talk politics, and
subscribe money; lavish with time and with his fortune, he is
niggardly of himself. His life—how little people guess!—has for years
been one long disappointment.
After his young wife’s death he became a rover—driven from country
to country by his own despair.
One autumn afternoon at Granada he came upon a party of tourists,
or rather they came upon him, and among these was a lady who, to
his starved heart, brought dim memories of Joseline, his lost idol.
Mrs. Dawson was slim and animated. She had brown eyes and
mahogany-coloured hair. A free lance, with great ambitions and
small possessions, she set herself to lay siege to the handsome,
heart-broken parti. Her cue was “sympathy.” Each had known losses
—irreparable losses. The departure of Captain Dawson had been
hastened by drink. Oh what profanation to bracket him with Joseline
Mulgrave!
Mrs. Dawson admired, in a really genuine fashion, the handsome,
desolate widower, and he, knowing that he must once more accept
the burden of his position, and imagining her to be a sweet, tender-
hearted woman, energetic as wise, invited her to be the partner of
his sorrows.
The likeness to Joseline had become indistinct and faded, save for
the hair-tint (which was duly revived at necessary intervals); but he
believed that they would make the best of two sad lives, and face
the future sustained by mutual experience, and mutual sympathy.
The Countess of Mulgrave, with her carriages, diamonds, town-
house, and country-seats, was an entirely different individual to the
pretty, pathetic widow his lordship had known in Spain. They were
not the same. People talk of children being changed at nurse; it
seemed as if Lottie Dawson had been changed at the altar!
She was ambitious, agreeable, and selfish. A luxurious home, crowds
of servants, quantities of money, a great name, and a connection,
were all delightful in their way, and she was fairly well satisfied with
her lot. Certainly Owen was peculiar; she managed him beautifully—
yet she stood a little in awe of him, although he had never uttered a
sharp word, or denied her any reasonable request. He attended her
to functions, he submitted to her friends, he made Tito a generous
allowance; and yet somehow they remained strangers.
Of course, they had not identical tastes. A country life, sport, books,
and peace, were all he cared for; she enjoyed the racket of town—
six engagements of an evening, with races, the opera, Hurlingham
wedged in between visiting, charity concerts, and milliners. She had
acquired the great art of dress, and was still a pretty woman, with
auburn hair, and a brilliant colour, a wonderful faculty of making
conversation, a fair amount of tact, and a reputation at bridge.
Her daughter Tito, who was small and dark, with a nez retroussé,
found it necessary to live up to her profile, and was as jaunty and
impudent as her nose—extravagant in dress and conversation. Tito
Dawson had a reputation for being clever, and making the most
daring and original remarks.
As a rule, women and girls liked her, and men considered her “good
sport.” She had a sharp, amusing tongue, and a capital seat on a
horse.
The marquis and his guests were lunching in a glen after a first-rate
drive. Long rows of dead grouse were spread in lines near where the
beaters were eating their dinner. The guns, twelve in number,
reclined under the lee of a rock, discussing cold grouse, cold pie,
sandwiches, and cake, when a gillie arrived with the letters. These
were those which had come from the south by a second post, and,
being the most important of the day, were invariably sent out to the
guns, as among Lord Maxwelton’s guests were men high in the
political and diplomatic world and the services, to whom the delay of
a few hours, meant much in these hurried times. Letters and
telegrams were handed about to where their recipients sat lounging
or cross-legged, enjoying a pipe or cigar.
“Two for you, Owen,” said his host and brother-in-law, and he
handed him a couple of missives in the long, narrow envelopes
dedicated to business.
Lord Mulgrave glanced at them indifferently. The post had no
surprises or pleasures for him. One was from his farm bailiff, no
doubt about wire fencing; the other was from Usher, his man of
business. Could anything be more prosaic or commonplace?
An interesting young colonel, his next-hand neighbour—a keen
soldier and a keen shot—was immersed in a woman’s letter, written
in an enormous hand, with violet ink. As he turned the page, the
words “My own darling boy” were as plain as a sign-post. Those who
sat must read; but the lady’s “darling” was blissfully unconscious.
Lord Mulgrave, about to consign his letters to his pockets, paused.
He might as well see what Brown and Usher had to say. He cut the
envelopes carefully with a pocket-knife, being the most methodical
of men, and drew out first of all Brown’s estimate for so many yards
of netting.
