‟WELL—of all the deserters!”

“Is it me?” asked Wally, modestly. He made an enormous stride from a half-submerged stone into the boat, and nearly lost his balance, collapsing in the stern.

“You!” said Jim, steadying the boat, which endeavoured, under the assault, to bury her nose in a muddy bank of rushes. “You, that was going to catch several hundred trout, and instead cleared out——”

“In a plutocratic motor,” said Norah.

“With a bloated aristocrat,” added Jim.

“And never said good-bye!” finished Mr. Linton, with an artistic catch in his voice.

“I did,” said Wally: “I did it all. And I didn’t want to.”

Sounds of disbelief rose from his hearers.

“You needn’t snort,” said the victim, inelegantly.

“I don’t think it betters your case to describe our just indignation as snorting,” said Mr. Linton.

“If you were to grovel it would become you better,” said Norah.

“Not in this boat,” hastily remarked her father. “It isn’t planned for gymnastics.”

“He’s too well-fed to grovel, anyhow,” said Jim brutally. “What did you have in the ducal castle, Wal? ortolans and plovers’ eggs, and things?”

“Chops,” said Wally.

“Shades of Australia!” ejaculated Mr. Linton. “Is that what one eats in company with dukes?”

“I don’t know,” Wally answered, patiently. “He isn’t a duke, anyhow. Where did you people get your soaring ideas?”

“From a lame chauffeur who seemed to think you were getting a great deal more than you deserved——” Jim began.

“That’s what I’m getting now!” said Wally.

“Well, he said you had gone off in the mothor to the big house. We inferred from his tone that it was not merely big, but enormous. The master had tuk you, he said; we further gathered that you might come back when the master had finished with you. It sounded rather like Jack and the Giant, and if we had known who had kidnapped you we might have organized a search party. As we didn’t, we caught trout—lots of ’em.”

“Did you, indeed?” said Wally, with open envy. “Lucky beggars—I wish I had!”

“And you rioting in baronial halls!” said Norah. “Some people don’t know when they are well off.”

“If we let Wally have a word in edgeways for a few minutes we might find out a little more about the baronial halls,” said Mr. Linton. “Tell us what happened to you, Wally. Was it a duke?”

“It was not—only a poor hump backed chap with some sort of a handle to his name. He’s Sir John O’Neill, and he has a lovely place; but you never saw a man with less ‘frill,’ ” Wally remarked. “Simple as anyone could be. And I don’t think I’ve ever been so sorry for anyone.”

“Is he badly crippled?” Jim asked.

“No—only he seems awfully delicate, and subject to beastly fits of illness. He’s got any amount of pluck—rides and shoots and fishes, and has motored half over the world. But of course he’s terribly handicapped; the wonder is that he has done half as much.”

“That must be the man Patsy was talking about—only he called him the young masther,” Norah said. “Is he quite young?”

“Oh, I’d put him down at about forty,” said Wally, to whom that age was close on senile decay: “I think the old hands here would call a man the young master until he died of old age. He’s queer: at times he’s like a kid; and then I suppose the pain gets hold of him, because, in a minute he seems to grow quite old, and he drops laughing and gets bitter.”

“Poor fellow!” said Mr. Linton. “How did you find him, Wally?”

“Why, I nearly fell on top of him getting down a bank into a lane,” Wally answered. “He was sitting on a stone, hating himself, but he didn’t seem to mind my sudden appearance at all, though I’m sure clods hit him. Then we yarned, and I helped him back to his car, and he got me to go back to lunch with him—I didn’t want to, but——” He was silent.

“I expect he was glad of someone to talk to,” Mr. Linton said.

“That’s it—he’s just as lonely as he can be. All his people are fighting, and he’s knocked himself out over Red Cross work, and has had to come back to Ireland and get fit. He’s coming to call on you, sir—and he wants us all to go over to Rathcullen—his place—as much as we can.”

“H’m,” said Jim and Norah, together.

“I wish baronial halls appealed more to my family,” said Mr. Linton, laughing.

“I didn’t mean to be horrid; but trout and loughs and bogs appeal so much more,” said Norah. “Of course we’ll go, if he wants us.”

“Well, it’s a jolly place, and he’s horribly lonely,” Wally answered. “And I don’t know about his halls being baronial, but certainly his stables are: they’re simply topping. He hasn’t many horses left—the Government took most of them for the war; but there are two ripping hunters, and some extra good ponies. And he wants to lend ’em to us.”

“Eh!” said Jim, sitting up. “Wally, my child, how did you manage it?”

“Didn’t have to,” said Wally, grinning. “He simply threw them at me. Asked me if you could ride, Norah, so I suggested that if he had a quiet donkey it might do.”

“We have one that is not quiet,” said Norah, regarding him with a fixed eye. “Tell me the truth, Wally—is there something I can ride?”

“Wait till you see it—that’s all. And he’s going to teach us to jump banks and ditches and things.”

“Oh-h!” said Norah, blissfully, “I said this place only wanted horses to make it perfect!”

“Well, now you’re going to have the horses, little as you both deserve ’em,” said Wally; “and now, perhaps, you’ll all apologize humbly for calling me unpleasant names!”

“Certainly not,” Jim said, firmly. “If you didn’t deserve them at the moment (and I’m not sure that you didn’t), you’re sure to deserve them before long. Never mind, look at this!”

He opened his fishing-basket carefully and showed a mass of damp grass, among which could be seen glimpses of many trout. Jim dived in with his finger and thumb, and drew out a speckled beauty, which he dangled before Wally’s envious gaze.

“A pound and a half, by my patent spring-balance!” he declared, triumphantly. “I played him for what seemed like three hours, and I never was so scared of anything in my life. He got tired at last, however, and Norah officiated with the landing-net.”

