{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_54729/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_54729","id":"gutenberg_54729","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/54729","summary":null,"tags":["Americans -- Ireland -- Juvenile fiction","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Novels","Girls -- Juvenile fiction","Irish -- United States -- Juvenile fiction","Mystery fiction"],"text":"WAYWARD WINIFRED.\n\n\nBY\nANNA T. SADLIER,\n\nAUTHOR OF\n\n\"_A Summer at Woodville_,\" \"_Mary Tracy's Fortune_,\" \"_The Mysterious\nDoorway_,\" \"_Pauline Archer_,\" \"_The Talisman_,\" _etc., etc._\n\n\nNEW YORK, CINCINNATI, CHICAGO:\nBENZIGER BROTHERS,\n_Printers to the Holy Apostolic See_.\n1905.\n\n\nCOPYRIGHT, 1905, BY BENZIGER BROTHERS.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n                                PAGE\nA First Meeting                    7\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nAt the Castle                     14\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nWinifred Asks Questions           23\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nA Singular Figure                 29\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nA Second Visit to the Castle      37\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\nThe Schoolmaster                  45\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\nThe Old Castle                    55\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\nWinifred's Treasures              63\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\nA Moonlight Expedition            70\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\nA Visit to the Schoolmaster       78\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\nThe Schoolmaster's Tale           86\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\nThe Schoolmaster's Secret         94\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\n\nTwo Visits                       102\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\n\nHow Father Owen Won the Day      110\n\n\nCHAPTER XV.\n\nThe Cave in the Mountains        117\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI.\n\nIn the Capital                   126\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII.\n\nArrival in New York              135\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII.\n\nAn Unexpected Meeting            143\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX.\n\nWinifred Goes Sight-seeing       151\n\n\nCHAPTER XX.\n\nAnother Unexpected Meeting       158\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI.\n\nA Mystery Solved                 166\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII.\n\nAt the Convent                   176\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII.\n\nWinifred Tells her Name          185\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV.\n\nLetters at Last                  191\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV.\n\nHome Again                       201\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI.\n\nRoderick Returns,\nand All's Well that Ends Well    212\n\n\n\n\nWAYWARD WINIFRED.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nA FIRST MEETING.\n\n\nPerhaps some reader may know the Glen of the Dargle. No boys or girls\nmay know it, but perchance their grandsires may tell them of a mountain\nstream which threads its way through rugged hills till it falls over a\nprecipice and winds onward through a glen of unspeakable loveliness.\nThey may remember the ravine shut in on either side by hills, covered\nwith gigantic trees, some of which meet across it, forming a natural\nbridge.\n\nWell, it was upon that bridge that I saw--at first with deep amazement,\nthen with fear and trembling--the slender, graceful figure, the almost\neerie loveliness of Wayward Winifred. How she had reached her dangerous\nposition was clear enough; for her feet were like the mountain goat, and\nher figure wonderfully lithe and active. I stood and gazed at her,\nafraid to speak lest she should fall from the dizzy height. She looked\nback at me with clear brown eyes, and spoke in a voice that held just a\nhint of the Dublin accent to give it sweetness.\n\n\"Are you the lady from America?\"\n\nI answered that I was, and a long pause ensued. The child was evidently\nstudying me, and I in my turn put a question:\n\n\"How on earth, child, did you get up there? And don't you know that any\nmoment you might come tumbling down into the water below?\"\n\n\"The water wouldn't harm me if I did,\" Winifred replied, looking down\ninto the clear depths; \"and it knows me well. I come here every day,\nunless there be a storm.\"\n\n\"Is your mother aware of so dangerous a proceeding?\" I asked with some\nsternness.\n\nA strange look passed over the girl's face, and she answered with a\nlittle laugh, half merry, half wistful:\n\n\"Ah! then, don't you know? I'm the orphan from the castle.\"\n\n\"From the castle?\" I repeated. I began to think that this creature,\nafter all, was a spirit, such as I had been told lived in the glens and\nstreams of fairy-haunted Ireland.\n\n\"Yes,\" said she, \"I am from the castle.\"\n\n\"From Powerscourt?\" I suggested; supposing, of course, that she meant\nthe great mansion which all visitors to the Dargle felt bound to see.\n\n\"From Powerscourt!\" cried she, with contempt in her voice. \"Oh, it's\neasy to see you are from America! Why, the castle I live in was built\nhundreds of years before there was any Powerscourt at all.\"\n\nI was again struck dumb by this assurance. What castle could she mean? I\nknew of none in the neighborhood, and yet I had been studying the latest\nguidebook with the closest attention.\n\n\"If you come with me some day,\" she said, \"I will show you _my_ castle,\nand granny will be very glad to see you.\"\n\nShe spoke with a grand air, as though she were, indeed, a young princess\ninviting me to visit her ancestral home.\n\n\"Where is the castle?\" I inquired.\n\n\"Where is the castle?\" she repeated, as if in bewilderment. \"Well, it\nis up, up in the hills. Perhaps you haven't any hills in America?\"\n\nI assured her that we had.\n\n\"Well,\" she declared, in the same lofty way, \"if you know how to climb\nhills, and don't mind if the road is steep, I'll take you there some\ntime.\"\n\n\"To-morrow?\" I suggested.\n\n\"No; to-morrow I'm going away off to the Phoul-a-Phooka.\"\n\n\"Where is that?\"\n\n\"Miles away from here.\"\n\n\"Are you going alone?\"\n\n\"I'm going with some one,\" she answered, with her clear, musical laugh;\n\"but I won't tell you who.\"\n\n\"I have not asked,\" I said, provoked a little by her coolness. \"I assure\nyou, dear child, I have no wish to force your confidence.\"\n\n\"It's some one we don't talk much about,\" she said, nodding her head\nsagaciously. \"Granny says that there are people whom it's best not to\nmeddle with.\"\n\n\"And yet you are going to this place with the outlandish name in such\ncompany?\" I said, almost involuntarily.\n\nShe drew herself up.\n\n\"Oh, that is very different!\" she said. \"When I am with this person I am\nin very good company; and who so well as he can tell me of the\nPhoul-a-Phooka and all those other things I want to hear?\"\n\n\"You are a strange child,\" I remarked.\n\nShe looked at me, surprised and half offended.\n\n\"How am I strange?\" she demanded.\n\n\"I mean different from others.\"\n\nAn expression almost of sadness crossed her face.\n\n\"I am alone, you see,\" she said; \"and I live up at the castle.\"\n\nThe explanation was a pathetic one, and I observed the girl with greater\ninterest than ever.\n\n\"I should like to be friends with you,\" I declared.\n\n\"I do not often make friends of strangers,\" she said, with some return\nof her former lofty manner--\"but, yes, I think I like you.\"\n\n\"Very well; there shall be a compact between us to like each other,\" I\nreplied. \"And the first fruits of our agreement shall be to arrange what\nday I may go with you to the castle and see your--relative.\"\n\nSomething in my speech amused her, and she laughed merrily.\n\n\"Poor old granny!\" she said. \"You will love her at first sight.\"\n\n\"The gift is evidently in the family,\" I answered, \"of making people\nlove them at first sight.\"\n\n\"In the family?\" she repeated again, with that look of drollery upon her\nface which had almost upset my own gravity. \"Never mind: you shall come\nand see for yourself, two days from now, when I get home from\nPhoul-a-Phooka.\"\n\nShe slipped down as she spoke from her perilous perch and landed safely\non the opposite shore, becoming at once embowered in greenness, a very\ngoddess of the woods. She made a graceful gesture of farewell and turned\naway, light as a young fawn.\n\nI stood spellbound, watching the path by which she had disappeared.\nCuriosity was aroused within me, and I felt an uncommon attraction for\nthis being who seemed of a different mould from those of common clay. I\nfell to dreaming of her as I walked home through those exquisite scenes\nof rare and mournful loveliness. The dark story of Erin seemed told in\nher hills and streams. I was also anxious to discover what was the\nPhoul-a-Phooka, and who might be the mysterious companion of her journey\nto that unknown region.\n\nI seemed to tread, indeed, on enchanted ground; and I could hardly\nbelieve that I was the same being who a month before had been walking\ndown Broadway, stopping to admire the wonderful products of the\ncentury's genius in Tiffany's windows, idly surveying the crowds of\npassers-by, and jostling my way past the Fifth Avenue Hotel. However, I\nhad to keep all my speculations to myself and wait for that visit to the\ncastle, to which I began to look forward with the greatest eagerness.\nCould the castle itself be a mere myth, the creation of a sensitive\nimagination? On that point, at least, I determined to satisfy my\ncuriosity as soon as an opportunity occurred.\n\nI found the landlord of the inn alone that evening, his labors done for\nthe day, pipe in mouth, smoking on a bench beside the door. He was a\nsomewhat taciturn man, less loquacious than most of his race and\nstation, and the subject, in some way, did not seem to commend itself to\nhim.\n\n\"The castle? To be sure, there's a castle up there beyant. A mighty fine\nould place in former times.\"\n\n\"But to whom does it belong now?\"\n\nHe looked uneasy.\n\n\"Who is the owner? Why, that would be hard to tell, though I suppose\nit's Miss Winifred herself.\"\n\n\"Is she, then, of noble birth?\" I asked.\n\n\"Oh, it's not easy to say!\" he replied, evasively. \"Some say she is, and\nmore say she isn't.\"\n\nHere was a mystery with a vengeance.\n\n\"Perhaps you can tell me, at least, what is the Phoul-a-Phooka?\"\n\nThe landlord gave me a half-startled look.\n\n\"The blessin' of God be about us!\" he ejaculated, piously. \"I wonder\nnow, ma'am dear, why you would care to be inquirin' into things of the\nsort.\"\n\n\"But what sort of thing is it?\" I persisted. \"Something, I am sure,\nwhich we do not have in America, where we claim to have so much. Our\nsteam-whistles and the roar of our factories have driven from us what\nIreland has kept--her legends and her poetry.\"\n\nThe man did not seem to relish this style of conversation, or, perhaps,\nto understand it; for he answered somewhat shortly:\n\n\"The Phoul-a-Phooka is a wild horse, the devil himself takin' that\nshape; and woe to any one whom he gets upon his back!\"\n\n\"Oh, it can't be to see a wild horse that this child is going!\" I\nremonstrated.\n\n\"No, ma'am; 'tis to a wild, solitary spot, with a power of waterfalls in\nit,\" replied the landlord. \"But it gets its name from the beast I'm\ntellin' you of.\"\n\n\"Oh! is that it?\" I replied.\n\n\"Yes ma'am; 'twas there that the horse leaped a precipice with the\ntailor that had about him the priest's soutane he was after makin'. The\nhorse felt it like a stone's weight on his back, and down he went with\nthe tailor.\"\n\nThe man told the story with some hesitation, as if not seeming to\nbelieve in it, and yet reluctant to express disbelief openly.\n\n\"It's a beautiful spot, though, ma'am; that's what it is. And mebbe\nyou'd be goin' to see it yourself some of these days.\"\n\n\"Very likely I shall,\" I assented; \"but first I want to see the old\ncastle and the woman and child who live there.\"\n\n\"It's a good bit of a walk,\" said the landlord; \"but the weather is\nfine, so I suppose you won't mind that.\"\n\n\"No, I won't mind it,\" I declared--\"not in the least, and Winifred is\ncoming for me in a day or two.\"\n\n\"And I hope she won't be a Will-o'-the-wisp to you, ma'am, and leave you\nin some bog or another.\"\n\nHe spoke with considerable asperity, and but that he was just then\ncalled away I should have questioned him further; for I judged from his\nmanner that he had suffered from some of the pranks of my new\nacquaintance. I smiled to myself as I wondered if the girl had been\nleading him a dance over mountain and moor, or what was the nature of\nthe particular trick she had played upon the stony-visaged landlord.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nAT THE CASTLE.\n\n\nIt was a lovely May morning when the landlord of the inn came to tell me\nthat Wayward Winifred was waiting.\n\n\"Why do they call her by that name?\" I asked of him.\n\n\"Oh, then, sure, ma'am, it's just because of her whimsical ways! You\nmight as well try to stick a pin through the down of a thistle or take a\nfeather from a swallow on the wing, as to know what the crathur will be\ndoin' next.\" He looked all round as if he feared that the walls might\nhave ears; and, seeming in a more communicative mood than before, he\ncontinued his narrative: \"There's them that says,\" he whispered, coming\nclose to me, \"that all's not right with her; and it's as well you should\nknow it before you go off to the castle with her. She knows too much for\none of her years, and she's that wild and whimsical, there's no stoppin'\nher whichever way she goes. And she keeps queer company sometimes.\"\n\n\"But who were her parents?\"\n\n\"Well, you asked me that before, ma'am, but it's a long story. Some will\nhave it that she's not of mortal stock at all. But, to be sure, that's\nthe old people, with their queer consates,\" he added, somewhat\nshamefacedly.\n\n\"Who takes care of her?\"\n\n\"Who? Well, as for that, she mostly takes care of herself,\" replied the\nlandlord, with a gesture expressive of the hopelessness of the\nsituation.\n\n\"But she can't live alone. She has, I believe, a grandmother.\"\n\nThe landlord gave me a queer look.\n\n\"Oh, she lives with Granny Meehan, as you'll see when you go there! But\nshe's gettin' restive below. I hear her feet patterin' round, and it's\nhard to tell what she might be at, so I'd better be goin' down.\"\n\n\"Say I'm just coming!\" I called after the man; and, descending\npresently, looked out of doors, and saw, sitting in the branches of a\nlilac tree, the same figure that I had beheld upon the bough which\nstretched over the ravine. The landlord, honest man, was addressing the\ngirl, with some anxiety, from the window below.\n\n\"Come down here, now--that's a good child!--or you'll be gettin' a fall,\nso you will; and a nasty cut on your head for the doctor to sew up--and\nbreakin' my fence into the bargain.\"\n\nThe child laughed, that selfsame musical laugh which rang out upon the\nair like the sound of bells, and she shook the tree in her mirth, and\nsent a shower of the fragrant lilac blossoms down upon my head.\n\n\"I ask you pardon!\" she said, with a shade of gravity crossing her face.\n\"I didn't mean to send any down upon your bonnet, for a beautiful bonnet\nit is.\"\n\nShe eyed as she spoke the article of headgear which I had purchased at a\nshop on Fifth Avenue, New York. I was surprised that she should have\nperceived any beauty in the bonnet, it being quiet in shape and neutral\nin tint, to suit the exigencies of travel.\n\nWhen she had descended to the ground, she picked up a cloak from under\nthe tree and wrapped herself in it. It was one of those peasant's cloaks\nof blue cloth, enveloping the figure from head to foot, which, as\narticles of dress, are fast disappearing from Ireland; but which were\nboth becoming and picturesque. Winifred did not, however, put up the\nhood; but showed her delicately formed head, with its rich, dark hair,\ncut short, and curling in ringlets about her forehead and neck, and\nforming a fascinating tangle upon the top.\n\n\"Shall we go?\" I asked Winifred.\n\n\"Yes,\" she answered; \"if you are ready.\"\n\nAnd so we went. Our course, at first, lay through the lanes strewn with\nwild flowers, primroses and early violets, with the hedgerows white with\nbloom. The balmy air of May, fresher and purer in Ireland, it seems,\nthan elsewhere, gently stirred the tender green of the foliage. The lark\nand the thrush sang together a morning hymn. Soon, however, the scenery\nbecame wilder and wilder; rocky passes frowned upon us, and we looked\ndown into ravines that might well make the unwary tremble.\n\nUp the steep path I followed where the girl led with foot as sure as a\nmountain goat. She spoke from time to time in her soft, liquid accent.\nPerhaps it was part of her waywardness to show herself more shy and\nreserved than I had yet seen her, answering my questions in\nmonosyllables, and briefly bidding me to beware of dangerous places. At\nlast, in a winding of the road, we came upon one of those feudal keeps\nwhich marked the military character of bygone chiefs. Its walls were\nstill intact, and a great donjon reared its head to the sky, in defiance\nof time.\n\nWe could not enter by the iron gates, still vainly guarding the ruin;\nfor the path beyond them was choked with weeds and overgrown with grass.\nThe child led me instead through a narrow pathway, and a low door in the\nthickest part of the wall, which had survived all attacks of the\nelements, and was, perhaps, of a later erection. Walls and roof were\nalike uninjured; but I had a strange feeling of passing from daylight\ninto chill darkness, when my guide silently ushered me into a\nstone-paved passage, where all was still and gloomy.\n\nIt was a relief, at last, to reach a large square room, appointed\nsomewhat in the manner of a farm kitchen. A peat fire burned upon the\nhearth, a kettle sang upon the hob, a wooden settle stood close by, and\nstrings of herrings hung from the beams of the ceiling, flanked by a\nflitch or two of bacon. Homely, comfortable objects they were, making me\nforget my plunge into the past, and convincing me that here was life and\nreality and domestic comfort. By the fire sat an old woman, erect and\nmotionless; and though her face was turned toward us, she gave no sign\nof perceiving me, nor did she respond to my salute.