Then he examined the other. At the first glance, at the words
“astonishing discovery,” he simply lifted his eyebrows. At the second
glance, he read on with colourless face to the bottom of the page;
he turned it with a trembling hand—he finished the letter, three sides
of a sheet—crushed it up, rose abruptly to his feet, and walked
away.
“Hullo!” exclaimed the little colonel, looking up suddenly, “I am afraid
his lordship has had bad news?” and he turned his head, and
watched the tall, active, tweed-clad form, striding towards the banks
of a foaming mountain torrent, where the figure seated itself in an
attitude which implied, “Leave me alone. I wish for my own
company!”
“Perhaps something has disagreed with him,” muttered a man who
did not like Lord Mulgrave’s cold and courteous manners.
“Perhaps so,” assented the little colonel; “you have never agreed
with him, and I heard you just now abusing his pet scheme for
compulsory service.”
“And he jumped down my throat, spurs and all.”
“Well, it must come to that, sooner or later. The world’s conditions
are changing. Can a half-armed people survive, when the whole of
the rest of the world is trained to arms? The growth of immense
foreign armies is introducing new problems into British national life,
whilst all the omens point to the probability that England’s position
will be challenged in the near future! Diplomacy may do much, but,
as Napoleon said, diplomacy without an armed force behind it, is like
music without instruments!”
“My dear chap,” sneered the other, “you talk like a newspaper
correspondent.”
“I do. I am actually quoting the Press.”
“Oh, I bar these big questions. Sufficient to the day is the evil
thereof. I suppose we are going to the west beat after this?”
“Yes.”
“I hope to goodness they won’t put me in a butt next old Sir
Timothy Quayle. He’s dangerous. Talk of being under fire! He blazed
right into me—cannot see a yard. No business on a moor. Never was
so frightened in my life! I threw clods at him and yelled, and he
thought it was something to do with the coveys. There’ll be an
accident some day. I say, why aren’t we moving? Where’s the
marquis?”
“Down there by the waterfall, talking to Lord Mulgrave.”
“Well, I’m here to shoot my twenty to forty brace, not to talk”—rising
to his feet and stretching himself. “I wish—— Oh, I see, it’s all right.
There go the beaters.”
“I say, Owen,” said the marquis, as he joined him, “I hope you have
not had bad news, old boy?”
“No,” replied the other, raising a colourless face, “but news that, if it
is true, is the best that has come to me for more than twenty years.
Here”—and he thrust the letter into his friend’s hand. “You had
better read it yourself. To tell you the truth, I’m a bit knocked out of
time. Of course, I’m going to Ireland to-night.”
“Ireland!” echoed his companion. “What in the world would take you
there?”
“Read that, and you will understand.”
The marquis, who was near-sighted, deliberately fumbled for his
pince-nez, stuck it on his nose, and read with provoking leisure.
 “Glenveigh Hotel,
“Co. Kerry.
“My Lord,
“I have recently come upon an astonishing discovery, and beg
to acquaint you with my experience. I must ask you to prepare
yourself for a piece of intelligence which must naturally be to
you of the nature of a shock.
“By accident I rambled into a ruined place called Lota, of which,
many years ago, your lordship was the tenant, where, in short,
her ladyship the first Lady Mulgrave died, after having given
birth to a little girl. I there met an old man, once your gardener,
who disclosed to me the amazing news that your daughter did
not, as was supposed, die in infancy, but was kept in place of
her dead child by the foster-mother, Katherine Foley, and reared
as her own.
“Recently remorse, illness, and age, have overtaken Mrs. Foley,
now a widow, and she has made the extraordinary confession
that Mary Foley, a girl of one-and-twenty, is no child of hers, but
the child of the Earl of Mulgrave. Of course, no one credits this
statement, for Mary is a Kerry girl, with all a Kerry girl’s tastes.
Every one, including the priest and doctor, believe the poor old
woman to be suffering from a delusion, and crazy. Mary herself
has no doubt whatever of her antecedents. Hearing from the old
gardener that her appearance was remarkable, I made my way
to Foley’s farm and interviewed the young woman, and I have
come to the conclusion that the ravings of old Katty are the
truth. The girl’s likeness to the late Countess of Mulgrave is so
extraordinary, that for my own part I believe the relationship to
be undeniable, and I am confident that this girl is your lordship’s
daughter and heiress.
