cry again. I need all my own will to get through this awful day; and please make haste."
During the busy hours which followed both mamma and Bridget seemed to have forgotten the little girl, save, now and then, to answer her questions; and one of these was:
"What's Chili, Bridget?"
"Sure, it's a kind of pickle-sauce, darlin'."
"Haven't we got some of it in the cupboard?"
"Slathers, my colleen."
"Chili is a country, my daughter," corrected mamma, looking up from the letter she was writing so hurriedly that her pen went scratch, scratch.
"Is it red, mamma?"
"Hush, little one. Don't be botherin' the mistress the now. Here's Rudanthy's best clothes. Put 'em on, and have her ready for the start."
"Is Rudanthy going a journey, too, Bridget?"
"'Over the seas and far away'—or over the land; what differ?"
When the doll had been arrayed in its finery mamma had finished her writing, and, rising