“Yes, and missed him twice,” said Norah, shame-faced. “It was the greatest wonder he didn’t get off. But a big trout on the end of a little line does wobble so much when it’s coming towards the net. It’s much worse than a screwing ball at tennis.”

“I know—and you feel perfectly certain the line is going to break, if the rod doesn’t,” Wally said. “I feel like that over a quarter-pounder: I don’t know how you ever managed to make a collected effort for that big fellow.”

“It wasn’t collected at all—I just swiped wildly, and got him by the sheerest good luck,” Norah answered. “I mean to practise with a cricket ball on a string, hung from the big tree outside my window: it would be awful to miss another beauty like that.”

They were drifting down the little lough very slowly. There were purple shadows under the hills, lying across the strip of bog that stretched westward, where the curlew and golden plover were calling. A little breeze sprang up, just rippling the surface of the water. Wally got out his rod hastily; but though the conditions seemed ideal, the trout had apparently gone to sleep, and when an hour’s casting had not yielded so much as a rise, it was decided that there might be better things than fishing, and the party returned to the shore. A small boy, lurking about the landing stage, was entrusted with the rods and baskets, and disappeared slowly among the trees fringing the path that led to the hotel.

“What are we going to do?” Jim asked.

“I’m going to Gortbeg,” Norah said. “I want some pins.”

“Pins?” Jim echoed. “Why ever must you walk two miles for pins? I’m sure you don’t use one in a year.”

“No, and so I haven’t got any,” Norah said. “And I must have some, because I want to shorten my bog-lepping skirt, and I can’t turn up the edge without pins to keep it in place.”

“But you sew that sort of thing, don’t you?” Jim asked, wrestling with masculine obtuseness.

“Of course—after you’ve pinned it in place. Jimmy, you had better let me attack that skirt in my own way!” said Norah, justly incensed. “If you’d tried climbing a mountain in a too-long skirt you wouldn’t argue about making it shorter.”

“I guess I would cut a foot off it without arguing at all,” said Jim, laughing. “Skirts are fool-things out of a house. Well, lead on, my child: I suppose we’re all going pin-hunting.”

The road to Gortbeg lay between high banks, with occasional gaps through which could be seen pleasant moors and fields, and sometimes an old mansion, almost hidden by enormous beech-trees. Most of the great houses of the country were silent and closely-shuttered; the men of the family away fighting, the women doing Red Cross work in London, or nursing as near the firing-line as they could manage to establish themselves. In a few were faint signs of occupation: a white-haired old lady on a lawn, an old man, surrounded by a number of dogs, of many breeds, wandering through the woods; but even in these houses there was an air of brooding quiet and expectancy, of silent daily watching for news. The gardens were gay with summer flowers, and nothing could spoil the beauty of the trees; but there were weeds in the mould, and the paths were unkempt and moss-grown. The district was never a rich one, and now the war had taken all its men and money.

Down the road, to meet them, came a boy on a donkey: a cheery small boy, sitting very far back with his knees well in. The donkey was guiltless of bridle or saddle, obeying, with meekness, if not with alacrity, suggestions conveyed to it by the pressure of the bare knees and occasional blows with an ash cudgel.

“The asses of Ireland are a patient race,” remarked Wally.

“They had need to be,” Jim answered.

“It’s up to the ass to be patient in most places,” remarked Mr. Linton. “Life isn’t exactly a picnic to him anywhere. On the whole, the Irish donkeys seem well enough cared for; I have seen their brothers in other countries far worse treated. That’s a nice donkey you have, sonny”—to the small rider, who passed them, grinning cheerfully.

“He is, sorr”; and the grin widened.

“They’re such jolly kids in these parts,” Wally said. “They always greet you as if you were the one person they had wanted to see for years; and they’re so interested in you. It doesn’t seem like curiosity, either, but real, genuine interest.”

“So it is, as far as it goes,” Jim said.

“Well it may not go far, but it’s comforting while it lasts—and it generally lasts as long as one is there oneself. It’s just as well it doesn’t go deeper, or visitors would leave an awful trail of unrequited affection behind them. As it is, one feels they recover after one has gone, after doing all they can to make one’s stay pleasant. Yes, I think Ireland’s a nice, friendly country,” Wally finished. “And there’s Gortbeg, looking as if it had forgotten to wake up for about five hundred years.”

There was not much of Gortbeg. A busy little river flowed past it hurriedly, and the village had sprung up along one bank: one winding street, with a few cottages and a whitewashed inn which called itself the Fisherman’s Arms. Some boats were moored in the stream near the inn, where a crazy landing-stage jutted out. Scarcely anyone was to be seen except a few children, playing on the green, which they shared with numerous geese, a few donkeys, and some long-haired goats; while over the half-door of one of the cabins a knot of shawled women gossiped.

“There’s your shop, Norah,” Mr. Linton said, indicating a dingy building which bore in its window a curious assortment of cheap sweets, slates, apples, red flannel, and bacon.

“It looks a bit queer,” Norah commented, regarding the emporium rather doubtfully. “However, it’s sure to have pins.”

The shop was prudently secured, by a bolted half-door, against the ravages of predatory geese or goats. Within, it was very dark, and prolonged hammering on the counter failed to bring any response. Finally Jim found his way into a back room and cooee’d lustily, returning in some haste.

“Phew-w! There’s a gentleman in corduroys, asleep on a bed, and two dead pigs hanging by their heels,” he said. “None of them took any notice of me; but some one out at the back answered. Here he comes.”

The proprietor of the shop entered hurriedly: a plump little man, very breathless and apologetic, and more than a little damp.

“I left a bit of a young gossoon to mind the shop,” he said—“and I washin’ meself. It’s gone he is, playin’ with the other boys—sure I’ll teach him to play when I get a holt of him. Pins, miss? Is it hairpins, now, you’d be wanting?”

“No, just ordinary pins,” Norah told him.