“I am afraid my information may be unwelcome, for several
reasons: the girl has been brought up as an Irish peasant; she
 has had but little education, and is, of course, a Roman
Catholic. On the other hand, she is remarkably intelligent, has
read all the books that she could lay hands on, and has a
natural grace and charm of manner, that is lacking in many
young ladies that have had ten times her advantages. If I might
venture to make a suggestion, I think your lordship should come
over and see the girl and judge for yourself. I have not breathed
my conviction to a soul, and, should I be mistaken, at least no
harm is done. I am staying at the Glenveigh Hotel, where fairly
comfortable quarters are available. It is within an easy distance
of Foley’s farm, and five miles from a station. I have debated
with myself whether to disturb your lordship with my discovery
or to pass over the event in silence. I am aware what a change
in the girl’s circumstances, and in other people’s expectations,
such a revelation will occasion. At present Mary Foley is happy,
satisfied with her lot in life, devoted to her mother, and full of
high spirits, vivacity, and contentment. It will be for you to
judge, for you to speak the word, and to break the spell.
“Awaiting instructions, I remain,
“Your lordship’s obedient servant,
“Bence Usher.”

“Well,” exclaimed the marquis, as he deliberately folded the letter,

“this is a nice thing to spring on a man after twenty-one years!”
“Nice! Yes. Oh, Max,”—and his voice shook—“I hope to God it is no
mirage, and that it may be true.”
“Then you are glad?” he asked sharply.
“Yes, I should think so. Why not?”
“But it is such an outrageous event—so unnatural and impossible. Of
course, I’m aware that you and poor Joseline were all in all to one
another—a sort of fairy tale, your marriage; but that is over. You are
no longer a young man; you have other ties.”
“But no child?”
“No; and this one, if she is your own flesh and blood, will be an
alien, a stranger in ideas, prejudices, and religion—nothing more or
less than a pretty Irish peasant, eh?”
“He said she was the image of her mother.”
Lord Maxwelton looked incredulous. Then he resumed—
“The likeness may be accidental. Such things do happen. Just think
of the horror of the present Lady Mulgrave to have a girl less refined
than her own kitchen-maid thrust into her intimate society—in fact,
bound to accept and chaperone the stranger as her daughter! And
as to that story of a baby changed at nurse, I don’t quite believe
that; it sounds too much like a shilling shocker. Your man Usher is,
no doubt, a romantic old bachelor; he has been captivated by a
pretty girl—I can see he has—and found a mare’s nest. If I were
you, I should do nothing hastily; in fact, I’m not sure that I should
do anything at all.”
“Max, I’m amazed to hear you talk in this cold-blooded fashion.”
“Cold-blooded! No, but prudent and far-seeing, my dear fellow. Do
you realise the results of bringing over this Irish girl? She will be
Baroness of Marchlyde in her own right. She will inherit a certain
amount of the family property—she, an uncouth, raw, country girl!
You could do nothing with her. Of course her character is formed by
now. She will probably make your present quiet life most sensational
and wretched. She is happy where she is—you are happy where you
are.”
“No, Max, you know very well that I have never been happy since
her mother left me. But oh! if fortune were to give me back Joseline
in our daughter, I’d ask no more.”
“Then what do you propose to do?” inquired his listener, in a sharper
key.
“Return at once to the castle, get a few things put together, and
leave by the six o’clock from the junction. I’ll go alone, and not take
my man, and you will make my excuses to every one, and say that I
was called away by important business.”
“All right—though in my opinion it’s all wrong. Shall you tell Lady
Mulgrave and Elgitha?”
“Only my wife just yet.”
“If you are wise, you will wait.”
“Wait! For what? If this girl is my daughter, I shall bring her back
with me.”
“And if it is a wild-goose chase, how foolish you will look!”
“Yes; one has to take risks, and I’m ready to chance that. Now I see
all the others anxious to start and I must not detain you. Good-bye,
old man”—wringing his hand—“I leave you to explain everything.
Wish me luck.”
“I wish you luck,” rejoined the other, putting his own construction on
the word; and in another minute the two had separated.
 CHAPTER XIII
Lord Mulgrave, having given directions to his man to immediately
pack a portmanteau and order a dog-cart, set out in search of his
wife. The quest proved long. She was not in the boudoir, the hall,
the drawing-room; she was not even playing bridge or croquet. At
last he discovered her in the garden—a most sequestered spot,
some distance from the castle. Two ancient fishponds, surrounded
by terraces and broad grass walks, were its principal features. On an
island in one of the ponds was a pretty clump of trees, in that clump
a hammock, in the hammock a smart lady with a novel, a cigarette,
and a tiny “sleeve” dog.