\n\nShe wore a plain gown of dark gray, of the roughest material, probably\nhomespun, but scrupulously neat. Across her breast was pinned a\nhandkerchief of snowy white; and a large frilled cap shaded a face,\nsomewhat emaciated, with features clear-cut, and white hair showing but\nslightly under the frills. Her eyes were of a dull gray, very wide open\nand seemed to fix themselves upon me with a curious expression, which\nmade me strangely uncomfortable. I began to ask myself: \"Who are these\npeople, and why has this strange child brought me here?\"\n\nMy fears were set at rest when the old woman opened her lips, saying:\n\n\"Miss Winifred, alanna! And is that yourself?\"\n\nThere was something so human and tender in the sound of the voice that I\nfelt at once drawn to that aged figure, which resembled more a statue\nthan a thing of life.\n\n\"Yes, Granny; and I've brought some one with me,\" the girl said.\n\nA look of something like alarm crossed the old woman's face.\n\n\"A stranger?\" she said uneasily.\n\n\"Yes, dear granny; 'tis a lady from America.\"\n\nThis time the old woman started perceptibly, and her gaze seemed to fix\nitself on my face, while there was a straightening of her whole figure\ninto rigid attention.\n\n\"I have been staying in the neighborhood,\" I put in; \"and chancing to\nmeet your granddaughter--\"\n\n\"She is no granddaughter of mine!\" interrupted the old woman, hastily\nand, as it seemed, almost angrily. \"No, Miss Winifred is not.\"\n\n\"Forgive me, please! I did not know,\" I stammered. \"I thought she\naddressed you as granny.\"\n\n\"Oh, that's just her coaxing way! And, besides, it's a custom\nhereabouts. Ould women like myself are all grannies.\"\n\nEvery trace of annoyance or of fear had passed from the serene old face,\nand the habitual courtesy of the Irish peasant became at once\nconspicuous.\n\n\"Have you a chair for the lady, Miss Winifred, asthore? Mebbe it's a\nglass of new milk she'd be takin' after her walk.\"\n\nI accepted this refreshment, partly to establish myself upon a friendly\nfooting with my new acquaintances, and partly because I was really glad\nof the restorative after a long walk. The milk was brought me by a\nbare-legged and ruddy-cheeked girl of about Winifred's own age, who did\nmuch of the rough work about the place; though, as I afterward learned,\nWinifred, in some of her moods, would insist on milking the cow, and\ndriving it home from pasture; or would go forth to gather the peat for\nthe fire, in spite of all remonstrance.\n\nThere were things that puzzled me about this unusual abode--the\nscrupulous respect with which the old woman treated the girl, the\nappearance of comfort and plenty about this strange retreat in the heart\nof a once warlike citadel, where the chiefs of old had displayed their\nbanners and manned the walls with clansmen and gallow-glasses. Then the\nsingular expression of the old woman's countenance, and the manner in\nwhich she gazed before her, apparently at vacancy, once I had stepped\nout of her range of vision. Only one of these mysteries was I destined\nto solve upon the occasion of this first visit.\n\nWhile I sipped my milk and nibbled at the bit of fresh oaten bread which\naccompanied it, I conversed with the old woman; Winifred standing mute,\nin the shadow of the deep window, as if lost in thought.\n\n\"America's very far off entirely,\" said granny, dreamily--\"acrost the\nocean; and they tell me it's a very fine country, with riches and plenty\nfor all.\"\n\n\"It is a fine country,\" I said warmly; \"but there are many there who\nhave neither riches nor plenty and who live and die in misery.\"\n\n\"Do you tell me so?\" exclaimed the old woman. \"Look at that now! And the\nboys and girls thinkin' it long till they get out there, and have money\nin their pockets and fine clothes on their backs.\"\n\n\"Well, many of them do succeed,\" I remarked; \"only they have to work\nhard for it. There's no royal road to success anywhere.\"\n\n\"True for you, ma'am,--true for you!\" sighed the old woman. \"'Tis the\nlaw, and 'twas a wise God that ordained it.\"\n\n\"I know one person that got rich without working,\" said Winifred,\nspeaking suddenly and with a kind of imperiousness.\n\nI looked at her in surprise, and the granny said, in a soothing tone:\n\n\"Ah, then, asthore, don't be bringin' in names! It's safer not.\"\n\nWinifred, for answer, turned silently to the window, gazing out again,\nand I was left to conjecture that here was another mystery. What\nexperience of life could this child have had? And who in that\nneighborhood could have grown rich, suddenly or otherwise? When I rose\nto go I expressed my desire to come again.\n\n\"Mebbe you'd have a curiosity to see more of the ould place,\" said the\nwoman.\n\n\"But the castle is not a show place,\" cried Winifred, imperiously. \"It's\nprivate property.\"\n\n\"God help your wit!\" I heard the old woman mutter; but aloud she said\nwith conciliation, almost deference:\n\n\"Sure you know as well as I do, Miss Winifred dear, that every castle in\nthe country, even where the grand folks do be livin', is thrown open\nevery now and again to travellers.\"\n\n\"This castle is not open to any one,\" said Winifred, drawing her slight\nfigure to its height and addressing me; \"but if you, being from America,\nwould like to see it, I would show it to you.\"\n\nI told her that I should very much like to see it, and would certainly\ncome again for the purpose.\n\n\"There's some stories about the ould place that mebbe you'd like to\nhear, ma'am,\" said Granny Meehan, anxious to make amends for any\nabruptness on the part of her charge.\n\nI told her that the stories would be an additional attraction; and as I\nwas about leaving the room, I remarked:\n\n\"It's a glorious day. You should go out, Mrs. Meehan, if only to see\nthe sun shining on the mountains.\"\n\nWinifred sprang forward, her face crimson.\n\n\"For shame! for shame!\" she cried.\n\nI turned back to the old woman in perplexity. The ghost of a smile was\non her face, as she declared:\n\n\"I shall never see the bright sun more in this world,--I shall never see\nit more. But I like to know that it is shining.\"\n\nHere, then, was the solution of one mystery; and as I looked at that\nfine and placid countenance I wondered at my own stupidity; for though\nthe eyes were wide open, their expression told the tale very plainly.\n\n\"I am so sorry,\" I said; \"I did not know. Can you ever forgive me?\"\n\n\"There's nothing to forgive nor to be sorry for,\" she replied, with a\nsmile breaking over her face like sunshine. \"Glory be to God for all His\nmercies! I've been sittin' here in the dark for ten years; but all the\ntime, thanks be to His holy name, as happy as a lark.\"\n\nI turned away, with admiration mingled with compassion.\n\n\"And,\" added the old woman, \"I know the purty sight you're spakin' of,\nma'am dear. I seem to see, as often I saw it, the sun playin' about the\nhills in little streams of gold, and the tree-tops brightenin' in its\nglow. Oh, I know the hills of Wicklow since I was a wee dawshy! And\nthere isn't a tree nor a blade of grass nor a mountain flower that\nGranny Meehan doesn't remember from old days that are far off now.\"\n\nI saw that Winifred's sensitive face was working with emotion, while her\neyes filled with tears. I also saw that she had hardly forgiven me yet\nfor my blunder. I suggested gently that we had better go, and the girl\nmade no objection. So we pursued our homeward way, silently for the most\npart. Suddenly, I exclaimed:\n\n\"Oh, what a beautiful nature has that old woman!\"\n\n\"Do you mean granny?\" Winifred asked quickly. \"Oh, she's as beautiful\nas--the Dargle!\"\n\nAnd even while we talked burst upon us that view, which, once seen, can\nnever be forgotten. Those hills arising on either side, clothed in a\nsuperb, living green; and the loveliest of glens below, with the\nrippling beauty of its stream fair as the poet's river of the earthly\nparadise; and Powerscourt's splendid demesne to the eastward, and all\nthe mountains about, arising grandly, enlivened with that unsurpassed\nsunshine.\n\n\"Ye hills, give praise to God!\" I murmured involuntarily; and paused,\nfeeling Winifred's dark eyes upon me, with inquiry in their glance.\n\n\"It is a verse from the hymn of thanksgiving sung often in church,\" I\nsaid. \"Did you ever hear it?\"\n\nWinifred shook her head.\n\n\"They don't sing much in the chapel down below,\" she said, \"except\nsimple little hymns. It isn't like the grand days when the castle was\nfull of people and the abbey church was close by.\"\n\nThen she paused, as if she did not care to say more; and as we were now\nwithin sight of the hill she suddenly left me, waving her hand in\nfarewell, and swinging herself by the tree-bridge across the\nmountain-stream.\n\n\"Good-by!\" she called back to me. \"And don't forget next time that\ngranny is blind.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nWINIFRED ASKS QUESTIONS.\n\n\nThe morning after my visit to the castle I set out early to enjoy the\nbeauties of the Glen, having first partaken of breakfast and enjoyed a\nlittle chat with my landlord, who was growing accustomed to my American\ninquisitiveness.\n\n\"Sure she's a fine woman is Granny Meehan!\" he said, in answer to some\nopinion I had given concerning her; \"an' a religious woman, too, and\nvery knowledgeable for her station. But her head is full of queer\nconsates. I think it's most turned by livin' up beyant alone so long.\"\n\n\"How did she come to have the care of Miss Winifred and to live in the\nold castle?\" I inquired.\n\n\"Well, none of us knows--that is, to be sure about it. Master Roderick,\nhe was a gay, sportin' lad. I mind him well, tearin' about the country\non his white horse, stoppin' a night now at the ould place above; and\naway agin, no one knew whither. His father, who owned the place before\nhim and lived in it every year for a few weeks, was dead and so were all\nbelongin' to him.\" The landlord drew breath and lowered his voice\nsomewhat. \"Well, in some of his wanderin's about the country what does\nhe do but get married, an' we never seen the bride down here at all, at\nall; but it was the talk of the country-side that she was of a fine\nould stock an' a rale lady. But he never brought her next or nigh the\nould place. Perhaps it was ashamed of its bein' ruinous-like or afeard\nof the gossip of the country-side.\"\n\nI listened with the deepest attention.\n\n\"It was on All-Hallow-Eve that Winifred there came to the castle. Mrs.\nMeehan, who had been nurse to Master Roderick himself, was brought up\nfrom the village in haste. Fires were lighted, beds got ready, and\ntoward nightfall a gentleman in black rode up to the castle door. Now,\nsome that saw him say it was the young gentleman himself riding his\nwhite horse, but more says it was a stranger; and coming the way he did\nand on that night of all nights! It's a quare story, and no wonder that\nthe child's different from other childer.\"\n\n\"How old was she when she came?\"\n\nThe landlord reflected.\n\n\"Well, I think it would be about seven, though none of us ever rightly\nknew.\"\n\n\"Did the father visit her?\"\n\n\"From that time to this,\" said the landlord, impressively, \"he was never\nseen in the country-side. There seemed to be some secret or other in the\nbusiness; and Granny Meehan never opened her mouth about it, only bowin'\nand scrapin' with Miss Winifred here and Miss Winifred there. Some do\nsay that she's afeard of the colleen, and knows well enough that she's\nnot of mortal stock. But that's the ould people!\" he concluded, with a\ntoss of the head. \"Meself thinks she's Master Roderick's daughter;\nthough why he should give her up and never come near her is more than\nany mortal can tell.\"\n\n\"It is a curious story,\" I said; \"quite a romance, and fits in well with\nyour lovely country here and the remains of that grand old castle. But\nwho is this curious companion Winifred goes about with and does not care\nto name?\"\n\n\"There's more than her that won't name him,\" said the landlord; \"though\nI think it's Granny Meehan that does be cautionin' the colleen. She's\nnot afeard of man nor beast nor spirit, and if she doesn't name him it's\non account of the ould woman.\"\n\n\"But who is he?\"\n\n\"Now, ma'am dear,\" said the landlord, \"I have been discoursin' to you\nalready of things that mebbe shouldn't pass my lips, and I'd be entirely\nobliged if you wouldn't ask me to have part nor parcel with them that's\nunlucky, nor so much as to name them.\"\n\nWith this I had to be content, and I strolled out to that world-famous\nGlen of the Dargle, and sat down beside the stream on grass that was\ngreen and soft as velvet. Above me on all sides rose the hills, the\ntrees, in their shaded green, still sparkling with dew; the waterfall\ndashing over the stones into the dark stream below, and the tree-bridge\noverhanging that terrible ravine. I might not at first have perceived\nthat this bridge was tenanted had not a clear voice suddenly broken the\nstillness, thrilling out some quaint melody, which was Irish in its\nwild, mournful character, and yet had a tinge of drollery. I did not\nrecognize it, however, nor could I have called it by name. I looked up\nhastily, well knowing that the graceful figure and charming, childish\nface of Winifred would meet my view. Once again, as on a former\noccasion, I hesitated to speak for fear of startling her; but she\naddressed me presently, bringing her song to a sudden stop.\n\n\"Good morning!\" she said. \"'Tis lovely weather.\"\n\n\"Lovely indeed,\" I answered, looking up at her and reflecting what a\nstrange little creature she was, talking down to me as calmly from that\nhigh and perilous perch as though she sat on a rocking-chair at a\nfireside.\n\n\"My dear child,\" I said, involuntarily, \"you make me dizzy.\"\n\n\"Dizzy?\" repeated the girl.\n\n\"Being up so high and over that deep ravine,\" I called back; for the\nnoise of the waterfall forced me to raise my voice in order to be heard.\n\n\"The dear old Dargle!\" she exclaimed, looking lovingly down at the\nstream. \"I sit here, as I told you, almost every day. But I'll come down\nimmediately if it makes you dizzy.\"\n\nShe carried out her promise so swiftly and so recklessly that it fairly\ntook away my breath. She stood a moment or two on the green height, and\nthen ran down to me, her face shining with the glow of the morning, full\nof life and health and the very joy of being alive. She was soon at my\nside and threw herself near me on the grass.\n\n\"Do you like Ireland just as well as America?\" she asked me after a\npause.\n\n\"Ireland is very beautiful,\" I replied.\n\nHer face flushed and her eye lighted as she nodded two or three times,\nbut did not speak. It was as though some one very dear to her had been\npraised.\n\n\"I was told once,\" she said, \"that streets in America are paved with\ngold. But--perhaps it isn't true.\" She said the last words wistfully, as\nthough reluctant to part with an illusion. \"And I suppose,\" she went on,\n\"there are no trees there with golden leaves nor birds with silver\nwings?\"\n\n\"No,\" I said; \"there are no streets paved with gold, and no golden trees\nnor birds with silver wings. But there are many beautiful\nthings--glorious mountains, vast forests, broad rivers, splendid\ncities.\"\n\n\"I should like to hear of them some time,\" she said, \"if you will be\nkind enough to tell me.\"\n\n\"Oh, I shall tell you anything you want to hear,\" I replied; \"for, as we\nagreed to be friends, one friend must try to give pleasure to another.\"\n\n\"Yes, that is true,\" she assented; \"and because of that I will show you\nmy castle, though I don't like showing it to strangers.\"\n\nI looked at her with an interest which was enhanced by the story I had\nheard that morning--pathetic, romantic, and altogether unusual.\n\n\"You have always lived there?\" I asked.\n\n\"No,\" she said, briefly. \"I remember to have lived at another place, but\nthat is very long ago and does not matter.\"\n\nIt was evident that she did not wish to continue the subject.\n\n\"I shall have to leave you,\" she said, all at once; \"for, listen! I hear\nthe tinkle of a bell, and I am afraid that our cow has got out.\"\n\n\"Do you take care of the cow?\" I asked involuntarily; for the\ncircumstance somehow seemed surprising and out of keeping with the\nchild's appearance.\n\n\"Oh, Moira does generally!\" she replied carelessly. \"She, you know, is\nour little maid-of-all-work. Sometimes I do myself, though; for I love\npoor Cusha, and I like to pat her silky back and play with her long\nears. She hasn't any horns. But she wouldn't hurt me if she had; for,\nyou see, she knows me, and puts down her head for me to pet, and lows\nwhen she sees me coming. She is a very wise cow. I wish she could talk.\"\n\n\"I wonder what her conversation would be like?\" I said, laughing.\n\n\"Oh, I know!\" answered the child, confidently; though she laughed, too.\n\n\"You do? Well, let me hear it!\" I said, entering into her humor.\n\n\"She'd talk about the sweet green clover and the grass and the fields,\nwhere she has lived; and about the hills, for she's been up here a great\nmany years. She was born before I was, and she looks at everything with\nher big brown eyes as if she were thinking about them. She might be able\nto tell if there were any fairies or things of that kind; for she's out\nsometimes in the moonlight, or at dusk and in the early morning, too,\nwhen people say they pass by.\"\n\n\"You mustn't believe all the people tell you,\" I answered, though I was\nhalf sorry for the suggestion when I saw how her face clouded over.\n\"Their tales might be like the golden streets and the silver birds.\"\n\nShe arose slowly, and seemed as if about to turn away; then she added,\nhalf to herself:\n\n\"I wonder if she knows anything about what he is trying to find out,\nwhat he _has_ found out?\"\n\n\"Who?\" I asked hastily.\n\n\"Some one,\" she said, evasively. \"Oh, the bell is tinkling again. Cusha\nmight get lost. Good-by! And come soon to the castle. I will show you\nevery bit of it and tell you _true_ things about it.\"\n\nShe said the last words loftily, as though to let me know that all her\ntalk was not of the unreal, the fictitious, the poetic. I sat a few\nminutes longer musing over her and her story; and then began to read,\nperhaps as an offset, a transatlantic fashion paper which had reached me\nby mail that morning.