“H’m,” said the shopman, doubtfully. “I dunno would I have them, at all. If it was hairpins, now, there’s not a place in Donegal where you’d get a finer selection. Pins . . .” He pondered deeply, and rummaged in a box that seemed sacred to extremely sticky bull’s eyes. “Well, well, we’d better look for them. It might be they’d be in some odd corner.”

The wall behind him was divided into innumerable little compartments, and he looked faithfully through them all, striking match after match to illumine his progress. There were assorted goods in the compartments: nails and screws, tin saucepan-lids, marbles, boots, soap, oranges, reels of cotton, biscuits, socks, and ass’s shoes; he searched them all, turning over the contents of each until the match burned down to his fingers, when he would throw it hastily on the floor, strike another, and move on to the next collection. The box of matches was nearly exhausted when at length he gave up his quest.

“They’re not in it at all,” he said, despondently. “I did have some, one time, but I expect they’re sold on me. When the traveller comes I could be getting some in from Belfast, if there was no hurry.”

Norah indicated that there was hurry, and asked if there were another shop.

“There’s Mary Doody’s,” said the man of business, sadly; “at the least, you might call it a shop, though it’s only herself knows what she sells. That’s the only one.” He came to the doorway, and pointed down the street. “The last house, it is. If ’twas anything in the wurruld now, except pins, I’d have it.”

A little way from the shop, he caught them up, breathless, but aflame with business enterprise.

“Is it from Moroney’s ye are? Would ye tell Mrs. Moroney that I’ve the grandest bit of pork ever she seen—killed yesterday, an’ they me own pigs that I rared on the place. Peter Grogan—sure, she’ll know me.”

“Thank you,” Jim said, hurriedly. “Good night.”

“Good night,” responded Mr. Grogan. “Tell her to-morrow’s early closing day, an’ I could bring one over in the little ass-cart as aisy as not.” The last words were uttered in a high shriek as the distance widened between himself and the Linton party.

“Pork is a good thing,” said Mr. Linton, sententiously. “Isn’t it, Jim?”

“If you’d seen the room I saw!” said his son, with feeling. “Such a bedroom: and the gentleman in bed, and I should say very drunk. No, I don’t think I’ll deliver that message.”

“I wouldn’t,” said Mr. Linton.

Mary Doody’s place of business stood back a little from the road. There was no window for the display of goods, and the door was shut. The uninitiated might, indeed, have been pardoned for failing to regard it as a shop, or for passing by, unnoticed, the brief legend over the door which stated that Mrs. Doody’s residence was a Generil Store, and added that she was further empowered to sell stout and porter. The inhabitants of Gortbeg, however, were clearly to be numbered among the initiated, for sounds of conviviality came, muffled, from within, and once a voice broke into a snatch of a song. Norah hesitated.

“I suppose I needn’t knock.”

“They might not hear you, if you did,” Jim said. He opened the door.

Within, a long, low room was dim with a mixture of turf and tobacco smoke, and heavy with the fumes of porter. A swinging lamp shed a depressed ray over the scene. As her eyes grew accustomed to the smoky twilight, Norah made out a number of men and a few women sitting on benches near the fire, each with a mug that evidently held comforting liquor. Every one seemed to be talking at once; but a dead silence fell as the door opened on the unfamiliar figures. Norah resisted an inclination to turn and seek fresh air. An immensely fat woman, with a grimy shawl pinned across her bosom, waddled forward.

“Good evening, dear,” she said, dividing the greeting impartially between Jim and Norah.

“Good evening,” Norah responded. “This is a shop, isn’t it?”

“It is, dear,” Mrs. Doody said, bridling a little at any doubt being cast on her emporium. “Were you wantin’——?”

“Pins,” Norah said hastily. “Do you keep them?”

“I dunno would I,” said Mary Doody, unconsciously echoing Mr. Grogan. “Pins. Would they be small pins, now?”

“Yes—just common pins.”

“Pins,” said Mary Doody, reflecting deeply. She turned and sought in unsavoury boxes which held a stock as varied, if not so numerous, as that of Mr. Grogan. The porter-drinkers became immensely interested. Some of the women came nearer and stared at the strangers, and one or two, catching Norah’s eye, smiled a greeting.

Mary Doody heaved her mighty form up from the box over which she had been crouching.

“I had some, wanst,” she said. “But ’tis gone they are, or may be them gerrls has them taken. Wouldn’t anything else do for you, dear?”

“No, thank you,” Norah said, hastily. She turned to go, pursued by Mrs. Doody, who suddenly became interested in the case.

“Did you try Peter Grogan?” she asked. “He have a little shop up yonder.”

Norah admitted having tried and failed.

“My, my!” said Mary Doody. “ ’Tis puttin’ a bad direction on a counthry when you can’t buy a paper of pins in it, isn’t it, dear?”

Norah laughed. “I’m sorry you haven’t got them,” she said.

“No. There’s no call for them here, dear. We do be using buttons,” said Mary Doody, blandly.

Under cover of this broadside Norah made a confused exit, to find Jim and Wally helpless with laughter without.

“Never did I see anyone taught her place so beautifully!” said Jim, ecstatically. “That will teach you to be tidy, young Norah!”

“Buttons!” said Norah, laughing. “I’d like to see Mary Doody shorten a skirt with the aid of buttons. Anyhow, I’ve got to do it without the aid of pins, that’s evident. Come home, you unsympathetic frivollers!”

It was two days later, that, coming in late and ravenously hungry after a long tramp across the bog, the Lintons made a hurried toilet and a still more hurried descent to the dining-room. Dinner had been kept waiting for them, and they applied themselves to it with an energy born of a long day in the open air and a sandwich lunch. It was when the first edge of appetite had been taken off, and they were toying with a mammoth apple-pie, that Mrs. Moroney bore down upon them.