“My dear O,” she cried, as he crossed a footbridge, “what brings you
back? Not an accident! Has anything happened? Any one blown off
anyone’s head?”
“No, not quite; but something has happened. I’ve had a letter.”
“From the duke?”—struggling to sit up. “So he is coming for the
pheasants after all?” Her face was radiant.
“No, I’ve not heard from him”—and he put his hand in his pocket
and drew out the letter.
Lady Mulgrave’s expression changed, as she said, “I really do think
there ought to be a law against all the men going out together. Half
should remain to amuse us. It is ghastly dull. Tito and Griselda are
going to walk with the guns this afternoon, but I hate that sort of
thing. Lady Madge and the marchioness, and a whole pack have
driven to see a ruin. They couldn’t see a more splendid ruin than
Lady Madge herself! Some are playing croquet; some are asleep,
and I was nearly off. Oh, you abominable little dog!” suddenly
addressing the mite, who had been chewing her book. “Oh, you little
horror!”—and she gave it several hard cuffs.
“Look here, I want you to read this, Charlotte. I’ve had a most
startling piece of news. I am going to Ireland to-night.”
“Ireland?”—carelessly taking the letter. “Ireland, of all places! But
why? It’s not even the horse-show week, and that’s its only
inducement!”
“You will see the why, when you read what Usher has to say.”
Lady Mulgrave glanced over the pages with a puckered, frowning
face.
“My dear, what nonsense!” she exclaimed at last. “Surely you don’t
believe such utter rubbish. A common country girl your daughter?”—
and with an impatient jerk she threw away the cigarette which had
been suspended in her fingers.
“I cannot tell you until I’ve seen her. Seeing will be believing, or
disbelieving.”
“My dear man, I can tell you one thing. You will have your journey
for nothing.”
“I sincerely hope not,” he answered gravely.
“If there is anything in it, it will really be awful, Owen. No, I’m not
meaning anything nasty! Awful for the girl, and also for us. I expect
she wears no stockings, and says ‘bedad’ and ‘begorra.’”
“These matters can easily be remedied. You will be good to her,
won’t you, Lottie?”
“Of course. I will be good to any one belonging to you,” she
answered. Then, suddenly getting out of the hammock, with a great
display of orange silk petticoat, and standing before him, she added,
“But I feel confident it is some mistake. And if not, do think of the
feelings of Dudley Deverill, brought up to be your heir.”
“Well, he will have the title and a good share of the property. But we
are travelling a little too fast. I must first go over to Glenveigh. I
might have kept my own counsel till I returned; but I thought you’d
like to know.”
“Like to know!” she repeated, under her breath.
“Pray don’t let it go any further. I’ve not told even Elgitha. Say I’m
called away on urgent business.”
“And the word ‘business,’ like charity, covers a multitude of sins and
secrets!” Lady Mulgrave looked at her husband with an odd smile;
but he was grave—he was even agitated. She could read the signs.
He had been besotted about his first wife, so people declared,
though it seemed incredible, for he was always so cool, self-
possessed, and undemonstrative. Was he going to be as idiotic with
respect to his daughter?
But of course half the evils in the world are those which never
happen. No doubt this creature was a myth.
“At least it will be an adventure,” she exclaimed. “And think of the
scare lines in the morning papers: ‘Long-lost heiress discovered in
Irish cabin.’ ‘Peasant girl, aged twenty, a peer’s daughter.’”
“Well, Charlotte, if any unexpected good luck had fallen to you, I
think I’d not have jeered and laughed.”
“Dear old Owen!”—and she patted his arm—“did I jeer and laugh? I
beg your pardon, but the idea is so grotesque I cannot get to face it,
and it all seems so funny. You know I’ve an extraordinary sense of
humour; it bubbles up in spite of me, like a kettle on the boil! In my
mind’s eye, when I see you so tall, erect, and dignified, with a wild
and tattered Irish colleen hanging to your arm, I really cannot feel
serious; but you know very well, dear, that my heart is in the right
place! I suppose”—and she paused and looked up in his face—“you
would not like me to go with you?”
This was, as she was well aware, a perfectly safe offer.