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nA SINGULAR FIGURE.\n\n\nI was presently tempted to think that my landlord was right when he\nspoke of the \"queer company\" which Winifred sometimes kept. For, as I\nwas rambling about one evening under the white blossoms of the hawthorn,\nI suddenly beheld her high up on a mountain pass. This time she was\nwithout her blue cloak, but wore a shawl of vivid scarlet, the corner of\nwhich she had wound about her head. Contrasting with the emerald green\nof the grass and the foliage all about her, she seemed more than ever\nlike a mountain sprite who had suddenly sprung from the ground.\n\nI was about to advance and address her, when I perceived that she was\nnot alone. Beside her, upon the greensward, stood one of the wildest and\nmost singular figures it has ever been my fortune to see. He was tall,\nand would have been of commanding presence but for a slight stoop in his\nshoulders. His hair, worn long, was dishevelled and unkempt, surmounted\nby a high-peaked, sugar-loaf hat, the like of which I had never seen\nbefore. His breeches were of corduroy, such as might be worn by any\npeasant in the vicinity; only that this particular pair was of a\npeculiarly bright green, vivid enough to throw even the grass of the\nEmerald Isle into the shade. A waistcoat of red increased the\nimpression of color. He might have been some gigantic tropical plant,\nso gorgeous and so varied were these commingling hues. Over all he wore\na garment, neither coat nor cloak, with wide, hanging sleeves. His\ncountenance was as singular as his costume; his eyes keen, yet\nhalf-furtive, half-deprecating in their expression; his chin\nclean-shaven, showing the hollow, cavernous cheeks with fearful\ndistinctness. His nose, long and slightly hooked, seemed as if pointing\ntoward the ground, upon which just then his eyes were fixed.\n\nHe was discoursing to the child; and, as I came nearer, I thought he was\nusing the Irish tongue, or at least many Gaelic words. Once he pointed\nupward to the sky with a wild gesture; again he bent down to the earth,\nillustrating some weird tale he was telling; whilst expressions of\nanger, of cunning, of malice or of joy swept over his face, each being\nreflected in the mobile countenance of Winifred, who stood by. She\nseemed to follow every word he said with eager interest.\n\nIn a pause of the narrative he took off his hat and made a courtly bow\nto the child, who held herself erect before him. Resuming his talk, he\npointed more than once in the direction of the castle, so that I fancied\nhe was dwelling upon the fortunes of the race who had once abode there\nand of the chiefs and heroes who had made it famous. Once, however, I\ncaught the name of Malachy, which might have been that of any peasant in\nthe neighborhood; and again the word \"Lagenian.\" Then the old man\nrelapsed into silence, sighing profoundly; whilst above his head the\ndark leaves waved softly and the projecting branches almost touched his\nhat.\n\nWinifred finally broke the silence--I heard her clear, childish voice\ndistinctly:\n\n\"Ever since we went to the Waterfalls that day I have been wanting to\ntalk to you of the Phoul-a-Phooka.\"\n\n\"But I have told you. Miss Winifred,\" the man replied, with some\nimpatience, \"all that I know. The Phooka is a fierce beast, with fire\nstreaming from his eyes and nostrils, coal-black and gigantic of size.\nThat is how the legend describes him; and if any unlucky wayfarer meets\nhim he is compelled to mount and ride. The place which I took you to see\nis called after him. You know how lovely it is, how wild, how solitary,\nand how well suited to the work I have in hand. I made discoveries\nthere, Winifred--indeed, I did!\"\n\nHere his voice dropped to a whisper, and Winifred put two or three eager\nquestions to him.\n\n\"But you didn't tell me when we were there,\" she said.\n\n\"It was better not. We have had listeners,\" the man responded.\n\n\"I was thinking,\" Winifred went on, changing the subject abruptly, \"of\nthat story of the tailor. You know, if the Phoul-a-Phooka had ridden\ndown that precipice we saw, with him upon his back, why, the tailor\ncouldn't have told what happened; for he would have been killed.\"\n\n\"There's no saying, there's no saying!\" replied the stranger, absently.\n\"There are mysteries, my girl; but the legend declares that it was the\ngarment which the tailor carried that caused the beast to throw him\noff.\"\n\n\"Are legends true?\" the girl asked.\n\n\"Who knows?\" answered the old man, with the same dreamy air. \"They hold\na kernel of truth, every one of them.\"\n\n\"The lady says many things are not true,\" Winifred observed.\n\n\"The lady! What lady?\" demanded the other almost fiercely, with a light\nof cunning gleaming from his black eyes.\n\n\"The lady from America.\"\n\n\"Oh, from America did you say?\" exclaimed the man, in a hushed and\ntrembling voice, bending low and looking about him with a terror and\nanxiety which were almost grotesque. \"Don't say that word, Miss\nWinifred! Don't now, my beautiful white flower of the mountain!\"\n\nThe incident reminded me that Granny Meehan at the castle had also\nshown, on the occasion of my visit, a certain alarm at the mention of\nAmerica; and I wondered what mystery enveloped this singular child and\nthose who were her guardians. Winifred had perceived the man's\nconsternation; looking intently at her singular companion, she asked:\n\n\"Why, are you afraid of people from America?\"\n\nStanding thus before the old man, she put the question with the\npoint-blank frankness of childhood.\n\n\"No, no, no!\" came the answer, hurriedly and with the same tone of\ntremulous eagerness,--\"at least, child, it is not the kind of fear you\nthink.\"\n\n\"Why do you shiver, then, and look like that?\"\n\n\"Because, O Winifred mavourneen, say it is not for you she's come!\"\n\n\"For _me_!\" echoed Winifred in astonishment; then she burst into one of\nher merriest peals of laughter, seizing a handful of leaves and throwing\nthem at him. \"Why do you think that, you dear, old Niall?\"\n\n\"I suppose I'm getting old and full of fears,\" the man said. \"The winter\nof life is like the winter of the years. It has its chills and frosts,\nits larger share of darkness. But what if one should come and take you\naway before we are ready--before the work we have to do is done?\"\n\n\"No one shall take me away unless I like!\" Winifred cried out, throwing\nback her small head proudly.\n\n\"Wilful I know you are as a mountain torrent,\" Niall answered with a\nsmile; \"but there are some who might take you away against your will and\nwith none to say them nay.\"\n\n\"I wish you would not talk so!\" Winifred said petulantly, tearing to\npieces with her slender, delicate fingers a daisy which she had picked\nup from the grass. She threw the stalk away impatiently. \"There!\" she\ncried. \"By your foolish talk you have made me destroy one of my own\nlittle daisies; and I always think of them as little children playing in\nthe long grass, hiding from one another, letting the wind blow them\nabout, and loving the sun, as all children do.\"\n\nThe strange man gazed thoughtfully at her as she spoke.\n\n\"The same old fancies!\" he muttered; \"the same turn of mind! But I think\nthe country people are right: she's too wise. She has an old head on\nyoung shoulders; too old a head for a child.\"\n\nIt was Winifred's turn to stare at Niall.\n\n\"Why are you talking to yourself like that?\" she asked. \"It isn't\npolite.\"\n\nBut the old man, who had been suddenly seized with a new idea, clasped\nhis hands as if in desperate anxiety, and bent toward the child, crying:\n\n\"You didn't tell her, daughter of the O'Byrnes--you didn't tell her? Oh,\nsay you didn't! For that would mean ruin--utter, blank ruin.\"\n\nWinifred looked at him with a flash of scorn that darkened her blue eyes\ninto black,--a look of lofty indignation which struck me forcibly.\n\n\"So that's all you know of me, Niall,\" she cried, \"after the years that\nwe've walked the glen together, and up the passes of the Croghans and\ndown by the streams! You think I could betray what I know to the first\nstranger that crosses my path!\"\n\nThe man was struck dumb by the passionate cadence in the young voice,\nwhich went on reproaching, upbraiding, as some spirit of the mountain\nmight have done.\n\n\"Oh, you're a nice companion for me when you could say such a thing--you\nthat taught me the secret of the stars, and how they shine down, down\njust on the spot where that which we seek lies hidden, and after showing\nme its gleam in the shining waters!\"\n\n\"Miss Winifred,\" cried the old man, \"forgive me!\" And he bent one knee\nbefore her. \"I was thinking of the ordinary child, with its love of\ntelling news; and not of the young lady, with the old blood in her veins\nand a mind of uncommon acuteness.\"\n\n\"I don't want you to kneel to me,\" she said gravely, in her\nprincess-like manner. \"You're old and I'm young, and you should not\nkneel. Neither should I have spoken to you as I did. But you must not\ndoubt me--you must not believe I could betray your secret.\"\n\n\"Then you forgive me?\" said the old man. \"And, to show you how I do\ntrust you, I'm going to give you another present, mavourneen. Oh, the\nlike of it you never saw!\"\n\nHe drew from his pocket as he spoke some object carefully wrapped up in\na handkerchief; but as he unwound the wrapping I distinctly saw the\ngleam of gold, and, to my astonishment, a very beautiful gold bracelet,\napparently highly wrought. The old man displayed it upon a leaf which\nmade a charming background. Winifred clapped her hands and fairly danced\nwith joy, her eyes shining and her face glowing.\n\n\"Oh, is that for me, you dear, good Niall?\" she exclaimed.\n\nFor the third time in my hearing she called the man by his name.\n\n\"It is for you, child of my heart, my beautiful little lady!\" said the\nman, gratified by her enthusiasm.\n\n\"It is the most beautiful, far the most beautiful, you have given me\nyet.\"\n\n\"It is a rare gem of art, of faultless carving and of the purest gold,\"\nsaid Niall, triumphantly.\n\n\"Where did you get it, pray?\" asked the child.\n\nThe answer I did not hear, for the man stooped low and spoke in a\nwhisper. I feared that, being discovered, I should find myself in an\nawkward predicament; so I thought only of beating a hasty retreat. In so\ndoing I stumbled and fell. Fortunately, it was upon soft moss--the\nkindly breast of Mother Nature.\n\nWinifred's keen eyes saw what had occurred, and she ran instantly to my\nassistance. I assured her that I was not hurt, and, on rising, looked\nabout for her strange companion. He had disappeared as completely as if\nthe grassy sward had opened and swallowed him. The child did not say a\nword about his having been there; and, for some unexplained reason, I\nfelt that I could not ask any questions. There was about her more than\never on this occasion that air of pride and reserve which was sometimes\nso noticeable.\n\nAs soon, however, as she saw that I was unhurt she left me in a rather\nmore unceremonious fashion than usual. She feared, perhaps, that I might\nrefer to her conversation with the man whom she had called Niall. I\nwatched her walking away more thoughtful than usual, her step scarcely\ntouching the grass, so light was she; and I marvelled at her singular\ndestiny.\n\nWhen I reached the inn I took the landlord into my confidence, to the\nextent of telling him that I had seen Winifred in company with a\npeculiar-looking man, and that he had seemed disturbed when she spoke of\nthe lady from America. As I had overheard a chance conversation, I felt\nbound, of course, to say nothing of the bracelet, or of certain other\nallusions in the old man's discourse which had puzzled me.\n\n\"Some do be sayin' that he has the Evil Eye,\" remarked the landlord,\nreferring to Niall; \"and, though meself doesn't hold much with them ould\nnotions, there may be somethin' in what they say, after all. For the\ncolleen bringin' you into the discoorse mebbe turned his ill-will upon\nyou and caused, p'raps, the fall you had.\"\n\nI smiled at this, assuring him that the fall had a very natural cause,\nmy foot having caught in the root of a tree. But I could see that he was\nstill unconvinced and regarded Niall as a more dangerous individual than\never. And, finding it useless to argue, I retired to my room to think\nover the events of the morning.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nA SECOND VISIT TO THE CASTLE.\n\n\nIt was not so very long after this occurrence that, led on by the beauty\nof a moonlight night, I wandered somewhat farther than usual from the\ninn. The soft radiance of the full moon was streaming down over that\nexquisite landscape. I stood and gazed at a tiny stream which lay\nsparkling and shimmering with magical brilliancy; and as I did so I saw,\ncoming through the dark masses of foliage on a mountain path, the same\nfigure which I had before seen in company with Winifred. The man's\noutline seemed larger and more gaunt than before. I presume this was due\nto the uncertain, flickering light of the moon through the trees.\n\nAn impulse urged me to conceal myself. I slipped into the shadow and\nwatched Niall approach, with a curiosity which was full of awe. His head\nwas up in the air, so that he resembled those magicians of old who read\nthe stars and pretended to discover in them the secrets of the future.\nIt was evident that he was making some calculation; for he stopped from\ntime to time, counting rapidly on his fingers.\n\nHe finally advanced close to the edge of the stream and knelt down. He\npeered into the clear depths so keenly that it seemed as if he were\ncounting the pebbles on the bottom. All the time he muttered to himself,\nbut quite unintelligibly, so that I caught not a word. At one point,\nwhere the rivulet was shallow, he felt with both hands very carefully\nfor some time, taking up and throwing down again handfuls of clay or\npebbles.\n\nSuddenly he threw up his arms with a strange, triumphant exultation;\nand, rushing in among the trees, he brought out something which seemed\nlike a crock. He placed it beside the stream; and then, as I still\nwatched and waited, his jubilation gave place to caution. He began to\nlook all about him, stooping and shading his eyes with his hand so that\nhe might better penetrate the gloom, while he turned his head in every\ndirection. I wondered what he would do if he should discover me. The\nidea was, to say the least, uncomfortable at such a time and in such a\nplace. All around darkness save for the light of the moon; everywhere\nthe intense stillness and solitude of a rustic neighborhood, in which\nall the world sleeps save those \"who steal a few hours from the night.\"\nI was alone with this singular being, whose wild, grotesque appearance\nwas enough to frighten any one; and once I thought I saw his burning\neyes fixed upon me in my hiding-place.\n\nI scarce dared to breathe, fearing that every moment he would pounce\nupon me and drag me forth. But it was soon evident that he did not see\nme. His face lost its watchful look, and he advanced once more toward\nthe moon-whitened stream where he had left his crock. He cast a hasty\nglance upward and I heard _gealach_--the Gaelic word for the moon--pass\nhis lips, coupled with that of Winifred; and then he began to take up\nwhat seemed like mud from the bed of the stream, filling the crock\nrapidly.\n\nWhen this was full, he seized the vessel and disappeared at a fearful\nrate, as it seemed to me, up the steep path by which he had previously\ndescended. I was conscious of a great relief when I saw him vanish in a\nturn of the road; for there had been something uncanny even in the huge\nshadow which he cast behind him, and which brought out the weirdness of\nhis figure and of his garments, as well as of his wonderful,\nsugar-loafed hat. I was afraid to come out from my hiding-place for some\ntime, lest he might be looking down upon me from some dark place above.\n\nI went home, with a firm determination to discover, if possible, who was\nthis singular person, what were his pursuits, and whence he had come. I\nfelt that on Winifred's account, at least, I should like to know more of\nher ill-chosen companion. I was certain that the landlord, though a\nnatural gossip once his tongue was unloosed, would relapse into\ntaciturnity if I strove to make him throw light upon this mysterious\nsubject. My only hope lay in Granny Meehan. She seemed a reasonable and\nconscientious woman, certainly devoted to the girl. Therefore I would\nappeal to her to discover if Niall were worthy of her confidence, if his\ndreamy and unsettled condition of mind made him a suitable companion for\nWinifred, and if such companionship would not disgust her with the\nrealities of life, prevent her from acquiring a solid education and the\ntraining which befitted the station to which I believed her to belong.\n\nI had become deeply interested in the girl, though I had not as yet\nformed the project, which later developed itself, of taking her with me\nto America and putting her in one of the celebrated convent schools\nthere. Her condition even then seemed to me a sad and perilous one: her\nonly guardian apparently a blind woman, who, despite her devoted\naffection, had neither the power nor, perhaps, the will to thwart\nWinifred in anything. The girl's nature seemed, on the other hand, so\nrich in promise, so full of an inherent nobility, purity, and poetry,\nthat I said to myself, sighing:\n\n\"No other land under the sun could produce such a daughter--one who in\nsuch surroundings gleams as a pearl amongst dark waters.\"\n\nI paid my second visit to the castle, therefore, on the very day after\nmy moonlight glimpse of the mysterious Niall. It was a bright morning,\nflower-scented and balmy, with that peculiar balminess, that\nnever-to-be-forgotten fragrance of the Irish atmosphere in the May time\nof the year. I stood still to listen to a wild thrush above me as I\nneared the castle, and the thrilling sweetness of its notes filled me\nwith something of its own glee. Winifred was in the old courtyard\nfeeding some chickens, gray and speckled and white, with crumbs of oaten\nbread and a bowlful of grain. She was laughing gaily at their antics and\ntalking to the fowls by name:\n\n\"No, Aileen Mor! You're too greedy: you're swallowing everything. Gray\nMary, you haven't got anything. Here's a bit for you. No, no, bantam\nMike, you can't have any more; let the hens eat something!