A Nine Day's Wonder by B.M. Croker — Read

When Mary Foley was sixteen, she ceased to attend the local day school, being considered for her station a finished pupil. She wrote a good hand, was fairly well grounded in grammar and arithmetic, had acquired the Irish, and was an excellent needlewoman. Mary was no longer called "Foxy" or "Carrots," for she was bewitchingly pretty, and her clouds of auburn hair shaded a radiant face. She had also what was described as "a wonderful way with her" and an extraordinary fascination for most of the boys in the barony. John Foley had been dead for some years; his death was no pecuniary loss to his widow, who had him "well insured," but she gave up most of the land adjoining the farm, only keeping the house, garden, and the grass of a couple of cows, seeing there was, as she explained, "now but Mary and herself in it, and beasts were bothersome." To tell the truth, Mary was not particularly partial to farm labour; indeed, plain girls, her detractors, openly declared that "there was too much of the _lady_ about Miss Foley"; but she did her share, as her fond parent bragged, if she was not over keen with regard to the wash-tub, or scouring. She was handy with her needle, and made quite a nice lot of money, sewing for Mrs. Hogan at the Glenveigh Arms. Also she looked after the fowls and eggs, the cows and calves. "Oh, she was," her mother declared, "a grand little girl for work." "Aye," agreed her enemies, "but it was all gentry's work. Who ever saw Mary on her knees scrubbing, or washing out the pots? Whilst as for pigs, she set her face entirely against them." She would neither be said nor led, and since poor Pat died, the stye was standing empty. Was ever the likes known?

There were two roads to the Castle from Foley's Corner; one lay across the fields, up the boreen, and through the iron gate -- this was the fine-weather approach; the other, a long round by the high road, and imposing principal entrance.