“I’m afraid we were very late, Mrs. Moroney,” said Mr. Linton.

“Ah, ’tis no matter,” said the lady of the house, waving away the suggestion. “In the heighth of the season there’s many a one roaring for dinner, and it ten o’clock at night. Did you enjoy your dinner, now?”

“We did, indeed,” said Mr. Linton; “it was most excellent pork——”

He stopped, catching Jim’s eye, into which had come a sudden light of comprehension.

“Pork!” said Jim faintly. “Yes, it was pork. Mrs. Moroney, . . . I wonder . . . did you . . . ?”

“Don’t tell me there was anything wrong with it,” said Mrs. Moroney, aflame in the defence of the pork. “I never see better pigs than them ones of Peter Grogan’s; and he after killing them only last Tuesday!”

SIR John O’Neill paid his formal call on the Australians, tactfully choosing a day so hopelessly wet as to forbid any thought of fishing or “bog-lepping.” Bog excursions had a peculiar fascination for Norah and the boys, who loved rambling among the deep brown pools, leaping from tuft to tuft of sound grass, and making experiments—frequently disastrous—in mossy surfaces that looked sound, but were very likely to prove quagmires which effectually removed any lurking doubt in Norah’s mind that an Irish bog could be boggy. They sought the bogs in almost all weathers. But the day that brought Sir John to the old house on Lough Aniller was one of such pitiless rain that prudence, in the shape of Mr. Linton, forbade any excursion to patients so newly recovered as Jim and Wally.

Even in the most homelike of boarding-houses a wet day is apt to be depressing to open-air people. It was with relief, mingled with amazement, that they saw the motor coming up the dripping avenue in the afternoon; and a moment later Bridget, obviously impressed, ushered Sir John into the drawing-room. The Lintons were established as favourites in the household on their own merits; but it was placing them on quite a different standard of respect to find that they were visited by the “ould stock.”

Every one enjoyed the visit. Sir John was better, the lines of pain that Wally had seen nearly gone from his face. There was an almost boyish eagerness about him; he was keen to know them all, to hear their frank talk, to make friends with them. David Linton and his son liked him from the moment they met his eyes; brown eyes, with something of the mute appeal that lies in the eyes of a dog. As for Norah, in all her life she had not known what it meant to be so sorry for anyone as she felt for this brave, crippled man, with his high-bred face and gallant bearing. Afterwards, when John O’Neill looked back at heir meeting, one of his memories of Norah was that she had never seemed to see his misshapen shoulders.

That first visit had stretched over the whole afternoon, no one quite knew how. Outside, the rain streamed down the window-panes and lashed the lough into waves; but within the old house a fire of turf and bog-wood blazed, casting ruddy lights on the furniture, and sending its pleasant, acrid smell into the room. They gathered round it in a half-circle and “yarned”—exchanging stories of Ireland, and Australia, and London and war. There could be no talk in those grim days without war-stories and war-rumours; but after a time they drifted away to far-off times, and Sir John, beginning half-timidly with an old Irish legend, found that he had a suddenly enthralled circle of listeners, who demanded more, and yet more—tales of high and far-off times and of the mighty heroes of Ireland: Finn MacCool and the Fianna, Cuchulain, Angus Og, and the half-real, half-legendary past that holds Ireland in a mist of romance. He knew it all, and loved it, telling the stories with the quiet pride of a descendant of a race whose roots were deep in the soil of the land that had borne them: and the children of the country that had no history hung upon his words.

“What must you think of me?” he said at last, when, in a pause, the clock in the hall boomed out six strokes. “I come to call, and I remain to an unseemly hour spinning yarns. The fact is, you—well, you just aren’t strangers at all, and I certainly knew you before. Were you in Ireland in a previous incarnation, Miss Norah?”

Norah laughed.

“I would love to think so,” she said. “One would like to have had some part in the Ireland you can talk about. Will you come again and tell us more, Sir John?”

His eyes were grateful.

“If I don’t bore you. I fastened upon this poor boy”—indicating Wally with a friendly nod—“the other day when I was desperately sick of my own company, and now I seem to have done the same to you all; and you’re very good to a lonely man. But I want all of you at Rathcullen.”

“We’re coming,” said Wally, solemnly.

“Will you? I timed my call to-day, because I didn’t think even half-amphibious Australians would be out in such weather—and see what luck I’ve had!” He looked no older than the boys, his eager face glowing in the firelight. “But please don’t come to Rathcullen formally, Mr. Linton; if I bring the car over can I carry you all off to-morrow for lunch? There are horses simply spoiling to be ridden, Miss Norah.”

“Oh-h!” said Norah. “But I’ve no riding-things with me.”

“That doesn’t matter: I have two young cousins who occasionally pay me a visit, and their riding-kit is at Rathcullen, since they can’t use it in London. I’m sure you can manage with it; details of fit don’t signify much in Donegal.” He rose, and stood on the hearthrug looking eagerly at them. When he was sitting, his finely-modelled head and clever face made it easy to forget his dwarfed body: standing, among the lithe, tall Australians, it was suddenly pitifully evident. He felt it, for he flushed, and for a moment his eyes dropped; then he faced them again, bravely. Mr. Linton spoke, hurriedly.

“We would be delighted to go to you. But are we not rather a numerous party? I think we ought to send a detachment!”

“No, indeed—I wouldn’t know which to choose!” returned the Irishman, whimsically. “You see, you are just a godsend to me, if you will spare me a little of your time; I have been so long shut up alone. And it’s not good to be alone when one is spoiling to be in the thick of things; I grow horribly bad-tempered. When I know that these young giants are out of the hunt, too, I become more reconciled to circumstances. You see my complete selfishness!” He smiled at them delightfully. “So, may I come for you all to-morrow?”

“Thanks—but there is really no reason why we should trouble you to bring the motor. We can easily walk over.”