\"\n\nThe large speckled fowl that Winifred had first addressed stalked\nmajestically to and fro, snatching from its weaker brethren every\navailable morsel; while the little ones ran in and out, struggling and\nfighting in the most unseemly manner over the food Winifred let fall.\n\nThe child, on seeing me, nodded gaily.\n\n\"See,\" she said, \"how they fight for their food! They're worse even than\nchildren!\" Then she added in her pretty, inquiring way, with the soft\nmodulation peculiar to the district: \"I suppose, now, there are a great\nmany fowls in America?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes!\" I replied--\"fowls of every sort. I think you will have to\ncome to America some time and see for yourself.\"\n\nA flush passed over her face, making it rosy red; then she said, with\nthe curiously imperious manner which I had so often before noticed:\n\n\"I _am_ going there some time: I _have_ to go.\"\n\nShe turned once more to the chickens, silently this time; and her\nmanner, as plainly as possible, forbade me to question her. No child had\never impressed me in this way before. It was not that she was\nunchildlike nor what might be called old-fashioned; but she had that\nabout her which was partly the effect, no doubt, of the peculiar\ndeference with which she was treated by the blind woman and by Niall the\nwanderer.\n\n\"I suppose I may see Granny?\" I remarked; and she answered:\n\n\"Oh, yes! She will be very glad. She is always in there near the\nhearth.\"\n\nI was glad that Winifred showed no disposition at the moment to abandon\nher occupation of feeding the fowls; for I wanted to have at least a few\nwords with good Mrs. Meehan on the subject of Winifred's association\nwith the grotesque personage whom local tradition seemed to invest with\nunusual if not unholy powers. I passed through the stone passage, and,\nentering the square room, found the blind woman, as before, in\nstatuesque attitude near the hearth, where on this occasion no fire was\nburning, its place being filled by an enormous bunch of clover, placed\nthere by Winifred. The blind woman recognized me the moment I spoke.\n\n\"You're heartily welcome, ma'am!\" said she, smiling; and we went on to\nexchange a few commonplaces about the weather and so forth.\n\nIt was a still day without, and we heard every once in a while the voice\nof Winifred calling out her commands to the fowls; and presently she was\nin conversation with some one whom Mrs. Meehan explained to be Moira,\ntheir little maid-of-all-work.\n\n\"Sure, then, Miss Winifred, we might go the night with Barney to bring\nhome some of the sods of peat. Barney will be havin' the cart out, an'\nwe may as well have the drive,\" Moira said.\n\n\"Yes, I think I will go,\" said Winifred, \"after the May prayers at the\nchapel. I'm going, when tea's over, to pick a great posy for the Blessed\nVirgin's altar. But it will be moonlight and we can go after.\"\n\n\"To be sure, we can, miss,\" assented Moira; adding the information that\n\"Barney got a power of fine fish the day, an' he sold it all at\nPowerscourt, barrin' one big trout that's for yourself, Miss Winifred.\nAn' the gentry over there gave him two shillin's, but he's puttin' them\nby to take him to Ameriky.\"\n\n\"Every one has a craze for America,\" said Winifred's clear voice. \"Even\n_I_ am going there some day.\"\n\n\"Musha, then, an' I hope you'll take me with you!\" cried Moira,\ncoaxingly; \"for what would I be doin' at all, at all, without yourself?\"\n\n\"We'll see when the time comes,\" declared Winifred. \"I might take\nyou--that depends. But you'd better not say anything about it; for\nperhaps if people got talking we mightn't go at all.\"\n\n\"I'll be as secret as--as the priest himself in the confessional!\"\npromised Moira. \"An' that's secret enough. But I can't help wonderin'\nwhat it would be like out there?\"\n\n\"It's a splendid place they say, with mountains and rivers,\" began\nWinifred.\n\n\"Sure an' we have enough of them ourselves, with no disrespect to them\nthat tould you,\" said Moira.\n\n\"In America they are different,\" said Winifred, grandly. \"And, then,\nthere are great forests--\"\n\nMoira scratched her head dubiously.\n\n\"With deer and Indians in them.\"\n\n\"I'm afeard of Indians,\" commented Moira promptly. \"I read a terrible\nstory about them once in a book that Father Owen gave me.\"\n\n\"Oh, well, we shan't be very near them if we go!\" explained Winifred.\n\"And it would be very fine to see them at a distance.\"\n\n\"I'd rather not see them at all, if it's the same to you, miss,\"\ndeclared the determined Moira.\n\n\"The deer, then, and the buffaloes and all the wild animals, and grand\ncities, with shops full of toys and dresses and beautiful things.\"\n\n\"Oh, it's the cities I'd like to be seein', with shops!\" cried Moira.\n\"We'll keep away from the hills and streams, Miss Winifred asthore,\nhavin' them galore in our own country. An' we'll keep away from the\nforests, for fear it's the wild Indians we'd be comin' across.\"\n\nHer tone was coaxing, with that wheedling note in it peculiar to her\nrace.\n\n\"Oh, it's to the cities I must go!\" said Winifred. \"But I don't know\nwhat a city is like, Moira. I can't make a picture of it to my eye. It\nis a big place, crowded with people, all hurrying by in a stream; and\nthe shops--\"\n\n\"I seen a shop once!\" exclaimed Moira. \"There was things in the window.\nIt was a thread-an'-needle shop, I think.\"\n\n\"There are all kinds in big cities,\" said Winifred; \"and I can't make\npictures of them either. But once I remember--I just seem to remember--a\nstrange place. Perhaps it was the street of a city, with shining windows\non either side. A gentleman had me by the hand; and presently he put me\nbefore him on a horse and we galloped away, and I never saw those things\nagain.\"\n\nI heard these artless confidences of the young girl in the pauses of my\nown discourse with the blind woman, who heard them, too, and sometimes\ninterrupted our talk with: \"D'ye hear that now, ma'am?\" or, \"The Lord\nlove her, poor innocent!\"\n\nBut though I smiled and paused for an instant at such moments, I did not\nallow myself to be turned away from the main object of my visit, and at\nlast I burst boldly into the subject which was occupying my mind.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\nTHE SCHOOLMASTER.\n\n\nWhen I mentioned the strange apparition which I had seen with Winifred\non one of those mountain passes overlooking the Glen of the Dargle, I\nsaw that Granny Meehan was troubled and that she strove to avoid the\nsubject.\n\n\"Winifred seems very intelligent,\" I remarked.\n\n\"That she does,\" the old woman assented cordially. \"Times there be when\nI'm afeard she knows too much.\"\n\n\"Too much?\" I inquired.\n\nGranny Meehan nodded as she added:\n\n\"Some says that it serves me right for lettin' her go to school so long\nto the mad schoolmaster.\"\n\nHer voice sank almost to a whisper as she said the last words.\n\n\"The mad schoolmaster!\" I repeated, feeling that here was no doubt the\nclue for which I had been so long seeking.\n\n\"Whist, ma'am dear! Don't speak that name so loud,--don't, for the love\nof God!\" she interposed eagerly.\n\n\"Why, Mrs. Meehan,\" I said warmly, \"you are too sensible and too\nreligious a woman to believe all the nonsense that is talked\nhereabouts.\"\n\nThe old woman shook her head and hesitated a moment.\n\n\"I'm not sayin' that I believe this, that or the other thing,\" she\ndeclared, almost doggedly; \"but at the end of life, ma'am dear, we get\nto know that there are people and things it's best not to meddle with.\"\n\n\"Was that the mad schoolmaster I saw with Winifred?\" I asked--lowering\nmy voice, however, in deference to the caution which I felt angrily\ndisposed to call superstition.\n\n\"Sure I suppose 'twas himself and no other,\" declared Mrs. Meehan, with\na half sigh. \"Miss Winifred has a real heart-love for him; and sometimes\nit makes me uneasy, because people say he's too knowledgeable to have\ncome honestly by his wisdom. There's no tellin'. But be that as it may,\nthere's no other evil told of the man. He's been like a father to the\npoor little one and given her all the schoolin' she's had.\"\n\n\"He _is_ a schoolmaster, then?\" I asked.\n\n\"To be sure, ma'am, and a mighty fine one entirely; so that for many a\nyear them that wanted their childer to have more book-learnin' than they\nhave themselves, as folks do nowadays, sent their gossoons to him, and\nthe girls as well. And a kind and good master he was, I'm told: never a\ncross word passin' his lips. And a fine scholar, with a power of\nlearnin' in his head.\"\n\n\"Does he still keep the school?\" I inquired further.\n\n\"He doesn't, ma'am, more's the pity. But 'twas this way. One began to be\nafeard of him, sayin' that he wasn't lucky; and another began to be\nafeard. The word flew from mouth to mouth, till but few enough remained.\nThen of a sudden he up and told the people that he wasn't goin' to teach\nno more in the hills of Wicklow; and he closed up his school and off\nwith him for a month or so. He came back again, do you mind? But he\nnever would have no pupils except Miss Winifred. And when the people\nseen that they tried to get him to take back the school. But it was all\nof no use: he's that set agin it that Father Owen himself could do\nnothin' with him.\"\n\n\"But how does he support himself?\"\n\nGranny Meehan turned her head this way and that, listening, to be sure\nthat no one was about; then she leaned toward me, seeming to know by\ninstinct where I sat, and began impressively:\n\n\"Oh, it's a queer kind of life he's led since then! He still has his\ncabin up in the Croghans--you may see it any day. Sometimes he's there\nand sometimes he isn't; but many a tale does be told about his doin's up\nyonder. There was one that watched him by night, and what do you think\nhe seen?\"\n\nI could not imagine, and said so.\n\n\"He saw him puttin' stones into an iron pot, like this very one here\nthat hangs on the hob for the potatoes.\"\n\nI glanced at the utensil mentioned, while she went on with her tale.\n\n\"Well, with that the gossoon that was spyin' on him took to his heels\nand never stopped till he was safe at home; and, of course, the whole\ncountryside knew of it by the mornin'. And, then, the schoolmaster goes\nwanderin' round in the night when honest folks are in their beds; and\nkneelin' down, they tell me, by the water side, as if he was prayin' to\nthe moon and stars or to the fishes. Now I ask you if that's fit conduct\nfor a Christian man?\"\n\n\"He may have his own reasons for all that,\" I suggested. \"Men of\nlearning and science do many strange things.\"\n\n\"I'm afeard it's for no good he's actin' so,\" said Granny, in a cautious\nwhisper. \"Some will have it that he's worshippin' the devil; for how\nelse could he get the gold and silver they say he has? He disappears now\nand again,--vanishes, as the story is, down into the ground or into some\ncave of the hills, and comes back with a power of money to bury\nsomewhere; for he never spends it honestly like other folks.\"\n\nI pondered over the woman's narrative, vainly seeking for an\nexplanation, and finally setting it down to the exaggeration of the\nsimple country people. Parts of it tallied with my own observations;\nbut, of course, I was prepared to accept any other solution of the\nmystery than that which was popularly given.\n\n\"The main thing,\" I said, \"for you to consider is whether or no he is a\nsuitable companion for Winifred. Whatever his pursuits may be, I believe\nhe is of too unsettled and visionary a mind to have a good influence\nupon the child.\"\n\n\"Some do say, of course, that he's mad,\" reflected Mrs. Meehan; \"and\nsure he goes by the name of 'the mad schoolmaster.'\"\n\n\"Such may be the true state of the case,\" I said musingly; \"and it would\nbe all the more reason for preventing his constant association with\nWinifred.\"\n\n\"Mad he may be,\" observed Granny Meehan; \"though you daren't say that\nmuch to Miss Winifred. She ever and always stands up for him. When the\nscholars were leavin' the school above, she spoke up for the\nschoolmaster, and didn't spare those that deserted him. So from that day\nto this he comes here every day of the week to teach her.\"\n\n\"He is still teaching her, then?\" I inquired.\n\n\"To be sure, he is, ma'am! He tells her that she's never too old for the\nlearnin'--not if she was the age of that old oak there before the door.\"\n\nGranny Meehan fell into a deep and apparently painful reverie, out of\nwhich she roused herself to say, apprehensively lowering her voice to\nthe utmost:\n\n\"And, ma'am, what makes me the most anxious of all is the trinkets he\ndo be givin' her. I'd never have known a word about it, but my\nhearin'--praise be to God for His goodness!--is mighty sharp, even\nthough I haven't the sight of my eyes; and I heard some words he let\nfall, and next the sound of metal striking against metal, like the\ntinkle of a bell.\"\n\n\"And then?\" I asked.\n\n\"Why, then I taxed Miss Winifred with what was goin' on, and she's as\ntruthful as the day and wouldn't deny nothin'. So she up and told me of\nthe beautiful trinkets of real gold he gave her. And I was vexed enough\nat it, and bid her throw them in the fire; fearin' mebbe they were fairy\ngold that would be meltin' away, leavin' ill luck behind.\"\n\n\"What did Winifred say to that?\"\n\n\"She just fired up and bid me hold my peace, for a wicked old woman--she\ndid indeed, ma'am.\"\n\nAnd here Granny Meehan softly wiped away a tear.\n\n\"But I know she didn't mean it, the darlin'! And she was that soft and\nlovin' after that I could have forgiven her far more.\"\n\nI remembered, while Granny spoke, the dainty, exquisitely wrought\nbracelet which I had seen displayed upon an oak leaf. But I preferred to\nkeep that knowledge to myself and to hear all that the old woman had to\ntell. She presently added:\n\n\"Well, ma'am, when he comes the next day Winifred up and tells him what\nshe did; and he flies into such a passion that I declare to you I was\nfrightened nearly out of my wits. Such a-ragin' and a-stampin' as went\non, for all the world like a storm roarin' through the castle on the\nwild nights. But Miss Winifred has that power over him that you'd think\nit was a fairy was in it, layin' spells over him. And she scolded him\nfor his bad temper, just as would myself; and stamped her foot at him.\nAnd the next thing I heard him askin' her pardon, quiet as a lamb.\"\n\n\"She's a strange child,\" I exclaimed.\n\n\"And why wouldn't she with the upbringin' she's had?\" cried Granny\nMeehan. \"But don't you think now, ma'am dear, that it's enough to make\nme heart ache with trouble to have the schoolmaster bringin' his\ntrinkets here? How would he come honestly by such things? Not that I\nbelieve he steals them, ma'am--it isn't that.\"\n\nShe paused in her perplexity; adding quickly, in the awestruck tone in\nwhich the simple people of the remote country districts speak of things\nwhich they suppose to be beyond mortal ken:\n\n\"Sure, then, ma'am, the only way he could come by them is through the\nold fellow himself, barrin' he gets them from the 'good people.'\"\n\n\"But this Niall is a good man, is he not?\"\n\n\"I never heard ill of him but that I'm tellin' you of,\" replied Granny\nMeehan. \"Still, we're warned that the devil himself can take on the\nlikeness of an angel of light; and if that's so, what's to hinder old\nNiall from bein' sold body and soul to the devil?\"\n\n\"Well, I think we'd better give him the benefit of the doubt,\" I said.\n\"If he appears to be a good man, let us believe that he is.\"\n\n\"Yes, mebbe you're right,\" observed Granny Meehan. \"And the Lord forgive\nme for speakin' ill of my neighbors! But it's all out of my anxiety for\nMiss Winifred. The baubles may come not from the powers of darkness at\nall, but from the 'good people'; and that would be harmless enough,\nanyhow.\"\n\n\"In America we have no fairies--or good people, as you call them,\" I\nsaid jestingly.\n\n\"They tell me they're scarce enough in Ireland these days,\" Mrs. Meehan\nreplied gravely. \"It's only here among the hills we have them at all, at\nall.\"\n\n\"I am afraid I should have to see to believe,\" I said, laughing. \"And\nnow, Mrs. Meehan, in all our talk you have not told me who the\nschoolmaster is.\"\n\nA deadly paleness overspread the old woman's face, and she sank back\ninto the chair.\n\n\"The Lord between us and harm!\" she muttered, \"don't ask me that,--don't\nnow, asthore!\"\n\n\"But you know.\"\n\n\"Is it _I_ know?\" she cried. \"Is it _I_ would be pryin' into such\nthings?\"\n\nI was more puzzled than ever. There was actual terror in Granny's tone.\n\n\"How absurd!\" I said, partly vexed. \"What mystery can there be which\nmakes you afraid even to hint at it?\"\n\nShe leaned toward me, her blind eyes rolling in their sockets, her thin\nlips quivering.\n\n\"A hint I'll give you,\" she said, \"to keep you, mebbe, from talkin'\nfoolishly and comin' to harm. He's of the old stock, I believe in my\nheart, come back to earth, or enchanted here, just to keep an eye on\nwhat's goin' on.\"\n\nI laughed aloud. But she raised her hand in solemn warning.\n\n\"Don't for your life--don't make game of things of that sort!\"\n\n\"Well, putting all that aside,\" I said, with some impatience, \"what is\nthe general opinion of the country people about this man?\"\n\nI asked this decisive question, though I had a pretty fair notion of\nwhat it might be from the fragmentary hints of my landlord.\n\n\"Well, it's good and it's bad,\" she replied, nodding her head\nimpressively. \"Truth to tell, there's so many stories goin' about the\nschoolmaster that it's hard to know the right from the wrong. There's\nthem, as I was sayin', that declares he's mad, and there's more that'll\ntell you he's worse. And mind you, ma'am dear, none of them knows about\nthe trinkets I was speakin' of, barrin' Miss Winifred and myself. For\nshe put it on me not to tell; and of course I didn't till the blessed\nmoment when I opened my heart to you, knowin' well that you'd never let\na word of what I told you pass your lips.\"\n\n\"I shall keep the secret, of course,\" I promised; adding: \"As to the\nman's character, the truth probably lies somewhere between the two\nopinions; but I still think him an unsuitable companion for Winifred,\nbecause he is likely to fill her head with all kinds of nonsense.