The garden, the farm, the hens, the cattle, the
dairy, were all interests to which she returned with that renewal of
early passion, that has in it the fervour of youth as well as the
depth of maturity. She read agricultural papers insatiably, and
believed all that she read, accepting the verbal inspiration of their
advertisements with the enthusiasm of her religious beliefs. She was a
doctrinaire farmer, and she applied to the garden, the farm and the
poultry-yard, the same zeal and intensity that had made her in earlier
days the backbone of committees, and the leading exponent of the godly
activities of St. Matthew's. She was regarded by the heretofore rulers
of these various provinces with a mixture of respect, contempt, and
apprehension. She was an incalculable force, with a predisposition
towards novelty, and novelty, especially if founded on theory, is
abhorrent to such as old Johnny Galvin the steward, or Peter Flood the
gardener, or, stiffest in her own conceit of all, Mrs. Twomey of the
dairy.
"Master Larry's coming home from Cluhir tomorrow, Mary," Miss
Coppinger announced, with satisfaction, to the peculiar confection of
grey hair and black chenille net that represented the back of Mrs.
Twomey's head, her forehead being pressed against the side of the cow
that she was milking.
"Thang-aade!" replied Mrs. Twomey fervently, expressing in this
concise form her gratitude to her Creator for what she considered to
be Larry's release from a very vile durance "He's long enough in it
already!"
"The Doctor wouldn't let me move him any sooner," replied Miss
Coppinger, apologetically.
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