“There’s every reason; I’ll get you earlier!” said O’Neill, laughing.

The motor slid down the avenue in the driving rain, and the Australians looked at each other.

“Did you ever make friends so quickly with anyone, dad?” Jim asked.

“I don’t think I did,” David Linton answered. “There’s something about him one can’t quite express: so much of the child left in the man. Poor fellow—poor fellow!”

“I think he’s the bravest man I ever saw,” said Norah.

The day at Rathcullen House was the first of many. Sir John was so frankly eager to have them there, and his welcome was so spontaneous and heart-felt, that the Australians suddenly felt themselves “belong,” and the beautiful old house became to them an Irish version of their own Billabong. Ireland, always many-sided, showed them a new and fascinating face. They had loved the lanes and bogs and moors where they had been free to wander. But now they found themselves free of a wide demesne where wealth and art had done all that was possible to aid Nature, with a perfect understanding of where it was best to leave Nature alone. The park, with its splendid old trees, and the well-kept fields around it, gave opportunities for trying Sir John’s horses; and Norah and the boys were soon under the spell of jumping the big banks that the hunters took so cleverly,—although, at first, to see them jump on to a bank, change feet with lightning rapidity, and leap down the far side, seemed to Antipodean eyes more like a circus performance than ordinary riding! Beyond the park stretched miles of deer-forest, unlike an ordinary forest in that it had no trees,—being a great expanse of heathery hills and moor, seamed and studded with rocks, streams babbling here and there, half-hidden in deep channels fringed with long grass and heather and ling. As land, it Was worthless; nothing would grow in the stony barren soil save the moorland plants; but it formed a glorious ground for long rambles. O’Neill was fast recovering his normal strength, and his energy was always like a devouring fire; he could not, however, walk far, and he and David Linton would find rocky seats on the moor while Norah and the boys rambled far over the deer-forest, often stalking patiently for an hour, armed with field-glasses, to catch a glimpse of the shy red-deer.

“A don’t know why people want to shoot them,” Norah said, after a long crawl through the rough heather, which had resulted in a splendid view of a magnificent stag. “They’re so beautiful; and it’s just as much fun to stalk them like this!” To which Jim and Wally returned non-committal grunts, and exchanged, privately, glances of amazement at the strangeness of the feminine outlook.

Sometimes there were days on the lough at the far end of the Rathcullen bog: a well-stocked lough where no outside fishing was permitted, and which yielded them trout of a weight far beyond their dreams; and there were motor-drives far afield, exploring the country-side, with Sir John always ready with legends and stories of the “ould ancient” times. Even on wet days the big Rolls-Royce would appear early in the morning, bearing an urgent invitation; and wet days were easy to spend in Rathcullen—in the great hall, the well-stocked library, the conservatories, or the picture-gallery, where faces of long-dead O’Neills, some of them startlingly like their host, stared down at them from the panelled walls. In the billiard-room Wally and Jim fought cheerful battles, while Mr. Linton would write Australian letters in the library, and Norah and Sir John explore other nooks and corners of the great house, or discourse music after their own fashion. His friendship seemed fitted to each: with Mr. Linton he could be the man of affairs, deeply-read and thoughtful; while to the boys and Norah he was the most delightful of chums, as full of fun even as Wally.

“He fits in so,” said Jim. “He’s never in our way, and—what is a good deal more wonderful—I don’t believe we’re ever in his!”

Many times Sir John begged them to transfer themselves altogether to Rathcullen. But something of Australian independence held them back; they preferred to retain their rooms at the Lough Aniller house, though it saw less and less of them in the daytime, and Timsy openly bewailed their constant absence—until the sergeant came home on furlough, when Timsy promptly forgot every one else in the world, and walked with his head in clouds of glory.

“Indeed,” Mr. Linton said, one day, in answer to a renewed invitation—“I am frequently ashamed to think how completely we seem to have quartered ourselves on you, O’Neill. It’s hardly fair to inflict you still further.”

“If you could but guess what you have done for me, you might be surprised,” Sir John answered.

They were in the motor, running along a smooth high road near the little narrow-gauge railway line. Ahead, Norah and the boys could be seen across a field, riding; they had come across country, taking banks and ditches as they came, and were making towards a point where they were all to meet. John O’Neill looked at the racing trio with a smile.

“I was in a pretty bad way when Wally dropped on me in the boreen that morning,” he said, presently.

“He said you were suffering terribly,” David Linton said.

“Oh—that was nothing. I’m fairly well used to pain when my stupid attacks come on, though that had certainly been a stiff one. But—well, I think I was beginning to lose heart. My physical disadvantages have always been in my way, naturally; but I have managed to keep them in the background to a certain extent and live a man’s life, even in a second-rate fashion. But since the war began I couldn’t do it. I was so useless—a cumberer of the ground, when every man was needed. My people have always been fighters, until——until I came, to blot the record.”

“You have no right to say that,” said David Linton, sharply. “You did more than thousands of men are doing.”

“I did what I could. But I wanted to fight, man—to fight! If you knew how I envied every private I saw marching through London! every lucky youngster with a sound heart and a pair of straight shoulders. I had always set my teeth, before, and got through a man’s work, somehow or other. But here was something I couldn’t do—they wouldn’t have me. And even over what work I was able to tackle, I went to pieces. When I came back to Ireland I felt like rubbish, flung out of the way—out of the way of men who were men.”

“It’s not fair to feel like that,” David Linton said. “And it is not true.”