\"\n\n\"It's God's truth you're tellin',\" said the old woman. \"But Miss\nWinifred's that fond of him there's no use in talkin' agin him.\"\n\nThere was a touch of bitterness in Granny Meehan's tone. It was evident\nthat this attached nurse resented, in so far as it was in her gentle\nnature to resent, her young charge's partiality for the mysterious old\nman.\n\n\"And Miss Winifred,\" she continued, \"sweet and all as she is, can be as\nwilful as the wind. She has known the old man all her life, and he tells\nher all the queer stories of the mountains and glens and rivers; and he\nacts toward her as if she were a grand, fine lady--and so she is, for\nthe matter of that; for the child comes of a splendid old stock on both\nsides.\"\n\nI sat listening to the old woman, and thought how the strange things\nshe had told and the strange character we were discussing fitted in with\nthe place in which it was being told: the massive stone walls, and the\nlozenged windows with their metal crossbars; the air of times long past\nwhich hung over everything; the blind woman, who might have been sitting\nthere forever in the solitude of her blindness.\n\n\"Mebbe, ma'am,\" said Granny Meehan, breaking a silence which had fallen\nbetween us, \"if you were to say a word to her--I can tell by the sound\nof her voice when she names you that she's taken a very great likin' to\nyou--mebbe she'd listen.\"\n\n\"Well, if this Niall has so strong an influence over her as you say,\nbelieve me the word of a stranger would do no good. It might possibly do\nharm in prejudicing her strongly against me. It is better to win her\nconfidence first, if I can. Meanwhile I shall keep my eye upon the\nschoolmaster and find out all I can concerning him. Of course I shall\nnot be very long in the neighborhood, for I intend returning to America\nduring the summer.\"\n\n\"America is a fine country, they tell me,\" said Granny Meehan, with a\nsigh. \"And if I had my sight, mebbe it's there I'd be goin' some day,\nwhen--\" she stopped abruptly, as if afraid to say too much; and then\nplacidly continued: \"Glory be to God for all His mercies! it wasn't to\nbe. In His wisdom He seen that blindness was the best thing for me.\"\n\nA smile, bright and soft as a summer sunset, lighted up her old face as\nshe spoke; but even as I looked at her, with wonder and admiration at\nher faith, which was sublime in its simplicity, a black shadow fell\nsuddenly upon the window-pane. I did not know what it was at first, and\nfancied that some great bird, which had built an eyrie in the ruined\ndonjon, had swooped down to earth in the light of day. I soon perceived\nmy mistake. It was the figure of the schoolmaster which had thus shut\nout the sunlight, and I imagined there was something menacing in its\nattitude.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\nTHE OLD CASTLE.\n\n\nIn another instant the figure of the schoolmaster had vanished from the\nwindow; and Winifred entered, full of life and youthful spirits,\nrecounting the details of her proposed ramble that evening with Moira\nand Barney, away to the bog for turf sods.\n\n\"Can't you leave it to themselves, Miss Winifred asthore?\" said Granny.\n\"Gatherin' peat is no work for you.\"\n\n\"What are these arms for?\" cried Winifred, holding out a pair of strong\nyoung arms, which suggested health and strength in their every movement.\n\"Am I not good for something as well as Barney and Moira?\" Suddenly she\nchanged her tone, running over and laying her soft young cheek against\nthe wrinkled one of her nurse. \"Think, Granny,\" she said, \"what the bog\nwill be like with the moon shining down upon it, making all sorts of\nghostly shadows; so that after a while we shall just run for our lives;\nand Barney will whip up his roan horse and bring us home, shivering for\nfear of ghosts and fairies.\"\n\n\"Winifred,\" I observed, \"you are far too fanciful for this nineteenth\ncentury. You will have to come away to America and get rid of all these\nunreal ideas.\"\n\nHer face clouded at the mention of America, and she rose from her pretty\nattitude beside Mrs. Meehan, straight and tall as a willow.\n\n\"I told you I was going to America,\" she said coldly; \"but I suppose\npeople have fancies out there just as well as we have, only of a\ndifferent kind.\"\n\nThere was a touch of shrewdness in this remark which amused me.\n\n\"Well, I suppose you're right,\" I said. \"But such things should be\nfought against everywhere--or, at least, kept in their proper place.\"\n\n\"Fought against!\" cried Winifred, with sudden warmth. \"And what would\nthe world be without fancies? Just as dull as the bog without the moon.\"\n\nI felt that in a measure she was right, but I said nothing; and she\npresently added, in her ordinary tone:\n\n\"I think we had better go now to look at the castle. Another day I might\nnot be able to show it to you.\"\n\nI rose at once to accompany her; and then she added, with a\nhalf-petulant, half-playful air:\n\n\"I suppose you will only care to see the bare walls. And that won't be\nmuch; for it's the fancies that give them beauty.\"\n\n\"Forgive me, Winifred!\" I said. \"And show me the old walls with your own\nlight upon them--clothed with the tapestry of your own fancy.\"\n\nHer face brightened and she regarded me with a winsome smile, saying:\n\n\"Come, then, and I'll tell you everything; and you may think what you\nlike and say what you like. I won't get cross any more. And if you talk\nabout what you do in America, I will just say in my own mind: 'Oh, I\nsuppose they have the bog without the moonlight out there; and if they\nare satisfied, it doesn't matter!'\"\n\n\"She is indeed too old for her years,\" I thought; \"but so charming\nwithal, who could help loving her? Her very wilfulness and what might\nseem like rudeness in another are redeemed by her voice and manner.\"\n\n\"What if I were to go in Barney's cart and see the bog by moonlight?\" I\nventured to suggest.\n\nWinifred reflected.\n\n\"Barney would not object, I think,\" she decided. \"But it may be best to\nask him. He might feel abashed with you; and I know Moira would not\nspeak a word, but just hold down her head and kick her heels together.\"\n\n\"In short, I should be a wet blanket,\" I went on.\n\n\"_I_ should like to have you with us,\" Winifred said. \"And, after all,\nthe others might not mind much; so perhaps you had better come.\"\n\nI laughed at the form of her invitation, but said that I would go.\n\n\"Very well,\" said Winifred; \"that is settled. And here we are in the\ncastle.\"\n\nBy this time we had passed through a long stone passage similar to that\nby which I had entered the room where we had left Granny Meehan; and\nfrom that time my interest grew and grew. Some parts of the castle were\nquite ruinous, so that we dared not enter, and only gazed in silence\ninto gloomy, vault-like rooms, from which the floors were crumbling\naway. Here owls and bats held nightly revel; and Winifred told me, with\nbated breath, that there walked ladies of the olden time at midnight or\nknights with clanking armor. Again we came to halls into which streamed\nthe light of heaven from ruinous roofs.\n\n\"We have games of hide-and-seek in some of these rooms,\" said Winifred,\nlaughing. \"Oh, you ought to see Moira and me tearing about here!\"\n\nWe mounted at last to the donjon and looked down upon the moat, which\nwas grass-grown; and upon the sally-ports in the walls and the\nbattlements, time-stained and covered in places with ivy, the growth of\ncenturies.\n\n\"They used to give battle in those days,\" said Winifred. \"Wasn't it fine\nto mount the flag on this tower and say to invaders that you would die\nbefore you gave up the castle?\" Her cheek glowed, and she tossed back\nthe curls which were tumbling about her forehead. \"And then the trumpets\nwould be sounding down below, and the horses of the knights neighing,\ntheir lances shining, their banners waving. Oh, I wish I had lived at\nthat time!\"\n\nHer words had called up a vivid picture from the past, and for a moment\nI stood and let my eyes wander out far over the hills. But Winifred\ncalled to me, and, taking my hand, led me down the winding stairs again.\nAfter that we went in and out of a succession of apartments, bewildering\nin their number and size; all bare, lofty, stone-walled and stone-paved.\nHere and there a faded tapestry still lingered, or a banner fluttered in\nthe breeze which stole in through many a crack and cranny. At each pause\nwhich we made my guide was able to tell me some entrancing story, some\nbit of legendary lore which had all the charm of reality.\n\n\"If you know about the Red Branch Knights,\" said Winifred, \"you must\nhave heard of Cuchullin.\"\n\n\"He is the Lancelot of Irish romance,\" I assented.\n\n\"Well, I don't know anything about Lancelot,\" replied Winifred.\n\n\"It doesn't matter for the moment,\" I said. \"Lancelot was a knight of\ngreat valor, always doing noble deeds.\"\n\n\"So was Cuchullin!\" cried Winifred, eagerly. \"Oh, I could tell you\nwonderful things he did, even as a boy!\"\n\n\"Tell me one, at any rate,\" I pleaded.\n\n\"Well, I will tell you how he got his name,\" she began. \"He went to the\nhouse of the smith who was giving a feast for the great King Conor\n(Conor was the boy's uncle). The smith had let out a great hound, for\nthe King forgot to tell him that Cuchullin was coming. The boy came and\ngave battle to the hound and slew him. When the smith found out that his\nhound was dead he grieved very much, because the dog had tended his\nflocks and herds. The boy then offered to watch the cattle and guard\nthem till a hound of equal strength could be found. And because of that\nhe was called Cu-Culann, or the dog of the smith. He had to fight both\ndogs and men in defence of the cattle. But, then, he was a very brave\nboy; and, oh, it is a fine thing to have courage!\"\n\n\"And to use it well as that boy did,\" I put in. \"I suppose he grew up to\nbe as good and brave a man.\"\n\n\"Yes, he was a very famous knight. He gained many victories and\nprotected the poor and weak.\"\n\nI smiled as I watched her fine, mobile face alight with the admiration\nshe felt for that knight of the far-off past.\n\nIn the middle of a great room which we entered Winifred stopped\nabruptly; and when she spoke it was with awe in her voice.\n\n\"In this room,\" she observed, \"was quartered for almost a whole winter\nthe great Finn. Do you know who Finn was?\"\n\n\"Perhaps he is the same as the Fingal of the Scotch,\" I replied.\n\n\"Perhaps so,\" said Winifred, indifferently; \"but I don't know anything\nabout Fingal. This Finn founded an order called the Fianna Eirrinn. He\nmarried Grania, 'the golden-haired, the fleet and young' daughter of\nKing Connae, who lived on the Hill of Tara.\"\n\nIt was quaint to hear Winifred telling these legends or bits of ancient\nhistory in exactly the same language in which some older person had told\nthem to her. I asked her to explain what kind of an order it was that\nthis legendary hero had founded; and she told me it was a military order\nof knights who had sworn to defend the kingdom against foreign foes. She\nadded that Finn possessed the gifts of poetry, of healing, and of\nsecond-sight--the latter from a fairy into whose palace he had succeeded\nin thrusting one hand.\n\n\"It is really wonderful how you can remember all these old stories!\"\n\n\"Niall has been telling them to me ever since I was a little child,\"\nreplied Winifred; \"and I remember a great many more. In that hall\ndownstairs which you see from this gallery, the harper sang to a great\ncompany about the mines in these hills and the golden treasures buried\nin the earth--\"\n\nShe stopped abruptly, as if frightened, looking at me intently. But at\nthe time her words conveyed very little to my mind except the poetic\nidea.\n\n\"In that same great hall down there,\" said Winifred, \"used to be set up\n'the caldron of hospitality.' Every one that came was fed. Princes,\nnobles, minstrels, servants, pilgrims, beggars--each had a place at the\nbig tables which used to be there.\" She paused and looked down, as if\nshe could see the brilliant scene before her. \"In the middle of the room\nthere,\" she cried, \"the chief Conal was warned by the spirit who watches\nover the castle that he was to die that day. He was very strong and\nbrave and beautiful, and he didn't fear death a bit. He went to meet it;\nand in a battle, beside King Brian, he was killed by a Dane.\"\n\nWe passed on, pausing at a great chamber, with windows ivy-hung, giving\nout upon that exquisite scenery which has made famous the name of\nWicklow. I looked out over the hills, whence a purple mist was lifting,\nleaving them illumined with a golden haze.\n\n\"I like the legend of St. Bridget,\" Winifred remarked.\n\n\"Tell it to me,\" I said.\n\n\"I suppose in America you believe in saints?\" said Winifred, with such a\nlook of drollery that I burst out laughing.\n\n\"All good Catholics do that,\" I said, \"even if they are Americans.\"\n\n\"Of course this is a legend,\" Winifred went on; \"and Father Owen--my\ndear Father Owen--told me that not all the legends told of the saints\nare true; but I think this one is.\"\n\n\"I should like to hear it,\" I repeated.\n\n\"Once St. Bridget was on a journey with some companions, and stopped to\nask hospitality of the chief. He was away with his harper, for in old\ntimes every great person had a harper. But the chief's sons were at\nhome, and they brought in their guests to the hall and spread out a\nbanquet for them. While they were at table, St. Bridget looked up at the\nharps and asked the sons to give her some music. They replied: 'Alas!\nhonored lady, our father is away with our harper, and neither my brother\nnor myself has skill in music. But if you will bless our fingers we will\ntry to please you.' Bridget then touched their fingers with the tips of\nher own, and when the brothers sat down to the harps they played such\nmusic as was never heard. All at once the old chief came in and he stood\nspellbound at the exquisite music which his sons were bringing from the\nharp strings. He wondered very much, for they had never played before.\nBut when he saw St. Bridget he understood it all.\"\n\n\"This old castle is full of beautiful legends,\" I observed.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Winifred. \"Niall says he isn't sure that all these things\nhappened in this castle. He says, perhaps the minstrels or some one\ncollected them from a good many castles and pretended that they all\nhappened here. There are such a lot more I could tell you if there was\ntime, but it is getting dark.\"\n\nIt was true; the dusk was creeping over the hills and down into the\nvalleys, like some spirit of peace, causing all toil to cease and\nbidding all nature rest.\n\n\"If you will promise--oh, promise faithfully!--not to say a word to any\none nor to ask too many questions, I will show you something,\" said\nWinifred suddenly.\n\n\"I suppose I must promise,\" I said.\n\nAnd then she led me into a wing of the house which was in astonishingly\ngood repair.\n\n\"The rooms here are all furnished,\" she remarked casually, \"because\npeople lived here once.\"\n\nShe did not say who and I did not ask. Finally she opened the door of a\nsmall room adjoining the kitchen in which Granny Meehan still sat\nsolitary.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\nWINIFRED'S TREASURES.\n\n\nThe room into which Winifred led me was a model of neatness. The curtain\nupon the window, the cover upon the small bureau were of snowy-white;\nand the counterpane upon the bed was blue-and-white patchwork--a piece\nof art in its way.\n\n\"Granny did it all herself before she got blind,\" Winifred explained.\n\"It was for my mother; but my mother never came here, and so I got it.\"\n\nShe handed me a chair as she spoke,--a high-backed, stiff wooden one,\nevidently of rustic manufacture; and, mounting upon another chair, she\nreached to the top of a rude wardrobe, or press, which stood in the\ncorner. Thence she brought down a deal box, which she placed carefully\non the floor, seating herself on a low stool beside it.\n\n\"I'll give you three guesses what is in there,\" she said, looking up at\nme with her bright smile.\n\n\"Your three guesses remind me of Portia's three caskets,\" I answered.\n\nWinifred shook her head slowly. Evidently her knowledge did not extend\nto Shakespeare.\n\n\"Portia's caskets sound pretty,\" she remarked; \"but I don't know what\nthey are.\"\n\n\"I must tell you that pretty story some time. Her suitors were so many\nthat she declared that only he who chose the right casket should win\nher. Each suitor had to guess. The first of those caskets was gold--\"\n\n\"Oh, you knew before!\" interrupted the girl.\n\n\"Knew what?\"\n\n\"I don't understand how you could have guessed so quickly.\"\n\n\"But I have guessed nothing,\" I said. \"I only mentioned that the first\ncasket was of gold.\"\n\n\"Oh, I thought you meant to tell me in that way that you knew what was\nin my box!\" Winifred explained.\n\nI stared and she suddenly withdrew the cover. My eyes were almost\ndazzled.\n\n\"There is gold in my box,--real pure gold,\" said the young girl.\n\nAnd gold there was, amazing both in quality and quantity.\n\nWinifred saw my astonishment, with innocent triumph.\n\n\"Look at that!\" she said, detaching from the mass of shining metal a\ncrown, which she held up for my inspection. While I looked she drew\nforth several other articles, all of peculiar make but of dainty and\ndelicate design, some more richly wrought than others. There were\ncollars, brooches, rings, bracelets,--thin bracelets, such as were worn\nin the olden days by kings and warriors.\n\n\"My dear,\" I said, \"this is wonderful--like some Irish edition of the\n'Arabian Nights.' I feel as if I had got into the cave of the Forty\nThieves or some such place. Where on earth did those things come from?\"\n\n\"I can't answer questions,\" Winifred said; \"but I wanted you to see\nthem, they are so beautiful and so very old. Occasionally I take them\nout to play with them.\"\n\n\"Costly playthings!\" I murmured. \"And since they are so old, how did\nthey come to be so bright?\"\n\nWinifred grew red as she explained:\n\n\"Somebody polishes them with stuff to make them bright, but you mustn't\nask who.\"\n\n\"But, my dear child, I ought to tell you that I know who has given you\nthese things,\" I said gravely.\n\nThe flush faded from the girl's face, leaving it very pale.\n\n\"Ah, I must have betrayed his secret, then!\" she cried. \"He trusted me\nand I was false!