“No, no, I must be off. No time to lose. Pray do not mention the
matter to a soul. I’ll write and wire. Good-bye”; and despite her
protestations that she would come with him and help him to pack,
he waved her a denial and a valediction.
As she heard the garden gate click her ladyship scrambled once
more into the hammock, lit a cigarette, and abandoned herself to
contemplation.
No, no; if it really came to anything, if the story were true, if this
journey provided her with a stepdaughter, it would be too
detestable. How she would hate the commotion, the gossip, and—
the girl!
 CHAPTER XIV
It was a soft and exquisite autumn afternoon. A delicate blue haze
lay over the hills; the dense, dark woods were steeped in breathless
silence, and the only sound that caught the ear, was the rattle of a
reaping machine. As Lord Mulgrave and Mr. Usher turned down the
long, straight road leading to Foley’s Corner, the earl was livid, his
expression was set; evidently he was struggling in the grip of some
vehement emotion, and the name of this disturbing element was
“suspense.” Would it be true? or false? Would it be Joseline’s
daughter? or some raw, uncouth stranger? Was it the wild-goose
chase his wife had predicted, or the pursuit and capture of
happiness? Oh, these next ten minutes would mean so much to him;
he almost felt, this self-contained man, as if he were treading on the
very boundaries of life and death.
“Joseline’s daughter,” he was saying to himself. “Joseline’s daughter.”
Mr. Usher, instinctively aware that his companion was in a highly
strung and nervous condition, like the wise little man he was, held
his peace; yes, even when they came within full view of the slated
house, with its commonplace white face half hidden by a veil of
crimson roses.
“There she is!” he exclaimed abruptly.
Yes; standing at the farthest side from them, attended by a terrier,
feeding a multitude of bold and presumptuous poultry, stood Mary
herself.
“See, now! that’s all I have for ye,” she declared, as she tossed the
last crumbs away, and a race ensued between a strong-limbed
cochin and a dissipated-looking hen turkey. The bang of the gate
caused her to turn her head, and she beheld, to her surprise, the
“little grey man,” as she called him, and a fine, tall gentleman; and
little did she guess how deeply he was agitated.
“Here I am again, Mary!” announced Mr. Usher, with an off-hand air.
“I thought, as we were just passing, we would look in and bid you
the time of the day!”
“And kindly welcome.” As she spoke she glanced up at the stranger;
he was awfully white, and his eyes, as he looked into hers, seemed
to pierce down to her very heart. “What ailed the poor gentleman?”
she wondered; “was he taken bad?” Yes; he suddenly sat down on a
bench outside the door, and, in a husky tone, asked for a “glass of
water.”
He really seemed faint and come over, and Mary hastened into the
house, and presently returned with a brimming tin porringer.
As he sipped it, the hand which held the porringer shook visibly, and
Mr. Usher, in order to make a diversion, inquired—
“How is your mother to-day, Mary?”
Lord Mulgrave started violently.
“Deed then, your honour,” she replied, “she is in a way better. She is
sitting up, and the pains are gone, but her head is bothersome.”
From within a shrill old voice called out querulously:
“What are you after? Who is it that’s talking to your ladyship?”
“There it is!” she ejaculated. “The head of the poor thing is not right.
Maybe”—hesitating—“you’ll come inside? or will the other
gentleman?”
“Thank you,” he interrupted, “yes—yes, if you will permit me, I
should like to see your—Mrs. Foley.”
Mary instantly pushed back the half-door, and ushered in the visitors.
Old Katty was seated in a comfortable chair near the window. On her
lap lay a peculiarly complacent white cat, whose loud purrings
testified to its supreme satisfaction, although she had the fur half
singed off one side, and was in appearance the very lowest of the
lower order of the great tribe, with a thin, pointed head, and a
disgracefully dirty face.
Mrs. Foley, on the other hand, presented the remains of remarkably
good breeding and good looks—slender and erect, with well-cut
features, wavy black hair, but slightly powdered with grey, and dark,
deep-set, tragic eyes. She bore but scant resemblance to her half-
sister—the sandy, mealy-skinned, peevish Mrs. Grogan—and had
made the more successful match of the two sisters.
“Here’s two gentlemen, mother!” was Mary’s somewhat vague
introduction.
Mrs. Foley slowly turned her great melancholy eyes, first on Mr.
