So, too, we may dismiss Miss Madge Stevens, a poor relation, who was worth her weight in gold to the widow, inasmuch as she acted the part of general servant, nurse, mender of the household garments, and recipient of joys and sorrows, all of which duties she fulfilled for love, and for just shelter and sustenance sufficient to keep her affectionate spirit within her rather thin but well-favoured body. As it plays little or no part in our tale we dismiss it with the remark that it was of the male sex, and was at once the hope, fear, joy and anxiety of its distracted mother. Having kicked, crashed, and smashed his way though an uproarious infancy and a stormy childhood, he had become a sedate, earnest, energetic boy, with a slight dash of humour in his spirit, and more than a dash of determination. The second babe, Philip, was verging on fifteen. The eldest babe, Mary-better known as May-was seventeen years of age, and dwelt in London, to which great city she had been tempted by an elderly English cousin, Miss Sarah Lillycrop, who held out as baits a possible situation and a hearty welcome. The small family of Mrs Maylands consisted of three babes-so their mother styled them. The whole place suggested shipwreck and smugglers. Though little it was a tremendous bay, with mighty cliffs landward, and jutting ledges on either side, and forbidding rocks at the entrance, which waged continual warfare with the great Atlantic billows that rolled into it. The tumble-down cottage was near the sea, not far from a little bay named Howlin Cove. Hence the migration to Ireland, where she had been born, and where she hoped to live economically. She was the widow of an English clergyman, who had left her with a small family and the smallest income that was compatible with that family’s maintenance. Once upon a time-only once, observe, she did not do it twice-a widow of the name of Maylands went, in a fit of moderate insanity, and took up her abode in a lonely, tumble-down cottage in the west of Ireland.
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