\"\n\n\"You have not done so intentionally. I was in the wood one day when you\nwere given a bracelet--\"\n\n\"Oh, that was the day you fell down! I thought you hadn't seen the\nbracelet, because you never spoke of it,\" Winifred said, in such real\ndistress that I was only anxious to comfort her.\n\n\"You need not be afraid. Since you trust me so far as to show me these\nbeautiful things, you may also believe that I shall keep the rest of the\nsecret.\"\n\n\"That is different,\" observed Winifred. \"He told me never to tell where\nI got these things; and now Granny Meehan found out, and you found out\ntoo.\"\n\n\"My dear,\" said I, \"there is one thought which occurs to me, and which I\nmust put in words. Bring your stool over and sit near me.\"\n\nShe did so, her dark curls almost resting on my lap.\n\n\"My thought is this. How does the person who gives you all these\ntreasures procure them?\"\n\nShe shook her head.\n\n\"You promised not to ask questions!\" she exclaimed.\n\n\"Nor am I asking any which I expect you to answer,\" I said quietly. \"But\nare you sure that these ornaments are honestly come by?\"\n\nWinifred sprang to her feet, her face crimson as upon that day when I\nhad made the blunder about Granny's sight.\n\n\"For shame!\" she cried--\"for shame! How could you think of such a thing?\nNiall, who is so good and who is giving his whole life for one purpose!\"\n\nI did feel unaccountably ashamed of myself.\n\n\"You must remember that I do not know Niall,\" I argued.\n\n\"Do you think evil of people without even knowing them?\" Winifred cried\nimpetuously. \"If that's the way they do in America, I don't want to go\nthere, and I won't go there.\"\n\n\"It is the way of the world, as you will find when you are older,\" I\nreplied somewhat sharply; for I was vexed at being put in the wrong by\nthis child. Having been treated with deference by all about her since\nher infancy, she knew little of the respect due to those who were older;\nand only such religious training as she had received from Father Owen,\nwith an innate sense of propriety and a natural courtesy, prevented her\nfrom being that most objectionable of beings--a spoiled, selfish child.\n\nI saw that Winifred was already ashamed of her vehemence, and I pointed\nto the stool at my feet.\n\n\"Sit down again, little one,\" I said, \"and let me finish what I have to\nsay; for I think it is my duty to speak out.\"\n\nShe obeyed in silence, and after a brief pause I went on:\n\n\"This is how it all appears to me, or would appear to any one of\nexperience. The man Niall seems poor, leads a strange, solitary life,\nand yet he gives you articles of great value. There is, to say the least\nof it, a mystery as to how he procures them.\"\n\nWinifred said not a word, but sat still with downcast eyes.\n\n\"And, since I am upon the subject,\" I added, \"I may as well tell you\nthat he is not, in my opinion, a suitable companion for you.\"\n\n\"Not a suitable companion!\" the girl repeated, raising her eyes to my\nface in astonishment. \"Niall, who has taught me nearly everything I\nknow! Why, if it had not been for him I should have been as ignorant as\nMoira. I love him as if he were my father.\"\n\n\"He has taught you a great deal that is wild and visionary,\" I argued.\n\"You know nothing of the realities of life. You are content to lead this\nwandering, aimless existence, when life has real duties, and, as you\nmust find, real cares and sorrows.\"\n\nThis reproach seemed to touch her; for, with one of those strange\nflashes of intuition, she seemed at once to catch my meaning.\n\n\"But how can Niall help that?\" she cried. \"He has been very kind to me.\nHe told Granny to teach me my prayers, and took me to Father Owen\nhimself, so that I could go to confession and make my first communion;\nand he spends his whole life working for me. What should I do without\nhim? I have no one else except dear old Granny, and she is blind.\"\n\nThere was something so pathetic in the way all this was said that,\nalmost involuntarily, the tears came into my eyes. I began to realize\nthat the man had done and was doing his best for the child, but his best\nwas not sufficient; and, sitting there beside that heap of now\ndisregarded treasures, I formed the resolve, in spite of all\ndifficulties, to take the child with me to America. She might return\nlater to be the guardian spirit of this old house and to repay Niall and\ngood Granny Meehan for the devotedness with which they had watched over\nher childhood. But she must first acquire that knowledge of the world,\nthe real world of her own day, in which she was now so deficient.\n\nThere was little reason to doubt from her appearance that she was\nindeed, as Granny Meehan had said, of a fine old stock. Therefore she\nmust be educated as a lady. I should try, if possible, to solve the\nmystery concerning her parents; and then I should take her with me to\nthe great country beyond the seas, where the wildest dreams are\noccasionally realized; and where, at least, there is opportunity for all\nthings. I knew, however, that this would mean diplomacy. If I were to\nbroach the subject to her just then, she would probably refuse to come.\nI must first win her; and I must gain the confidence of Niall, if that\nwere at all possible. He would understand far better than this child of\nnature the advantages of a journey to the New World and of a good\neducation there.\n\n\"I wish you knew Niall!\" Winifred said, with a suddenness which startled\nme,--it was so like the echo of my own thoughts.\n\n\"I wish so too!\" I replied fervently.\n\n\"But it is very hard. He does not like strangers; and he seems to\ndislike people from America most of all.\"\n\n\"That is very unfortunate!\" I said, laughing.\n\n\"Yes,\" assented Winifred. \"Still, he might like some of them very\nwell--if he knew them.\"\n\nShe said this with the utmost simplicity. I did not tell her that I was\ngoing to seek Niall's acquaintance; for I feared she might warn him and\nhe might disappear, as was his wont from time to time, or take other\nmeans of preventing me from carrying out my purpose. I told her,\ninstead, that I must be going; that I had had a most delightful day and\nwas charmed with her castle and her legends.\n\n\"How grand it must have been when it was a real castle,\" she said; \"and\nwhen there was an abbey near by, with a church, and the monks singing!\nIt was one of the race who founded that abbey, in thanksgiving for\nhaving been saved from great danger.\"\n\n\"Ah, those were the days of faith!\" I exclaimed. \"And whatever evil the\npeople did they repaired it nobly by penance and by the great monuments\nthey built up.\"\n\nAs we turned to leave the room I asked Winifred:\n\n\"Are you going to leave all these valuable things here?\"\n\n\"Why, of course!\" she answered in surprise.\n\n\"Can't you ever lock them up?\"\n\nWinifred burst out laughing.\n\n\"Lock them up!\" she said. \"Why should I do that?\"\n\n\"To save them from being stolen.\"\n\n\"As if anything was ever stolen here! I can assure you there isn't a\nrobber in the whole countryside.\"\n\n\"Why, that is as wonderful as your treasures!\" I exclaimed, as we went\nin to where Granny Meehan sat, as usual, placidly by the fire, a great\ncat purring and rubbing its furry sides against her gown. The animal\nfixed on me that glance of grave scrutiny with which these feline\ncreatures appear to read one's whole history, past, present and to come;\nafter which she arched her back and lay down near the hearth.\n\nWinifred walked down with me a piece of the way, after I had said\nfarewell to Granny Meehan, who had heard my glowing praises of the\ncastle with flushed cheeks, down which stole a tear or two of pride.\nWhen we were parting, Winifred remarked wistfully:\n\n\"I think, perhaps, Niall and I are different from any other people. But\nit's no use trying to change us: we shall always be the same.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\nA MOONLIGHT EXPEDITION.\n\n\nIt was a lovely night when I set out with the merrymakers to the bog in\nsearch of peat. Barney was full of drollery, a typical Irish lad such as\nI had not seen in Wicklow before; and Moira, though at first fulfilling\nWinifred's predictions by sitting silently with her heels kicking\ntogether where they hung out of the cart, and her head hanging down,\nafter a while awoke to the spirit of fun and frolic that was abroad.\n\n\"Ah, then, Danny avick, will you move on!\" cried Barney to the horse.\n\"Is it standin' still you'd be, you Tory, and Miss Winifred in the cart\nand the strange lady from America?\"\n\nThe horse seemed moved by this adjuration, as well as by a touch of the\nwhip, and trotted along the shining, silent road.\n\n\"I should enjoy a run with Moira on this road!\" said Winifred.\n\n\"Get down, then, and have your run,\" I answered. \"Barney and I will\neasily keep you in sight.\"\n\n\"You will not mind if I leave you for a little while?\" asked Winifred.\n\n\"No, indeed, dear. Barney and I will entertain each other.\"\n\nBarney pulled up the horse.\n\n\"Be still, you spalpeen,\" he cried, \"and let Miss Winifred down!\"\n\nThe horse, nothing loath, stood still.\n\nWinifred leaped lightly to the ground, followed more clumsily by Moira.\n\n\"Ah, then, Moira,\" exclaimed her brother, \"will you be all night gettin'\nout of the cart?\"\n\nMoira made no answer. Her red cheeks were aglow with delight at the\nprospect of escaping for a time from my embarrassing company and having\na run along the grass-bordered road.\n\nWinifred stopped a moment or two to pet the horse.\n\n\"Poor Danny!\" she said. \"Barney is always calling you names. But you\ndon't mind; do you, Danny?\"\n\nThe horse seemed to answer that he did not in the least, rubbing his\nnose against the child's arm in a gratified way. Then Winifred gave the\nword, and together the two girls were off, their happy voices coming\nback to us as we drove leisurely along in the soft, balmy air. They\nstopped now and again to pick flowers from the hedge or to seek out\ndaisies and wild violets in the fresh grass; while Barney kept up a\nseries of droll remarks,--sometimes addressed to the horse, sometimes to\nme.\n\n\"I hear you're thinking of taking a trip to America, Barney,\" I\nremarked.\n\n\"True for you, ma'am--between now and Doomsday. I'm afeard it will be\nthat long before I get the passage money together.\"\n\n\"Why should you be so anxious to leave this beautiful country?\" I said.\n\n\"Why?\" exclaimed Barney, casting a shrewd glance at me. \"Oh, then, sure\nit's meself that's had enough of beauty without profit. I want to go\nwhere I'll get paid for my work, and be able to hold up my head with a\ndacent hat upon it.\"\n\nAs he spoke he took off and surveyed his own head-covering, which was\nof the kind described but too accurately as a caubeen. I could not help\nlaughing at the gleam of humor which shot out of his eyes--good eyes\nthey were, too.\n\n\"Oh, you villain of the world, is it straight into the hedge you want to\ndrive the lady from America? What'll she be thinkin' of you at all for\nan unmannerly beast?\"\n\nThe animal, being unable to answer these reproaches, shook out his mane\nagain, and resumed his jog-trot till he came up with the two girls, who,\nout of breath from their exertions, were glad to jump into the cart. And\nso we drove on till we came at last to the bog. It was a strange, wild\nscene, with the moon shining over it in broad patches of silver, showing\nthe green turf here and the black ground there, with mounds of earth\narising ghost-like, and clamps of turf left drying for use, and the\nclusters of trees, fragments of old-time forests.\n\nWe all got down from the cart, whence Barney produced a slane, or\nturf-spade. He wanted to cut and leave to dry a bernum of sods, and so\nset to work without delay. He cut around till the sods were of\nsufficient depth; then he dug them up, and, turning them over, he left\nthem to dry. He explained to me that they had afterward to be \"footed\n\"--that is, made into parcels,--and then put into rickles, which are\nturf-sods piled upon each other to a certain height; and lastly into\nclamps, which are tall stacks.\n\nMoira took a turn at the spade, her face growing redder with the\nexertion. Winifred ran over to her.\n\n\"Let me have a turn,\" she said; \"you know I like to dig.\"\n\nAnd dig Winifred did, in spite of the protestations of Barney and Moira.\nThe former said to me:\n\n\"Och, then, you might as well try to stop the wind from whistlin'\nthrough the trees beyant as to stop Miss Winifred when she's set on\nanything!\"\n\nHe watched her with a comical look as the girl dug the slane into the\nearth, cutting with great precision and actually raising two or three\nsods.\n\n\"D'ye see that now?\" cried the rustic, with a mingling of admiration and\namusement.\n\n\"Oh, but you're the wonder of the world, Miss Winifred asthore!\" cried\nMoira. \"When it was all I could do to raise the sod meself!\"\n\nAll three then busied themselves in removing some of the dry turf from\nthe clamp which Barney had previously erected, and in stowing it away in\nthe cart. This done, Winifred said to me:\n\n\"Come; and you too, Moira and Barney! There's a fairy ring here and\nwe'll dance about it in the moonlight.\"\n\n\"The blessin' of God between us and harm!\" cried the alarmed boy and\ngirl in a breath. \"Is it dancin' in a fairy ring you'd be doin'?\"\n\n\"Yes, there and nowhere else!\" she said imperiously. \"Come!--the lady\nand I are waiting for you.\"\n\nSeeing their reluctance, I had gone forward at once, to show them that a\nfairy ring was no more to me than a patch of earth where the grass was\nsofter and greener, and which was now whitened by the moon. And dance we\ndid. Though Barney and Moira were afraid of the fairies, they were still\nmore afraid of displeasing Winifred. I stopped at last, holding my sides\nwith merriment and begging of Winifred to let me rest. She threw\nherself, in a very spirit of mischief, on top of a mound. This\nproceeding evoked exclamations of horror from Moira and Barney.\n\n\"To lie upon a rath!\" groaned Moira. \"It's bewitched you'll be and\nturnin' into somethin' before our eyes.\"\n\n\"Or spirited away underground!\" added Barney; \"or laid under a spell\nthat you'd ever and always be a child.\"\n\n\"I'd like that,\" remarked Winifred, settling herself more comfortably\nupon the mound. \"I don't want to grow up or be old ever.\"\n\nShe gazed up at the moon, seeming to see in its far-shining kingdom some\ncountry of perpetual youth.\n\n\"She'd like it! The Lord save us!\" cried Barney. \"It's wishin' for a\nfairy spell she is. Come away, Miss Winifred dear,--come away, if you're\na Christian at all, and not a fairy as some says.\"\n\nMoira uttered an exclamation, and, darting over to Barney, dealt him a\nsounding slap on the ear.\n\n\"How dare you talk that way to Miss Winifred!\" she cried.\n\n\"And how dare you slap Barney for repeating what foolish people say!\"\nbroke in Winifred. \"I'm ashamed of you, Moira!\"\n\nShe stood up as she spoke, confronting both the culprits. Barney's face\nwas still red from the slap, as well as from a sense of the enormity he\nhad committed in repeating to Miss Winifred what he supposed had been\nkept carefully from her. Moira's lip quivered at her young mistress's\nreproof, and she seemed on the point of crying; but Winifred spoke with\nexceeding gentleness.\n\n\"I'm sorry I was so hasty,\" she said; \"but, you see, Barney spoke only\nfor my good, and you should have had patience with him.\"\n\n\"And I ask your pardon for the words I said,\" Barney began, in\nconfusion.\n\n\"You needn't, Barney,\" said Winifred. \"You only told me what you hear\nevery day.\" Then, turning to me, she added: \"So you won't be surprised\nwhen I do anything strange. For, you see, I'm only a fairy, after all;\nand a mischievous one at times.\" Her face was all sparkling with smiles,\nand the very spirit of mischief looked out of her eyes. \"I'll be laying\nspells on you to keep you here.\"\n\n\"I may be weaving a counter one to take you away,\" I ventured.\n\nShe looked a little startled, but went on in the same playful tone, as\nshe turned back again to the bewildered boy and girl:\n\n\"I'll be enchanting the pair of you, so that you will be standing\nstock-still just where you are for a hundred years, staring before you.\"\n\nAt this they both took to their heels with a scream, Winifred in\npursuit.\n\n\"And I'll turn Danny into a dragon and send him flying home with the\nturf.\"\n\nThere were muffled exclamations of terror from the flying pair.\n\n\"I think I'll make you into a goose, Barney, with a long neck, thrusting\nyourself into everybody's business; and Moira into a pool where you can\nswim.\"\n\n\"Och, och! but the child is temptin' Providence!\" cried Moira, coming to\na stand at some distance off. \"Here in this place of all others; and\nclose by the rath where the gentlefolks is listenin' to every word, and\nshe makin' game of them to their faces!\"\n\n\"Mebbe she _is_ a fairy, after all!\" muttered Barney, under his breath;\nfor he feared a repetition of Moira's prompt chastisement. But this time\nindeed he was beyond the reach of her arm, and Moira herself was in a\nless warlike mood. A sudden shadow, too, fell over the moon, so that we\nwere in darkness. It was a cloud of intense blackness, which fell like a\npall on the shining disc.\n\n\"See what comes of meddlin' with them you know!\" cried Barney, while\neven Winifred was sobered; and the three crept toward the cart, Barney\nand Moira shivering with fright. Barney whipped up the unconscious\nhorse, who had much relished his stay upon the bog, and was only urged\ninto activity by the prospect of going home.\n\n\"Go now, then, Danny avick!\" Barney whispered. \"It's not bein' turned\ninto a quare beast of some kind you'd wish to be. Get us away from here\nbefore the good people comes up out of the rath; for there's no tellin'\nwhat they'd do to us.\"\n\n\"Hear how he talks to the horse!\" said Winifred, who was now seated\nagain beside me, her curls dancing with the jolting of the cart. \"As if\nDanny knew anything about the good people!\"\n\n\"Oh, doesn't he, then, Miss Winifred!\" cried Barney. \"It's meself has\nseen him all of atremble from me whisperin' in his ear concernin' them.\"\n\n\"You just imagine it, Barney,\" said Winifred.\n\n\"And is it _I_ imagine it?