Usher and then on his companion. As she gazed she suddenly seized
the arms of her chair, rose to her feet and cried, “God help me! ’tis
the earl himself!” and she trembled violently from head to foot.
“Now, can’t ye sit down, mother,” protested Mary, “and don’t be
exciting yourself. Sure, ’tis only a chance friend of the visitors from
the ‘Glenveigh’ as has looked in.”
Mrs. Foley threw herself back in her chair, and, rocking to and fro,
began to wail and sob.
“Oh, my sin has found me out. Wirrah, wirrah, asthue! My sin has
found me out! You’ve come to put me in jail and take her away at
last.”
“Katty Foley,” he replied, “I will do you no injury in any way, you may
be certain of that”—and his voice was strong and encouraging. “But
I implore you to tell me the truth.”
“Aye, your honour,” she moaned, “I will so, and sure, haven’t I been
telling it this twelvemonth, and not a soul will believe me!”
“I will believe you, I promise you on my honour.”
“Ye may think I am mad, but it was only bad I was; yer lordship will
remember when I was sent for to take the poor little motherless
babe?”
He nodded his head gravely.
“Oh, it was a fair and lovely darlin’, and so fine and healthy; but my
own little girl grew droopy and pined—I’ve had four, and I never
reared one. It killed me to see them just fading off and my heart
withering along with them. When my little Mary—God rest her!—
died, quite sudden, I was nearly crazy, but that other little one was a
consolation, and as I lay in the bed I made up my mind I’d keep her
for my own. Oh, wasn’t I the wicked woman? I had no scruple. Oh,
may the saints pity me! But the little live warm child just caught me
by the heart”—her voice rose to a wail of agony; “how could I send
her away, and sit again by the empty cradle?”
She came to a pause, fighting for breath and overcome by the
violence of her emotion.
“And how did you do it?” he inquired in a low voice.
“I kep’ my own baby well covered up, and the room within dark; and
John telegraphed over, and there was a great stir, and a mighty gay
little funeral; and no one knew—for young babies is so similar—that
it was my own little girlie, I laid in the beautiful white and silver
coffin under the flowers.”
“Tell me”—leaning forward as he spoke—“did no one ever suspect
you?”
“Sorra a wan, but Mike over beyant at Lota. When he saw the child
growing up he would come to the gate there and just stand and look
over at her and then at me, in a way that put the fear of death in
me. You see, he had worked for her ladyship; he saw the likeness;
he saw her walking, living, talking image. Sure, don’t you see it, sir,
yourself?”
“Yes, I do,” he asserted gravely.
“And what are you going to do with me and her?” she asked, in a
broken voice.
“I intend to take her home,” he said quietly.
“Sir, if I’d suspicioned you’d have cared, I’d never have kep her from
ye all these years. I surely believed ye thought yerself well shut of
her. For you will remember as you were terribly bitter against her,
and wouldn’t so much as lay an eye on her.”
“That is true, Katty; but if I had known, she would have been a
wonderful comfort to me.”
As these two talked together, Mary herself listened in white-faced,
petrified silence. Surely she was dreaming! Either that or going out
of her mind! During a sudden pause in the conversation there was
not a sound to be heard, but the distant reaping machine, and the
immediate purring of the white cat.
“Mary,” said the earl, suddenly turning to her, and speaking in a
husky voice, as he took her hand in his. “Do you understand that all
your foster-mother tells us is true, and that you are my daughter?”
Here he looked hard at the little fingers which lay so limply in his
grasp, and Mary, having thrown her apron over her head, burst into
a violent storm of sobbings.
“Oh, no! Faix, I couldn’t face it! No, no, I’m not going out of this,”
she stammered in gasps behind the apron. “Sure, sir, I was born and
reared here; my life is here—not among grand folks.”
“They are your own folks, Mary,” he said gently.
“Well, anyhow”—and she flung down her screen, and flashed upon
him a pair of challenging wet eyes—“I’m no lady, and I’m dog
ignorant; so what can you do with me?”
“Love you, my dear,” he answered, in a low voice.
“Arrah, how could you? and you and me strangers—you a grand
lord, and me just a common girl with no manners, and very foolish
and unhandy in myself? I can’t even do a day’s washing; and the
bread I bake turns out like leather! I’m no good whatever here, and
sure I’d be a million times worse in a strange country!”