“Well—you have all helped me to believe that perhaps I am not altogether on the dust-heap. You came when I was desperate; every day in Rathcullen was making me worse. I couldn’t go into the picture-gallery; the fighting-men on the walls seemed to look at me in scorn to see to what a poor thing the old house had come down. And then you all came, and you didn’t seem to notice that anything was wrong with me. You made me one of you—even those youngsters, full of all the energy and laughter and youth of that big young country of yours. They have made a chum of me: I haven’t laughed for years as I’ve laughed in the last fortnight. And I’m fitter than I’ve been for years—I’ve forgotten to think of myself, and when you all go I also am going back, to work. There must be work, even for me.”

“For you! Why, you’re a young man, full of energy, even if you can’t have active service,” said David Linton. “And I am a grey old man, but there’s work for me. Don’t think that you have no job, because you can’t get the job you like; that’s an easy attitude to adopt. Every man can find his job if he looks for it with his eyes open.”

“Well, you have helped mine to open,” O’Neill said. “I was miserable because I had hitched my wagon to a star and had found I couldn’t drive it. The old servants—bless their kind hearts!—were purring over me and pitying me, and I was feeling raw; and then you all walked into my life and declined to notice that I was a useless dwarf——”

“Because you aren’t,” said the other man, sharply. “Don’t talk utter nonsense!”

O’Neill laughed.

“Well—I won’t forget,” he said. “But I am grateful; only I sometimes wonder if I ask for too much of your time. Do you think the youngsters are bored?”

“Bored!” Mr. Linton said in amazement. “Why, they are having the time of their lives! I could not possibly have given them half the pleasure you have Put in their way. You talk of gratitude, but to my mind it should be entirely on our side.”

“No,” said O’Neill firmly. “Still, I’m glad to think they are enjoying themselves,—not merely being polite and benevolent!” Whereat David Linton broke into laughter.

“I trust they’d be polite in any circumstances,” he said. “But even politeness has its limits. You wouldn’t call that sort of thing forced, would you? Look.”

He pointed across a field. Norah and the boys were galloping to meet them. They flashed up a little hill, dipped down into a hollow, and scurried up another rise, where a stiff bank met them, with a deep drop into the next field. Norah’s brown pony got over it with the cleverness of a cat, and she raced ahead of the boys, who set sail after her, vociferating quite unintelligible remarks about people who took unfair short cuts. Their merry voices brought echoes from the hills. Norah maintained her advantage until a low bank brought them out into the road, and all together they trotted towards the waiting motor. Their glowing faces sufficiently answered Sir John’s doubts.

“Why, of course you beat them, Norah—easily!” he said, shamelessly ignoring the boys’ side of the race. “Didn’t I tell you that pony could beat most things in Donegal, if she got the chance?”

“I did cut a corner,” Norah admitted, laughing. “But ’tis themselves has the animals of great size—and they flippant leppers!” She dropped into brogue with an ease born of close association with Timsy and his parents. “Sir John, is that the Doon Rock?”

She pointed with her whip to a great rocky eminence half a mile away.

“Yes, that’s the Rock,” O’Neill answered. “It’s rather a landmark, isn’t it? We’ll wait for you at the foot, if you’ll jog on after us.”

The riders followed the motor slowly. The road led past the great mass, half hill, half rock, that towered over the little fields. It was about three hundred feet high, with sparse vegetation endeavouring to find a footing on its rugged sides, and grey boulders, weather-worn and clothed with lichen, jutting out, grim and bleak. The motor halted under its shadow, and the groom who occupied the front seat with Con, the lame chauffeur, led the horses away to a cottage close by.

A few hundred yards away a curious sight puzzled the Australians. On a little green, where some grey stones marked a well, was a little plantation of sticks stuck in the ground. Fluttering rags waved from many of them, and ornamented the ragged brambles near the well.

“You haven’t seen a holy well, have you?” O’Neill asked. “That is one of the most famous—the Well of Doon.”

“But what are the sticks?” Wally asked.

“Come and see.”

They walked over to the well. A deeply marked path led to it, and all about it the ground was beaten hard by the feet of many people, save in the patch of ground where the sticks stood upright. There were all kinds of sticks; rough stakes, cut from a hedge, ash-plants, blackthorns—some of no value, others well-finished and costly. Rags, white and coloured, fluttered from them. And there was more than one crutch, standing straight and stiff among the lesser sticks.

“But what is it?” breathed Norah.

“It’s a holy well. Hundreds of years ago there was a great sickness in the country, and the people sent to a saint who had originally come from these parts, begging him to come and help them. The saint was in Rome, and he could not come. But he was sorry for the people; and the legend goes that he threw his staff into a well in Rome, and it sank, and emerged from the water of the Well of Doon here: and ever since then the people believe that the water has healing power, and that it will heal anyone who pilgrimages to it barefoot.”

“But does it?” asked Wally, incredulously.

“Well—they say the age of miracles is past. But the age of faith-healing is not; and you won’t find an Irishman, whatever his religion, sneering at the old holy places of Ireland. I don’t pretend to understand these things, but I respect them. And then—there is no doubt whatever as to the genuineness, and the permanence, of many of the cures.” He pointed to the little forest of sticks. “Look at those sticks: each one left here by a grateful man or woman who came leaning on the stick, and went away not needing it.”

“Great Scott!” said Wally. “And the rags?”

“They are votive offerings. If you look on that flat stone near the well you’ll find hundreds of others—tokens, medals, little ornaments, even hairpins: all valueless, but left by people too poor to give even a penny. They believe the saint understands: and I think he would be a hard saint if he did not.”

The stone was almost covered with tiny offerings.

“Does no one touch them?” Jim asked.

“They’re sacred. If you left money there it would not be touched.” He pointed to a handful of wilting daisies. “I expect those were left by children on their way to school. All the poor know that it is the spirit, not the letter, of an offering that counts: and even those daisies are left in perfect faith that the saint will see to the matter if trouble should come to them.”

“I never thought such beliefs still existed,” said Mr. Linton, greatly interested. “Look at this crutch—it’s quite good, and looks newly-planted.”

