that dreadful, dreadful disease is gone.

Phyl found herself one morning discussing rats with old Dunn, asking him how many he had caught in the barn and taking a vague sort of interest in what the old fellow was saying; books began to appeal to her again and the old life to run anew in a crippled sort of way. Then other things happened. Mr. Hennessey, the family lawyer, who had been a crony of her father’s and who had known her from infancy, came down to Kilgobbin to arrange matters.

It seemed that Mr. Berknowles before dying had made a will and that the will was being brought over from the States by Mr. Pinckney, his wife’s cousin in whose house he had died.

“I’m sure I don’t know what the chap wants coming over with it for,” said Mr. Hennessey. “He said it was by your father’s request he was coming, but it’s a long journey for a man to take at this season of the year—and I hope the will is all right.” 11

11

There was an implied distrust in his tone and an antagonism to Mr. Pinckney that was not without its effect on Phyl.

She disliked Mr. Pinckney. She had never seen him but she disliked him all the same, and she feared him. She felt instinctively that this man was coming to make some alteration in her way of life. She did not want any change, she wanted to go on living just as she was with Mrs. Driscoll the housekeeper to look after her and all the old servants to befriend her and Mr. Hennessey to pay the bills.

Mr. Hennessey was in the house now. He had come down that morning from Dublin to receive Mr. Pinckney, who was due to arrive that night.

Phyl, sitting on the hearthrug, was in the act of picking up her book when the door opened and in came Mr. Hennessey.

He had been out in the grounds overlooking things and he came to the fire to warm his hands, telling Phyl to sit easy and not disturb herself. Then, as he held a big foot to the warmth he talked down at the girl, telling her of what he had been about and the ruination Rafferty was letting the greenhouses go to.

“Half-a-dozen panes of glass out—and ‘I’ve no putty,’ says he. ‘Putty,’ said I to him, ‘and what’s that head of yours made of?’ The stoves are all out of order and there’s a hole in one of the flues I could get my thumb in.”

“Rafferty’s awfully good to the dogs,” said Phyl in her mellow 

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