\" exclaimed Barney, aggrieved; while Moira sat\nin terrified silence, peering from side to side into the darkness as if\nshe expected to see the avenging good people waiting for us along the\nroad. We were nearly at the castle gate before Barney resumed anything\nof his former spirits and ventured on a joke or two. But Winifred was\nthe merriest of the merry, and kept me laughing immoderately all along\nthe moonlit way, as we jolted and jogged. She insisted that the cart\nwheels sang a song, and made up rhymes to the musical sounds which she\npretended she could hear so plainly.\n\nI often look back to that evening with peculiar pleasure. Winifred was\nat her best: most childlike, most natural, thoroughly enjoying every\nmoment of the beautiful summer night; so that the doubt came over me\nwhether it was better, after all, to remove her from this idyllic life\namongst the Irish hills. The sober common-sense, however, of next\nmorning confirmed me in my previous opinion, and I took the first step\ntoward the realization of that design by seeking an interview with the\nschoolmaster.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\nA VISIT TO THE SCHOOLMASTER.\n\n\nI set out, with Barney as my guide; but Barney had stoutly declared that\nhe would go only a part of the way, as he did not want to trust himself\nanywhere in the neighborhood of the schoolhouse.\n\n\"Sure I went to school there for the length of a whole winter,\" he said;\n\"and the master drove the larnin' into my head. He was a kind man,\nexcept when the anger rose on him. But I was afeard of him, and at long\nlast I ran away and hid, and wouldn't go next or nigh him any more.\"\n\n\"You were very foolish,\" I remarked. \"He could have given you an\neducation and prepared you to go to America, if such is your intention.\"\n\nBut Barney was not to be moved in his opinion, and went on beside me in\ndogged silence till we came to a turn in the road, where he left me,\nrefusing to go a step further.\n\n\"You can't miss the road now, ma'am,\" he declared. \"Just push along the\nway you're goin' till you come to the next turn and then you'll have the\nschoolhouse foreninst you.\"\n\nI thanked him and walked on in the path directed, the cool mountain air\nfanning my cheeks, which were heated by the walk. It was an enchanting\nscene, and I stopped more than once before reaching that turn in the\nroad described by Barney. There, sheltered to some extent by an\noverhanging crag, stood the cabin of the \"mad schoolmaster,\" in one of\nthe loveliest, as it was one of the wildest, spots in all that beautiful\nregion.\n\nI hesitated but an instant; then, stepping forward, knocked at the door.\nI opened it, after I had knocked several times without receiving any\nanswer, and entered the cheerless schoolroom. It was quite undisturbed,\nas though this remarkable man still expected scholars. The rude seats\nwere there, the cracked slates, the table which had served as the\nmaster's desk; a map or two still hung upon the wall. A heap of ashes\nwas on the hearth; above it, hanging from a hook, the identical iron pot\nin which Niall, it was said, had been seen to boil the stones. There was\nsomething weird in the scene, and I felt a chill creeping over me. It\nrequired all my common-sense to throw off the impression that the rustic\nopinion of the occupant of the cottage might be, after all, correct.\n\nAs I looked around me and waited, the blue sky without became suddenly\noverclouded. I stepped to the window. A glorious sight met my eyes, but\nI knew that it meant nothing less than a mountain storm; and here was I\nin such a place, at a considerable distance from home. Mass after mass\nof inky-black clouds swept over the mountain, driven by the wind,\nobscuring the pale blue and gold which had been so lately predominant.\nThe wind, too, began to rise, blowing in gusts which swept over and\naround the cabin, but mercifully left it unharmed, because of the\nprotection afforded by the high rock. But it rattled the windows and\nwhistled and blew, and finally brought the rain down in a fearful\ntorrent. Flashes of lightning leaped from crag to crag, uniting them by\none vast chain. Each was followed by a roar of thunder, re-echoed\nthrough the hills.\n\nIt was an awful scene, and I trembled with an unknown fear, especially\nwhen I felt rather than saw that some one was close behind me. I turned\nslowly with that fascination which one feels to behold a dreaded object;\nand there, quite near me indeed, stood the schoolmaster. I suppose his\ncoming must have been unnoticed in the roar of the tempest. I could not\notherwise account for his presence. The strange cloak, or outer garment,\nwhich he wore seemed perfectly dry; and I wondered how he could have\ncome in from such rain apparently without getting wet. The smile upon\nhis lips was certainly a mocking one; and as I faced him thus I felt\nafraid with the same cold, sickly fear. His eyes had in them a gleam\nwhich I did not like--of cunning, almost of ferocity.\n\n\"You have come,\" he said, without any previous salutation, \"to pry into\na mystery; and I tell you you shall not do it. Rather than that you\nshould succeed in the attempt I would hide you away in one of those\nhills, from which you should never escape.\"\n\nI strove to speak, but my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth; and I\ncould only gaze into those strange, gleaming eyes of his, from which I\nwas afraid to remove my own.\n\n\"You have come from America,\" he said; \"perhaps it is to get _her_. And\nthat you shall never do till my plans are completed.\"\n\n\"To get whom?\" I faltered out.\n\n\"_Whom?_\" he thundered in a terrible voice, which set me trembling more\nthan ever. \"You know whom. You are trying to win Winifred from me--the\nchild of my heart, beautiful as the mountain stream, and wayward as the\nbreeze that stirs its surface.\"\n\nHis face changed and softened and his very voice sunk to one of peculiar\nsweetness as he spoke of the child. But in an instant again he had\nresumed his former wildness and harshness of tone and demeanor.\n\n\"You are trying to win the child from me,\" he went on; \"to destroy my\ninfluence over her, to upset my plans. But you shall not do it--I say\nyou shall not do it!\"\n\nHe glared into my face as he spoke, with an expression which only too\nclosely resembled that of a wild beast. Words rose to my lips. I hardly\nknew what I said.\n\n\"But are you not a Christian--you are a God-fearing man?\"\n\nIt was a strange question, and he answered it with a sneer fearful to\nsee.\n\n\"God-fearing? I used to be so when I knelt, a gossoon, at my mother's\nknee; and when, a stripling, I led the village choir. But so I am not\nnow. I have only one god, and that is gold.\"\n\nHe brought out the words with a fearful power, as though he hurled them\nagainst something. His voice actually rose above the storm, and he threw\nback his head as though in defiance of the very heavens.\n\nI shuddered, but I spoke with more courage than I had hitherto done.\n\n\"If all that is true,\" I said, \"surely you will see yourself that you\nare no companion for Winifred.\"\n\n\"No companion for my little lady?\" he repeated in surprise, with that\nsame softening of his face and tone I had before remarked. \"There you\nare wrong. I guard her as the rock guards the little flower which grows\nin its crevice, as the gardener guards a cherished plant, as the miner\nguards his rarest gem. I teach her to pray, to kneel in church down\nyonder, to believe, to hope, to love; because all that is her shield and\nsafeguard against the great false world into which she will have to go.\nWhy, Father Owen himself has scarce done more for her on the score of\nreligion. I tell her tales of the saints and holy people who sleep in\nthe soil of Ireland; but all the while I am a sinner--a black\nsinner--with but one god, whom I worship with all my might, and for whom\nI slave day and night.\"\n\n\"You can not be what you say if you have done all that for Winifred,\" I\nventured.\n\n\"I am what I say!\" he cried, turning on me with a snarl. \"And so you\nshall find if you attempt to meddle with me; for I have a secret, and if\nyou were to discover that--\" he paused--\"I believe I would kill you!\"\n\nMy fear was growing every instant, till I felt that I must faint away\nwith the force of it; but I stammered out:\n\n\"I don't want to meddle with you or to discover your secret; I want to\nfind out if you are a safe companion for Winifred, and if you will help\nme in a plan I have in view.\"\n\n\"A plan?\" he said wildly. \"I knew it was so. A plan to take Winifred\naway, to undo all my work, to thwart the plans which I have had in my\nmind for years! Beware how you make the attempt--beware, I tell you!\"\n\nA sudden inspiration, perhaps from above, came to me, and I said as\nsteadily as possible:\n\n\"It would be far better than making all these idle threats to confide in\nme and tell me as much or as little of your plans as you please. I am a\nstranger; I have no object in interfering in the affair, except that I\nam deeply interested in Winifred, and would do anything possible for her\ngood. You love the little girl too, so there is common ground on which\nto work.\"\n\n\"God knows I do love her!\" he cried fervently. \"And if I could only\nbelieve what you say!\"\n\nHe looked at me doubtfully--a long, searching look.\n\n\"You may believe it,\" I said, gaining confidence from his changed\nmanner. Still, his eyes from under their shaggy brows peered into my\nface as he asked:\n\n\"You never read, perhaps, of the Lagenian mines?\"--with a look of\ncunning crossing his face.\n\n\"In the lines of the poet only,\" I replied, surprised at the sudden\nchange of subject and at the question.\n\nNiall looked at me long and steadily, and my fear of him began to grow\nless. He had the voice and speech of an educated man--not educated in\nthe sense which was common enough with country schoolmasters in Ireland,\nwho sometimes combined a really wonderful knowledge with rustic\nsimplicity. And he had scarcely a trace of the accent of the country.\n\n\"What if I were to take a desperate chance,\" he said suddenly, \"and tell\nyou all, all? I have whispered it to the stars, the hills, the running\nwaters, but never before to human ears except those of my little lady.\nIf you are true and honest, God deal with you accordingly. If you are\nnot, I shall be the instrument of your punishment. I call the thunders\nto witness that I shall punish you if I have to walk the world over to\ndo so; if I have to follow you by mountain and moor, over the sea and\nacross whole continents.\"\n\nA terrific flash of lightning almost blinded us as he took this\ntremendous oath, which terrified me almost as much as though I were\nreally planning the treachery he feared. I covered my eyes with my\nhands, while crash upon crash of thunder that followed nearly deafened\nus. Niall sat tranquil and unmoved.\n\n\"I love the voice of the storm,\" he murmured presently. \"It is Nature at\nits grandest--Nature's God commanding, threatening.\"\n\nWhen the last echo of the thunder died away he turned back again to the\nsubject of our discourse.\n\n\"If I should trust you with my secret,\" he began again, with that same\nstrange, wild manner which led me to believe that his mind was more or\nless unhinged, \"you will have to swear in presence of the great Jehovah,\nthe God of the thunder, the God of vengeance, that you will not betray\nit.\"\n\n\"I can not swear,\" I said firmly; \"but I will promise solemnly to keep\nyour secret, if you can assure me that there is nothing in it which\nwould injure any one, or which I should be bound in conscience to\ndeclare.\"\n\n\"Oh, you have a conscience!\" cried this singular being, with his evil\nsneer. \"Well, so much the better for our bargain, especially if it is a\nworking conscience.\"\n\n\"And you have a conscience too,\" I declared, almost sternly; \"though you\nmay seek to deaden it--that Catholic conscience which is always sure to\nawaken sooner or later.\"\n\nHe laughed.\n\n\"I suppose I have it about me somewhere, and there will be enough of it\nany way to make me keep an oath.\" He said this meaningly; adding: \"So,\nbefore I begin my tale, weigh all the chances. If you are a traitor, go\naway now: leave Wicklow, leave Ireland, and no harm is done. But stay,\nwork out your treachery, and you shall die by my hand!\"\n\nI shuddered, but answered bravely:\n\n\"You need fear no treachery on my part--I promise that.\"\n\n\"Then swear,\" he cried,--\"swear!\"\n\n\"I will not swear,\" I said; \"but I will promise.\"\n\n\"Come out with me,\" he roared in that voice of his, so terrible when\nonce roused to anger, \"and promise in the face of heaven, with the eye\nof God looking down upon you.\"\n\nHe seemed to tower above me like some great giant, some Titan of the\nhills; his face dark with resolve, his eyes gleaming, his long hair\nstreaming from under the sugar-loaf hat down about his shoulders. He\nseized me by the arm and hurried me to the door.\n\nHardly knowing what I did, I repeated after him some formula--a promise\nbinding, certainly, as any oath. As I did so, by one of those rare\ncoincidences, the sun burst out over the hills, flooding all the valleys\nand resting lovingly upon the highest mountain peaks.\n\n\"The smile of God is with us,\" Niall said, his own face transformed by a\nsmile which softened it as the sunshine did the rocks. \"And now I shall\ntrust you; and if you be good and true, why, then, we shall work\ntogether for the dear little lady, and perhaps you will help me to carry\nout my plans.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\nTHE SCHOOLMASTER'S TALE.\n\n\n\"You must know,\" Niall began, \"that Winifred is a descendant of the\nproud race which inhabited the castle wherein the child now lives. You\nare not, I am sure, acquainted with the history of her ancestors, nor\nshall I tell it. But for a thousand years they have been foremost in\nwar, in minstrelsy, in beauty, in hospitality, in benefactions to the\nChurch and in charity to the poor. Winifred is of that race and--\" he\npaused and drew himself up with some pride--\"and so am I.\"\n\nSuddenly I uttered an exclamation of astonishment.\n\n\"I am the uncle of her father. This part of the story she has not\nlearned; but she does know that for years it has been the dream of my\nlife to restore the old castle, to bring back the fallen glories of our\nrace. I, being a younger brother, was debarred from the line of\nsuccession. That fact early stirred me into bitterness; the more so as\nmy elder brother, Winifred's grandfather, was of an easy and\npleasure-loving temperament. Far from doing anything to improve matters,\nhe seemed to let everything go. I gradually withdrew from all\nintercourse with my fellow men. I dwelt alone, in a secluded part of the\ncastle, and gave myself up to study. I desired to master the secrets of\nthe universe, and in the course of my studies I learned one thing.\"\n\nHe stopped and looked at me fixedly.\n\n\"And that is the secret which I have striven so hard to keep and which I\nam about to confide to you. But let that pass for the present. My\nbrother had an only son, and he was a son after my own heart. He seemed\nto combine in himself all the best qualities of our race. He was daring,\ngenerous, impulsive, yet steadfast and enduring. Gifted with great\npersonal beauty, he had rare talents and a most winning manner. On him I\nbuilt my hopes. He would in some way gain wealth, honor, renown. I\nthought I had already the key to the first, but I wanted him to win the\nothers by his own efforts. I goaded him into action; I disgusted him\nwith the life of a country gentleman which his father had led--and a\npoor and obscure one at that.\"\n\nNiall sighed deeply as he resumed:\n\n\"Sometimes, after an interview with me, he would mount his white horse\nand gallop over the country, to control the agitation which my words had\nawakened in him. He went away at last to Dublin seeking fame. Every now\nand then he returned to tell me of his pursuits, and I urged him on more\nand more. Suddenly his interest began to slacken, and I saw that it had\ntaken another direction. Next thing I heard he was married. His wife was\na mere fine lady, though of a worthy stock. But I parted from Roderick\nin anger. We had a bitter quarrel. In his anger he called the old castle\na ruin, laughed at my plans for restoring it, and declared he would\nnever bring his wife there nor permit her to see its ruinous state.\nAfter that he went away.\"\n\nIt seemed as if Niall's emotion would at this point prevent him from\ncontinuing the story; but he controlled himself by an effort and went\non.\n\n\"Roderick returned only once, dressed in deep mourning, and bringing\nwith him a child about five years old. That was Winifred. He left her in\ncare of Mrs. Meehan. He promised to come back some day or send for his\ndaughter, but he gave no clue as to his own subsequent movements. I\nmyself believe he went to America. Since then I have seen in the child\nthe hope of our race. She has taken her father's place in my heart.\"\n\n\"But how came she to be ignorant that you were her father's uncle?\nSurely the neighbors, especially Mrs. Meehan, must have known.\"\n\n\"The neighbors knew nothing. I had lived, as I told you, in retirement,\nand had been absent, spending many years in the Far East. I had ceased\nto attend church once youth had passed, and was never seen in public. I\nvanished out of the memory of all save a few old servants, who dropped\noff one by one. Mrs. Meehan may suspect something of the truth, but she\nknows nothing for a certainty.\"\n\nI smiled, remembering the dark hints the blind woman had thrown out.\n\n\"But how, then,\" I asked, \"did you come to be known--\"\n\n\"As the schoolmaster?\" he put in. \"I abandoned the castle for purposes\nof my own. I went to live in this cabin in the hills, and I took\npupils--partly to divert attention from my real pursuits, partly to\nenable me to live.\"\n\nI waited silently for the conclusion of the strange narrative; but he\nhad fallen into profound thought, and sat staring at the floor, seeming\nto have forgotten my presence. At last he went on:\n\n\"Winifred, as I have said, was regarded by me as the hope of our race.\nWithout revealing to her our relationship, I treated her with the\ndeepest respect, in order to give her some idea of the importance of her\nposition as heiress of an ancient house, which, though obscured for a\ntime, is destined one day to be restored.