the way of plain sewing, she is very unskilful with her hands; and she will be of no use as courier, she is so provincial and inexperienced. She has no head for business whatever, and cannot help Francesca with the accounts. She recites to herself again and again, ‘Four farthings make one penny, twelvepence make one shilling, twenty shillings make one pound’; but when I give her a handful of money and ask her for six shillings and sixpence, five and three, one pound two, or two pound ten, she cannot manage the operation. She is docile, well mannered, grateful, and really likable, but her present philosophy of life is a thing of shreds and patches. She calls it ‘the science,’ as if there were but one; and she became a convert to its teachings this past winter, while living in the house of a woman lecturer in Salem, a lecturer, not a ‘curist,’ she explains. She attended to the door, ushered in the members of classes, kept the lecture-room in order, and so forth, imbibing by the way various doctrines, or parts of doctrines, which she is not the sort of person to assimilate, but with which she is experimenting: holding, meantime, a grim intuition of their foolishness, or so it seems to me. ‘The science’ made it easier for her to seek her ancestors in a foreign country with only a hundred dollars in her purse; for the Salem priestess proclaims the glad tidings that all the wealth of the world is ours, if we will but assert our heirship. Benella believed this more or less until a week’s sea-sickness undermined all her new convictions of every sort. When she woke in the little bedroom at O’Carolan’s, she says, her heart was quite at rest, for she knew that we were the kind of people one could rely on! I mustered courage to say, “I hope so, and I hope also that we shall be able to rely upon you, Benella!”
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Penelope’s experiences in Scotland, given in a former volume, ended, the meticulous proof-reader will remember, with her marriage in the year of the Queen’s Jubilee. It is apparent in the opening chapters of this story that Penelope came to Ireland the following spring, which, though the matter is hardly important, was not that of the Queen’s memorable visit. The Irish experiences are probably the fruit of several expeditions, and Penelope has chosen to include this vivid impression of Her Majesty’s welcome to Ireland, even though it might convict her of an anachronism. Perhaps as this is not an historical novel, but a ‘chronicle of small beer,’ the trifling inaccuracy may be pardoned.—K. D. W.
Penelope’s experiences in Scotland, given in a former volume, ended, the meticulous proof-reader will remember, with her marriage in the year of the Queen’s Jubilee. It is apparent in the opening chapters of this story that Penelope came to Ireland the following spring, which, though the matter is hardly important, was not that of the Queen’s memorable visit. The Irish experiences are probably the fruit of several expeditions, and Penelope has chosen to include this vivid impression of Her Majesty’s welcome to Ireland, even though it might convict her of an anachronism. Perhaps as this is not an historical novel, but a ‘chronicle of small beer,’ the trifling inaccuracy may be pardoned.—K. D. W.
