present day, when it was made into a public park by Lord Ardilaun.
When the celebrated Mrs. Delany, then Mrs. Pendarves, first saw it,

the centre was a swamp, where in winter a quantity of snipe
congregated, and Harris in his History of Dublin alludes to the

presence of snipe and swamp as an agreeable and uncommon
circumstance not to be met with perhaps in any other great city in

the world.
A double row of spreading lime-trees bordered its four sides, one of

which, known as Beaux' Walk, was a favourite lounge for fashionable
idlers. Here stood Bishop Clayton's residence, a large building

with a front like Devonshire House in Piccadilly: so writes Mrs.
Delany. It was splendidly furnished, and the bishop lived in a

style which proves that Irish prelates of the day were not all given
to self-abnegation and mortification of the flesh.

A long line of vehicles, outside-cars and cabs, some of them
battered and shaky, others sufficiently well-looking, was gathering

on two sides of the Green, for Dublin, you know, is 'the car-
drivingest city in the world.' Francesca and I had our first

experience yesterday in the intervals of nursing, driving to Dublin
Castle, Trinity College, the Four Courts, and Grafton Street (the

Regent Street of Dublin). It is easy to tell the stranger, stiff,
decorous, terrified, clutching the rail with one or both hands, but

we took for our model a pretty Irish girl, who looked like nothing
so much as a bird on a swaying bough. It is no longer called the

'jaunting,' but the outside car and there is another charming word
lost to the world. There was formerly an inside-car too, but it is

almost unknown in Dublin, though still found in some of the smaller
towns. An outside-car has its wheels practically inside the body of

the vehicle, but an inside car carries its wheels outside. This
definition was given us by an Irish driver, but lucid definition is

not perhaps an Irishman's strong point. It is clearer to say that
the passenger sits outside of the wheels on the one, inside on the

other. There are seats for two persons over each of the two wheels,
and a dickey for the driver in front, should he need to use it.

Ordinarily he sits on one side, driving, while you perch on the
other, and thus you jog along, each seeing your own side of the

road, and discussing the topics of the day across the 'well,' as the
covered-in centre of the car is called. There are those who do not

agree with its champions, who call it 'Cupid's own conveyance'; they
find the seat too small for two, yet feel it a bit unsociable when

the companion occupies the opposite side. To me a modern Dublin car
with rubber tires and a good Irish horse is the jolliest vehicle in

the universe; there is a liveliness, an irresponsible gaiety, in the
spring and sway of it; an ease in the half-lounging position against

the cushions, a unique charm in 'travelling edgeways' with your feet
planted on the step. You must not be afraid of a car if you want to

enjoy it. Hold the rail if you must, at first, though it's just as
bad form as clinging to your horse's mane while riding in the Row.

Your driver will take all the chances that a crowded thoroughfare
gives him; he would scorn to leave more than an inch between your

feet and a Guinness' beer dray; he will shake your flounces and
furbelows in the very windows of the passing trams, but he is

beloved by the gods, and nothing ever happens to him.
The morning was enchanting, as I said, and, above all, the Derelict

was better.
"It's a grand night's slape I had wid her intirely," said the

housemaid; "an' sure it's not to-day she'll be dyin' on you at all,
at all; she's had the white drink in the bowl twyst, and a grand cup

o' tay on the top o' that."
Salemina fortified herself with breakfast before she went in to an

interview, which we all felt to be important and decisive. The time
seemed endless to us, and endless were our suppositions.

"Perhaps she has had morning prayers and fainted again."
"Perhaps she has turned out to be Salemina's long-lost cousin."

"Perhaps she is upbraiding Salemina for kidnapping her when she was
insensible."

"Perhaps she is relating her life history; if it is a sad one,
Salemina is adopting her legally at this moment."

"Perhaps she is one of Mr. Beresford's wards, and has come over to
complain of somebody's ill treatment."

Here Salemina entered, looking flushed and embarrassed. We thought
it a bad sign that she could not meet our eyes without confusion,

but I made room for her on the sofa, and Francesca drew her chair
closer.

"She is from Salem," began the poor dear; "she has never been out of
Massachusetts in her life,"

"Unfortunate girl!" exclaimed Francesca, adding prudently, as she
saw Salemina's rising colour, "though of course if one has to reside

in a single state, Massachusetts offers more compensations than any
other."

"She knows every nook and corner in the place," continued Salemina;
"she has even seen the house where I was born, and her name is

Benella Dusenberry."
"Impossible!" cried Francesca. "Dusenberry is unlikely enough, but

who ever heard of such a name as Benella! It sounds like a
flavouring extract."

"She came over to see the world, she says."
"Oh! then she has money?"

"No--or at least, yes; or at least she had enough when she left
America to last for two or three months, or until she could earn

something."
"Of course she left her little all in a chamois-skin bag under her

pillow on the steamer," suggested Francesca.
"That is precisely what she did," Salemina replied, with a pale

smile. "However, she was so ill in the steerage that she had to pay
twenty-five or thirty dollars extra to go into the second cabin, and

this naturally reduced the amount of her savings, though it makes no
difference since she left them all behind her, save a few dollars in

her purse. She says she is usually perfectly well, but that she was
very tired when she started, that it was her first sea-voyage, and

the passage was unusually rough."
"Where is she going?"

"I don't know; I mean she doesn't know. Her maternal grandmother
was born in Trim, near Tara, in Meath, but she does not think she

has any relations over here. She is entirely alone in the world,
and that gives her a certain sentiment in regard to Ireland, which

she heard a great deal about when she was a child. The maternal
grandmother must have gone to Salem at a very early age, as Benella

herself savours only of New England soil."
"Has she any trade, or is she trained to do anything whatsoever?"

asked Francesca.
"No, she hoped to take some position of 'trust.' She does not care

at all what it is, so long as the occupation is 'interestin' work,'
she says. That is rather vague, of course, but she speaks and

appears like a nice, conscientious person."
"Tell us the rest; conceal nothing," I said sternly.

"She--she thinks that we have saved her life, and she feels that she
belongs to us," faltered Salemina.

"Belongs to us!" we cried in a duet. "Was there ever such a base
reward given to virtue; ever such an unwelcome expression of

gratitude! Belong to us, indeed! We can't have her; we won't have
her. Were you perfectly frank with her?"

"I tried to be, but she almost insisted; she has set her heart upon
being our maid."