“You’re making an awful poor mouth about yourself, Mary asthore,”
put in the high, complaining treble of Mrs. Grogan. “Why don’t ye up
and tell his lordship how good ye are at learning—how ye were in
the sixth book, and if there’d have been a seventh, you’d be in that
too?—and that learning and reading and singing and dancing comes
as easy to you as kiss me hand?”
“Sir,” said Mary, suddenly drawing herself up and confronting him—
did she but know it, with the very face and form of her mother—“I’m
no credit to ye. For God’s sake leave me here, where you found me.
It will be better for both you and me. Think of the awful scandal and
talk it will raise in this parish” (and what of the great Mulgrave
connection?), “and my mother always so respected—when people
thought it was only raving and wake in the head she was. Now, if it
is true what she’s after telling us, they will be saying she’d a right to
be jailed up in Tralee!”
“My dear girl,” he said, “since Mrs. Foley has declared before
witnesses and a lawyer, that you are no relation to her, but a very
near relation to me, do you suppose I will leave you among people
to whom you have no ties whatever? No; I am much too thankful to
have found a daughter.”
“O God! What ails Katty?” screamed Mrs. Grogan. “Glory! she’s come
over, and she’s going off in a faint and a wakeness!”
This was true. The recent scene and excitement had been too much
for the poor frail woman, and after a few weak gasps she fell back in
her chair insensible.
Cold water was procured immediately, also whisky (Mr. Usher, who
looked the last man in the world to carry a flask, produced one), and
then he and his employer went out of the cottage, leaving the
women to attend on the invalid.
As Lord Mulgrave’s eyes met those of his companion, he said—
“Yes, Usher, she is my child, and her mother’s daughter. Oh, what a
blessing and happiness to come so suddenly, when I thought that
life held no more—that nothing lay before me but the long,
monotonous road that leads to the gate of death. Now I have
something to——” He paused abruptly, and remembered himself.
“You see how it is. The discovery of an unexpected treasure has
been a shock, and I’m rambling, from sheer happiness. I will never
forget, Usher, that I owe it chiefly to you.”
A frightened face now appeared at the half-door, and Mary said—
“Oh, sir, me mother is took awful bad in her breathing. Will ye go
and send some one for Doctor Manns? I’ve no red ticket,—but we
can pay him.”
The two visitors set off at once, and despatched a doctor post-haste
from Glenveigh, with instructions that no exertions or expense were
to be spared on behalf of Mrs. Foley.
The sick woman remained unconscious for twenty-four hours, and
then rallied; but on the morning of the third day, when Lord
Mulgrave walked over early in order to make his usual inquiries, he
was met by Mary at the gate. Her eyes were red, and her face was
sodden with crying.
“Oh, sir,” she began, “sure I see you can guess!” She sobbed aloud,
and the tears poured down her pale cheeks. “She was took off in her
sleep about sunrise. Me mother is dead!”
 CHAPTER XV
The letter (for it was altogether too serious and strange a story to
telegraph) which reached Lady Mulgrave, relating the fact that Mary
Foley was Joseline Dene, disturbed her to such a degree that she
was compelled to plead a shocking headache, and lunch as well as
breakfast, in her own apartments.
It took her some time to attempt to realise a stepdaughter, aged
twenty-one, Irish, uneducated, vulgar, and tawdry. What could she
do with the creature? A social atrocity, a well-born deformity! A girl
with the best blood of France and England in her veins, and the
ideas, aspirations, and deportment of a kitchen-maid! Oh, she felt as
if the foundations of her position, were being upheaved.
If it were only possible to marry the creature, and get her out of the
way! But who would care to be the husband of a horror who spoke
with a common brogue, probably took sevens in gloves, dressed in
emerald green, and had a passion for turf and potatoes?
This discovery was crushing. It seemed to threaten a hopeless state
of affairs—a lifelong incubus! Yes, and an incubus who would take
the precedence of Tito, and perhaps engage the somewhat flickering
attentions of Tito’s cavaliers!—not because of what she was, but of
what she would ultimately be—Baroness Marchlyde in her own right,
and heiress of many thousands per annum. Apparently there was no
mistake about the matter. A sworn information, a legal witness! Alas!
there was no escape in that direction. If the girl had been brought
up under her father’s roof it would have been a different affair; but
twenty-one years in a dirty Irish mud cabin (impossible to dissociate
the idea of mud and dirt from anything Irish)—it was too awful to
contemplate. The abominable old foster-mother deserved to be
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