The professor, who is looking as guilty as if the whole ten commandments have been broken by him at once, waits, shivering, for the outburst that is so sure to come.
It doesn't come, however! When the mists clear away a little, he finds that Perpetua has gone over to where Mrs.Mulcahy is standing, and is talking still to that good Irishwoman.

It is a whispered talk this time, and the few words of it that he catches go to his very heart.
"I'm afraid he didn't _want_ me here," Perpetua is saying, in a low distressed little voice--"I'm sorry I came now--but, you don't _know_ how cruel Aunt Jane was to me, Mrs.Mulcahy, you don't indeed! She--she said such unkind things about--about----" Perpetua breaks down again--struggles with herself valiantly, and finally bursts out crying.
"I'm tired, I'm sleepy," sobs she miserably.
Need I say what follows?
The professor, stung to the quick by those forlorn sobs, lifts his eyes, and--behold! he sees Perpetua gathered to the ample bosom of the formidable, kindly Mulcahy.
"Come wid me, me lamb," says that excellent woman.

"Bad scran to the one that made yer purty heart sore.

Lave her to me now, Misther Curzon, dear, an' I'll take a mother's care of her." (This in an aside to the astounded professor.) "There now, alanna! Take courage now! Sure 'tis to the right shop ye've come, anyway, for 'tis daughthers I have meself, me dear--fine, sthrappin' girls as could put you in their pockits.

Ye poor little crather! Oh! Murther! Who could harm the likes of ye?
Faix, I hope that ould divil of an aunt o' yours won't darken these doors, or she'll git what she won't like from Biddy Mulcahy.