A woman, barefooted and with a shawl over her head, had come across the grass from the cottage. She curtseyed to O’Neill.

“It was left this morning, sir,” she said, indicating the crutch. “Sure, the man that owned it was in a bad way: he come from Dublin, an’ he crippled in his hip. On a side-car they brought him, and there was two men to lift him on and off it, and he yellow with the dint of the pain he had. I seen him limping on his crutch across to the well. And when he went away he walked over to the car as aisy as you or me, and not a limp on him at all, and him throwing a leg on to the car like a boy.”

“You mean to say he went away cured?” exclaimed Mr. Linton.

“Sure, there’s his crutch,” said the woman, simply. “He’d no more use at all for it.”

“Well-l!” The Australians looked blankly at each other.

“ ’Tis fourteen years I’ve been living over beyant,” said the woman. “I’ve seen them come on sticks and on crutches; some of them carried, and some of them put on cars: but they all walked away—all that had faith in the saint. Why wouldn’t they?”

It was a brief question that somehow left them without any answer, since simple faith is too big a thing to meddle with. They said good-bye to the woman and went back to the Rock, where the groom was waiting to help his master in the climb—an old groom with a face like a withered rosy apple. The ascent was not difficult: a winding path led to the summit of the Rock, and they were soon at the top.

“Between them, Elizabeth and Cromwell didn’t leave us many of our old monuments,” said O’Neill, looking away across the country. “But thank goodness they couldn’t touch the Doon Rock!”

The summit was almost flat; a long narrow plateau with soft grass growing in its hollows. One end was wider than the other, with a kind of saddle connecting the two: and in the middle of the smaller end was a great flat stone that looked almost like an altar. All about the high, precipitous eminence the country lay like an unrolled map far beneath them: a wide expanse of flat moor and field and fallow, in the midst of which the great Rock showed, almost startling in its rugged steepness. Little villages were dotted here and there, and sometimes could be seen the blue gleam of water. The white smoke of a train made a creeping line against the dark bog.

Con and the groom had placed the luncheon-basket in a grassy hollow where there was shelter from the breeze that swept keenly across the high Rock; and had retreated with the instinctive delicacy of the Irish peasant, who never intrudes upon “the genthry” when eating, and himself prefers to eat alone. After lunch, Norah and Wally collected the débris of the feast and burned it under the lee side of a boulder, in the belief that no decent person leaves such things as picnic-papers for the next comer to see: and then they strolled across the narrow saddle to the stone on the farther side, where the others had already wandered.

“Tell us about it, Sir John, please,” Norah begged.

“It was here that the old O’Donnell chiefs were inaugurated,” O’Neill said. “They were the rulers of Tyrconnell, which is now north-west Ulster: the old name is still used in a good deal of Irish poetry. All the clan used to gather when a new leader was to be installed, the people clustering down in the plain below, and the chieftain and his principal men up here on the Rock. It must have been worth seeing.”

Jim drew a long breath.

“I should just think so,” he said, “Tell us more, O’Neill: I want to reconstruct it. This old Rock must have looked just the same as it does to-day. It’s something to have seen even that!”

“Just the same,” said Sir John, his eyes kindling at the boy’s enthusiasm. “The Inauguration Stone may have been in better preservation, but a few dozen centuries can’t do much to the Rock. Well—you can picture the people down below, thousands of them. All the country would be a great unfenced plain—no banks and hedges such as you see to-day, and very likely no roads worth calling roads. There would be forests, most probably, and, in them, animals that became extinct long ago, like the wild boar and wolf. The ground below would be a great camp—every one making merry and dressed in their best.”

“I should think that even in those days it wouldn’t take much to make an Irish crowd merry,” Wally said.

“They would have plenty of entertainment: jugglers, fortune-tellers, buffoons in painted masks, and champions, showing feats with weapons and strength—probably ‘spoiling for a fight.’ Music there would be in abundance: pipes, tube-players, harps, and bands of chorus-singers. There would be any amount of fun in the crowd. But, of course, the Rock would be the centre of everyone’s thoughts.”

“It’s all coming quite distinctly,” said Norah, who was sitting on the grass, gazing out over the plain. “If you look hard you can see them all, in saffron kilts and flowing cloaks like you told us, Sir John. Now tell us who is up here on the Rock.”

“The new chief is where Wally is, sitting on the great stone,” said O’Neill, smiling at her. “Do you want to know what he’s wearing?”

“Oh, please!”

“Well, you can picture him a goodly man, to begin with, for no chief could reign unless he were a champion, free from the slightest physical defect. ‘He was graceful and beautiful of form, without blemish or reproach,’ one old chronicle says. ‘Fair yellow hair he had, and it bound with a golden band to keep it from loosening. A red buckler upon him, with stars and animals of gold thereon, and fastenings of silver. A crimson cloak in wide descending folds around him, fastened at his neck with precious stones. A torque of gold round his neck’—that’s a broad twisted band: you can see them to-day in the Museum in Dublin. ‘A white shirt with a full collar upon him, intertwined with red gold thread. A girdle of gold, inlaid with precious stones, around him. Two wonderful shoes of gold, with golden loops, about the feet. Two spears with golden sockets in his hands, with rivets of red bronze.’ There—can you see him, Norah?”

“I’m trying, but he dazzles me!” Norah said. “Go on, please. Who else is there?”

“All his nobles and councillors, dressed almost as splendidly as the chief himself. The old books are full of details of the richness of their apparel: gold and silver and fine clothing must have been an ordinary thing with them—and not only was it so, but the workmanship was exquisite. They had ‘shirts ribbed with gold thread, crimson fringed cloaks, embroidered coats of rejoicing, clothing of red silk, and shirts of the dearest silk.’ They wore helmets, and carried spears, ’sharp, thin, hard-pointed, with rivets of gold and silk thongs for throwing’; ‘long swords, with hilts and guards of gold; and shields of silver, with rim and boss of gold.’ One man is described as ‘having in his hand a small-headed, white-breasted hound, with a collar of rubbed gold and a chain of old silver’: and a horse had a bridle of silver rings and a gold bit. They had shoes of white bronze, and great golden brooches, with ‘gold chains about their necks and bands of gold above them again.’ ”

O’Neill stopped and laughed.

