A person in a neat black dress and little black bonnet with white
lawn strings now brought up the two children to say good-bye to
Salemina. It was the Derelict, Benella Dusenberry, clothed in
maid's apparel, and looking, notwithstanding that disguise, like a
New England schoolma'am. She was delighted to see us, scanned every
detail of Francesca's travelling costume with the frankest
admiration, and would have allowed us to carry our wraps and
umbrellas upstairs if she had not been reminded by Salemina. We had
a cosy cup of tea together, and told our various adventures, but
Salemina was not especially communicative about hers. Oddly enough,
she had met the La Touche children at the hotel in Mallow. They
were travelling with a very raw Irish nurse, who had no control of
them whatever. They shrieked and kicked when taken to their rooms
at night, until Salemina was obliged to speak to them, in order that
Benella's rest should not be disturbed.

"I felt so sorry for them," she said--"the dear little girl put to
bed with tangled hair and unwashed face, the boy in a rumpled,
untidy nightgown, the bedclothes in confusion. I didn't know who
they were nor where they came from, but while the nurse was getting
her supper I made them comfortable, and Broona went to sleep with my
strange hand in hers. Perhaps it was only the warm Irish heart, the
easy friendliness of the Irish temperament, but I felt as if the
poor little things must be neglected indeed, or they would not have
clung to a woman whom they had never seen before." (This is a
mistake; anybody who has the opportunity always clings to Salemina.)
"The next morning they were up at daylight, romping in the hall,
stamping, thumping, clattering, with a tin cart on wheels rattling
behind them. I know it was not my affair, and I was guilty of
unpardonable rudeness, but I called the nurse into my room and spoke