“I could go on for a long time,” he said. “But I’m afraid it begins to sound like the description of Solomon’s Temple!”

“And to think,” said Jim, unheeding him, “that we had a vague idea that Ireland had been inhabited only by savages!”

“Schools don’t teach you anything about Ireland,” said O’Neill, contemptuously. “A few hours among the exquisite old things in the Dublin Museum would open your eyes: the finest goldsmiths and silversmiths of the present world cannot touch the beauty of the workmanship of the treasures there;—and some of them were dug up out of bogs, after lying there no one knows how many hundred or thousand years. They were craftsmen in those days, and they loved the work. You don’t get that spirit in Trades Union times!”

“Oh, don’t talk about Trades Unions!” Norah cried. “We’re on the Doon Rock, and I can see all those people round the chief, and the crowd on the plain below, looking up. What else, Sir John?”

“There would be white-robed Druids,” O’Neill said; “and the King’s bards or poets would be about him. The bard was a very important person and a high functionary, with wide powers. In a sense he was the war-correspondent of his day: he never fought, but he was always present at a battle, and very much in it, noting the heroic deeds of the warriors, and afterwards recording them in his songs. Poetry in those days was a most business-like and practical thing, for everything of any importance was written in verse, such as the laws, the genealogies of the clans, and their history. The poet held an exalted position, and was educated for it from his boyhood by a course of careful study: and the chief poet ranked next to the king, and went about with almost as fine a retinue. They were the professors of their day, and kept schools for training lads for their order. A man had to be very careful not to offend one, or he would write a satire against the culprit; and these satires were dreaded extremely, since they were believed to cause disaster and desolation to fall not only on a man but on his whole family. Nowadays, editors are said to keep special wastepaper baskets for dealing with poets, but it wouldn’t have done in the ould ancient times—the post of an editor would have been too unhealthy!”

“I suppose it is through them that the old stories have come down,” Jim said.

“Of course. They had to write the verse-tales, and they had to tell them, too; they were obliged to learn and teach three hundred and fifty kinds of versification, and an Ollave, or chief poet, could recite at any moment any of three hundred and fifty stories. They did a lot of harm, because they abused their power; and at last, in the sixth century, were nearly banished from Ireland altogether. Columcille saved them from that fate, but they were made much less important. However, the poets that you are looking at with your mind’s eye, Norah, were ages before that, and you can imagine them as gorgeous and as haughty as possible, and every one is very polite to them.”

“I’m going to get off this stone and make room for the chief,” said Wally, solemnly, rising. “There’s the ghost of a poet, glaring at me, and he’s going to burst into a satire.” He subsided on the grass beside Norah. “Go on, please.”

“Well, that is the crowd on top of the Rock,” Sir John said: “nobles, councillors, poets, and Druids, all in order of rank: the Rock would hold three or four hundred, all told. And the crowd below, gazing up. I’m glad you got off the stone, Wally, because the chief wants it now. He takes off his wonderful shoes of gold, and places one foot on the stone, and swears to preserve all ancient customs inviolable, to deliver up the rulership peaceably, when the time comes, to his successor, to rule the people with justice, and to maintain the laws. Then he puts away his weapons, and the highest of his nobles, an hereditary official, gives him a straight white rod in token of authority—straight, to remind him that his administration should be just, and white, that his actions should be pure and upright. Then he gives him new sandals: and keeping one of the golden shoes, he throws the other over the new chief’s head and proclaims him O’Donnell. All the nobles repeat the title—can’t you hear the mighty shout, and the crowd below taking it up, so that it rings over Tyrconnell!”

“Oh-h!” breathed Norah. “And it was here, where we are sitting!” She put her hand on the ground that had felt the tramp of the hosts of ancient days. “Was that all, Sir John?”

“That ended the ceremony; except that each subject paid a cow as rod-money, a sort of tribute to the new chief. But of course there was high feasting and festival, probably for days. They had splendid feasts, too. Once, when one of the great nobles entertained the chief and all the men of Tyrconnel, the preparations took a whole year. A special house was built, surpassing all other buildings in beauty of architecture, with splendid pillars and carvings: in the banqueting-hall the wainscotting was of bronze thirty feet high, overlaid with gold. It took a wagon-team to carry each beam, and the strength of seven men to fix each pole; and the royal couch was set with precious stones ‘radiant with every hue, making night bright as day.’ ”

O’Neill broke off, and hesitated.

“Do I tell you too much?” he asked. “I’m afraid my tongue runs away with me—but I did want you to realize something of what Ireland was. There were great men in those days, and the fighting-men had high ideals of what great champions should be. It is what kept us all through our lifetime,’ one said—‘truth that was in our hearts, and strength in our arms, and fulfilment on our tongues.’ ”

He was silent, looking away. The proud soul, pent in the misshapen body, found comfort in turning from the present, that held so little for him, back to the mighty past when the O’Neills, too, had been chieftains and champions.

Presently he stood up, with a shrug.

“Time we went down, I’m afraid,” he said, cheerfully. “Before we go, Norah, I will proceed to relate for your benefit the six womanly gifts which were demanded of properly-brought-up young women in the high and far-off times in Ireland. They were, the gift of modest behaviour, the gift of singing, the gift of sweet speech, the gift of beauty, the gift of wisdom, and the gift of needlework!”

“Wow!” said poor Norah, in dismay. “Perhaps it’s as well I got born in Australia!”