\"\n\nAs the old man spoke thus, something of his former excitement returned,\nand he stood up, pacing the room, his eyes glowing and his features\nworking convulsively. Now, nothing in the whole affair had more\nsurprised me than the manner in which Niall had passed from a state of\nalmost insane fury into the quiet courtesy of a well-bred man; so I\nwaited till his excitement had once more subsided. Then he sat down\nagain upon the three-cornered stool whence he had arisen, and continued:\n\n\"If Roderick be still living, I shall find him one day and restore his\nchild to him. But it must be through me that this restoration is\neffected; and I must at the same time offer him the means of repairing\nthe old castle and taking up again the life of a country gentleman.\"\n\n\"Have you any reason to think he is living?\" I asked.\n\n\"Oh, I do not know!\" Niall answered mournfully. \"For many years he sent\nremittances and inquired for the child, saying that he would one day\nclaim her. Lately both money and letters have ceased. A rumor reached\nme--I scarcely know how--that Roderick had married a second wife. Even\nif that be true, he must have changed indeed if he can forget his own\nchild. I am haunted forever by the fear that he may, after all, be dead;\nor that, living, he might one day claim Winifred and take her away from\nIreland forever. And that I will never permit.\"\n\nI was half afraid of another outbreak; but it did not come. He went on,\nin a calm and composed tone of voice:\n\n\"I must confess that when I heard you were here--\"\n\n\"You fancied, perhaps, that I was the second wife?\" I said, smiling.\n\n\"What I fancied matters little!\" he cried, almost brusquely. \"But I made\nup my mind that if you had come here on such a mission, you should\nreturn disappointed.\"\n\n\"Now, I may as well admit,\" I said deliberately, \"that I have had\nthoughts of carrying Winifred away.\"\n\nHe started.\n\n\"Not as the result of a preconcerted plan,\" I hastened to add; \"for I\nnever heard of Winifred nor of the castle till I came here, and I could\nnot even now tell you the name of her father. I have heard him spoken of\nmerely as Roderick.\"\n\n\"Roderick O'Byrne,\" said Niall, fixing his keen eyes upon my face.\n\nIt was my turn to start and to color violently, with the sudden\nrecollection.\n\n\"So you do, perhaps, know Mr. Roderick O'Byrne, after all?\" said the\nschoolmaster, dryly; and I saw that his former suspicions were revived.\n\n\"Know him? Why, yes. But as the father of Winifred--no.\"\n\n\"And where, may I ask, have you met him?\"\n\n\"In New York city.\"\n\nHe bent eagerly forward.\n\n\"Tell me--oh, tell me how long ago was that?\"\n\n\"Within the last six months.\"\n\n\"Then he is still alive?\"\n\n\"He was when I sailed from New York,\" I assented.\n\nTears which he could not repress forced themselves from the old man's\neyes and flowed down his cheeks. They were tears of joy and relief.\n\n\"O Roderick!\" he murmured; \"dear Roderick, son of my heart, you are upon\nthe green earth still, and I feared you had left it for evermore!\"\n\n\"Moreover,\" I went on, \"you are altogether wrong in supposing he is\nmarried again.\"\n\n\"What's that you say?\" he cried joyfully. \"Living and still a widower?\"\n\n\"Living and still a widower.\"\n\n\"You are sure of that?\"\n\n\"Quite sure.\"\n\nNiall muttered some exclamation in Irish, the meaning of which I did not\nknow; then he turned upon me with a beaming smile.\n\n\"You are as the dawn that heralds a bright day, as the sun that peeps\nfrom out a dark cloud, as a flower thrusting its head through the snow!\"\n\nI sat watching the schoolmaster with real gratification at the pleasure\nI had given him. Then he asked:\n\n\"He never spoke to you of Winifred?\"\n\n\"Never.\"\n\n\"Nor of Wicklow?\"\n\n\"Nor of Wicklow.\"\n\n\"He has forgotten Ireland!\" cried the old man bitterly. \"He has become\nAmericanized, as they all do.\"\n\n\"On the contrary,\" I observed. \"I heard him speak once of Ireland, and\nin a way I shall never forget.\"\n\nHe looked at me with sudden keenness, even suspicion; and I smiled.\n\n\"I know what you are smiling at!\" Niall cried, with one of those quick\nflashes of intelligence which reminded me of Winifred.\n\n\"Do you?\" I said, laughing outright. \"Well, then, I may as well tell you\nI was smiling at the suspicion I saw in your eyes--smiling at the\ncontrast between my gray hairs and wrinkles and Roderick O'Byrne as I\nsaw him last.\"\n\n\"Yet Roderick is no boy,\" argued Niall. \"Roderick is close to forty.\"\n\n\"He has the secret of perpetual youth,\" I said, warming at the\nremembrance. \"Winifred has it too; she will never grow old. But now my\nheart is more than ever in your plans, and I should like to possess your\nentire confidence,--to know, for instance, how the wealth is to be\nobtained with which to restore the ancient castle.\"\n\n\"That,\" said Niall, impressively, \"is the secret which hitherto I have\nshared with no one save Winifred, and which I am about to impart to you.\nBut remember your promise is as solemn, as binding as an oath.\"\n\n\"I remember,\" I said; \"and I tell you once more that no word of your\nsecret shall ever be repeated by me to any one without your express\npermission. Take my word for it.\"\n\nNiall stood up and looked all about him, examined the door and the\nwindow, went outside and walked around the cabin, tried the chinks in\nthe walls; and when he was quite convinced that no living thing was in\nthe vicinity, he drew a stool near, and, laying his sugar-loaf hat upon\nthe floor, began to pour into my ears a tale which seemed almost\nmagical. His appearance changed, too, as he went on with his narrative.\nHis eyes, alight with enthusiasm, presently took on an expression merely\nof greed. The craving for gold was written on every line of his face. It\nwas so plain a lesson against avarice that involuntarily I shuddered.\n\nHe tossed his hair from his forehead, while his features worked\nconvulsively; and it was only when he left that part of the subject\nwhich related to mere gold, and rose once more to the plan he had in\nview of restoring the old castle, that he brightened up again. Then I\nsaw in him one of those mysterious resemblances which run through a\nrace: a likeness to Roderick--gay, handsome, and comparatively young; a\nlikeness to Winifred herself.\n\nI had a curious feeling of unreality as I sat there and listened. The\nold man might be Roderick O'Byrne himself after the passage of a score\nor more of years; the cabin might be an enchanted spot, which would\nvanish away at touch of a wizard's wand; and these rude chairs and\ntables might be condemned by the same strange witchery to remain forever\ninanimate. I had to shake myself to get rid of this feeling which crept\nover me, and seemed to overpower the sober common-sense, the practical\nand prosaic wisdom, which seem to spring from the American soil.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\nTHE SCHOOLMASTER'S SECRET.\n\n\nI had waited with breathless interest for what Niall might have to say;\nbut he put his whole secret in the opening words of his narrative.\n\n\"I am,\" he began, \"a gold-seeker--a hunter for treasure-trove.\"\n\n\"A gold-seeker?\" I repeated, amazed and incredulous; though here was the\nexplanation of many mysteries.\n\n\"Yes. Here, in these very mountains gold has been found time and time\nagain. There were mines here scarce a hundred years ago; 'tis said that\nten thousand pounds' worth of gold was dug up in two months. Ten\nthousand pounds! Think of it!\"\n\nNiall stopped, full of a suppressed emotion, which threatened, I\nthought, to shake his strong frame to pieces.\n\n\"The old minstrels sang of the gold--the yellow gold, the red gold; and,\ntouching the strings of their harps, the bards told the kings of other\ndays of treasure that had been buried--vases, ornaments, trinkets of all\nsorts--\"\n\n\"But tell me,\" I interrupted, \"have you found any of these things?\"\n\n\"I have found these treasures time and again. Some of them are now in\nthe British Museum, and the money for them in my cave at the\nPhoul-a-Phooka with the other valuables, save those which I gave to my\nlittle lady. My storehouse is in the loneliest spot, where the timorous\ndare not venture, where the wild horse of the legend keeps guard for\nme. Once I brought my little lady there, and her eyes were so dazzled\nshe covered them with her hands.\"\n\nI listened as in a dream.\n\n\"But gold?\" I asked, in an awe-stricken voice. \"Have you found--\"\n\n\"About a hundred ounces,\" he replied, \"of genuine pure gold. But what is\na hundred ounces where tons, perhaps, lie buried?\"\n\nHe sprang up and paced the room, a fever, almost of insanity, glowing on\nhis cheeks and in his eyes. I watched with a new interest this man, who\nwas making the hills and streams of his loved Ireland yield up this\ntreasure.\n\n\"It seems like a fairy-tale,\" I said.\n\n\"It is not fairy gold,\" Niall cried, with a grim smile; \"and it has cost\nme years of slavery. I have guarded the secret with my life. I have\nspent long, lonely years in this cheerless cabin, haunting the streams\nby night, washing and rewashing the precious clay in the chill dawn,\ntesting the gold in the fire of yonder hearth, often when the rest of\nthe world was sleeping. Gold has been my idol, my one devotion.\"\n\n\"Do you get the gold in large pieces?\"\n\n\"In every size, from the tiniest sparkle worth about sixpence to a lump\nworth several shillings.\"\n\n\"It is wonderful, wonderful!\" I could only repeat.\n\n\"My studies in the East helped me much in my work,\" Niall observed; \"but\nindeed for years past the study of precious metals, and how to procure\nthem, has been the one object of my life.\"\n\n\"Even should your secret come to light,\" I ventured to say, \"surely\nthere is enough for every one in the bowels of the earth.\"\n\n\"There may be,\" Niall cried wildly--\"oh, there may be; but no one must\nknow of it till I have got my portion! Besides, as all gold-seekers\nknow, the gold is as uncertain as a fickle woman. Sometimes in a stream\nthere is but a little, or there will be much in one portion of the\nriver's bed and none at all in the other.\"\n\n\"Did Roderick know?\" I asked.\n\n\"Never. I was but beginning my search when he went away. I would not\nhave told him in any case. He would have wanted to share our good\nfortune with every one.\"\n\n\"Winifred knows?\"\n\n\"Yes, she knows. I could trust her with my secret.\"\n\nHe fell into deep abstraction; and I, watching him, could scarcely\nrealize that this quiet, thoughtful man was the same wild being who had\nterrified me during the storm. It showed me the fearful power of gold\nover the human heart, and how it was capable of changing an ordinary\ngentleman of studious habits into the semblance of a wild beast. He\nroused himself all at once to say:\n\n\"You spoke of some plan of yours for the child?\"\n\n\"My plan for Winifred,\" I said boldly, though with some inward fear,\n\"was to take her away with me to America, and put her at a convent\nschool, where she should be educated as befits her station in life.\"\n\nHis face grew dark as I spoke, and he flashed upon me one of his old\nsuspicious glances.\n\n\"You wanted to take her to America! How am I to know that you are not,\nafter all, an agent sent by Roderick or by some of the mother's people?\"\n\n\"You have only my word for it,\" I said, slightly drawing myself up. \"I\ncan offer no other proof.\"\n\n\"I suppose it is all right,\" he replied, with another keen look and a\ndeep sigh; \"if not, then has misfortune indeed overtaken me.\"\n\nThis was said as if to himself; and presently, raising his voice, he\nasked:\n\n\"Pray what do they teach at these convent schools?\"\n\n\"They teach their pupils to be Christian ladies,\" I answered warmly.\n\nHe was silent again for a moment or two, then he went on:\n\n\"I have grounded her in all her studies, and if she continues with me\nshe will be thoroughly well instructed in many branches. But there are\nsome things I can not teach her. I know that all too well.\"\n\n\"And those are precisely what the child would learn at a convent\nschool,\" I put in eagerly.\n\n\"Think for a moment,\" he exclaimed vehemently, \"what such a parting\nwould mean to me! I am old. I might never see her again. Even if I can\nrely on your good faith once you are out of my sight, I will forever\nstand in fear of some evil befalling her, some mischance which would\nupset all my plans.\"\n\n\"I thought you intended to take her to America yourself?\" I said.\n\n\"Yes; to find her father, and to persuade him to come back with us to\nhis native land.\"\n\n\"But he might refuse.\"\n\n\"That would be unlikely, unless he was married again. In that case, I\nwould bring Winifred back to be lady of the castle.\"\n\nI sat thoughtful, musing over this plan, which seemed like a dream of\nromance. But Niall's voice broke in on my musings:\n\n\"Should I let the child go with you, it is on condition that she does\nnot see Roderick until I give my consent; and should I want her back\nhere in the meantime, she must come.\"\n\n\"She is not to see her father?\"\n\n\"No, no! She must go direct to the school, and Roderick must not know of\nher presence there.\"\n\n\"It seems hard!\" I murmured.\n\n\"Hard! But does he deserve better?\" said Niall. \"For whatever cause, he\nhas left Winifred to my care and that of Mrs. Meehan all these years.\"\n\n\"That is true,\" I responded; \"and I accept the conditions.\"\n\n\"It will be the saddest moment of my life when I see my little lady\ndepart,\" Niall exclaimed; and already his face was drawn and haggard and\nhis voice husky at the prospect. \"But should my dream be realized, she\nwill acquire the manner, the accomplishments, the graces which our\nWicklow hills can not furnish. You are right; she must go.\"\n\nI was at once touched and astonished at his ready compliance with my\nwishes. I had feared it might be a tedious task to overcome his\nobjections. But the clear mind of the man had at once perceived the\nadvantages of my plan.\n\n\"You see, I am putting entire trust in you. I am confiding Winifred to\nyou. I have already told you my secret.\"\n\n\"You shall never have cause to regret either,\" I cried warmly. \"And as\nfor the conditions, they shall be put down in writing, and Winifred\nshall be restored to you when and where you desire.\"\n\n\"What will these hills be like without her!\" he exclaimed, rising and\ngoing to the window.\n\nThere was again that wildness in tone and manner as of a mind which had\nbecome somewhat unsettled by the strange, wandering life he had led,\nwith its fever of suspense and excitement.\n\n\"What will the greensward be like, child of my heart, when your foot no\nmore shall press it? What will the hills be like when your eyes--asthore\nmachree!--shall not look upon them? And the Glen of the Dargle shall\nhave lost its charm when you are not there, its spirit!\"\n\nHe tossed his arms above his head and rushed wildly from the cabin. I\nwaited for a time; but as he did not return, I slowly followed the\nhomeward path, content with what I had accomplished for one day, but\nwondering much at the strange revelations which Niall had made.\n\nBefore I reached home I suddenly met Winifred. Her face was clouded, and\nat first she scarcely noticed me.\n\n\"What is the matter with Niall?\" she asked. \"I met him and he would not\nlook at me. I called his name, but he ran away and would not speak.\"\n\n\"He will tell you all in good time,\" I answered soothingly.\n\n\"It is you!\" she said, looking at me keenly, with a glance like that of\nher kinsman. \"You have been vexing him: saying something that he did not\nlike.\"\n\n\"We must all have things said to us that we do not like, when it is for\nour good,\" I remarked gravely.\n\n\"I wish you had never come here! I wish you would go away!\" Winifred\nexclaimed, stamping her little foot till it stuck in the soft earth.\n\n\"See, how useless is ill-temper!\" I said; for I was rather annoyed by\nher petulance. \"You have spoiled your pretty shoe. And as for going\naway, when I go, you will go too.\"\n\nShe turned pale, then trembled and stammered out a question or two:\n\n\"I--go--with you? Where?\"\n\n\"All the way to America.\"\n\n\"To America!\" said Winifred, in an amazement which seemed blended with\nfear or emotion of some sort.\n\n\"Yes; over the great sea,\" I went on, \"where you will see many new and\nbeautiful things.\"\n\n\"But I don't want to see them!\" she replied, with an energy that\nstartled me.\n\n\"That is not a nice way to put it, dear,\" I said gently. \"I hope,\nindeed, you will be a very good girl and give me as little trouble as\npossible. You will have to leave your wilful ways in the mountains with\nthe sprites.\"\n\n\"Niall will never allow it!\" she cried, with childish triumph.\n\n\"Niall has just said 'Yes.' So I give you a month to prepare,\" I\ndeclared firmly. I had determined to exert my authority from that moment\nforward, as it was necessary that I should.\n\n\"Niall has said 'Yes'!\" she repeated, drawing a sharp breath and\nspeaking as one in a dream. Her lip quivered; two tears shone in her\neyes, but she would not let them fall. Turning on me instead, with a\ncurious tone of command, she asked:\n\n\"Who are you?\"\n\n\"A friend.\"\n\n\"An enemy, I think!\" said Winifred, and with that she turned sharply\naway and was soon hidden in the brushwood. But I heard her only a few\nmoments afterward, sobbing aloud and calling, as Niall had done, on\nNature:\n\n\"I can't leave the hills and the streams and the valleys! I can't leave\nWicklow and the Dargle and the castle, and dear Granny and Moira and\nBarney and Niall! Oh, it would break my heart!\"\n\nShe sobbed again for a few moments; then her voice rang out defiantly:\n\n\"I will _not_ go! I will hide in the hills, as the O'Byrnes did in the\nwars. I will live in a cave like them and not go to that hateful\nAmerica.\"\n\nI went back to the inn, resolving to try to win the child over to my\nideas as I had done her uncle. I foresaw many difficulties in the way;\nand as I sat down on the wooden bench outside the door I began to wonder\nif my idea was, after all, a mistaken one. The air was very fresh and\npure after the storm; the verdure of that Emerald Isle, so fondly\nremembered by its exiled sons and daughters, was rich and glowing after\nthe rain; and the hills were shrouded in a golden haze, darkening into\npurple near the summit. I sat and listened to a thrush singing in the\nlilac bush near which I had seen Winifred sitting on the morning of our\nvisit to the castle, till a strange peace stole over me and I lost all\nmy fears.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\n\nTWO VISITS.\n\n\nMy next duty was to obtain Granny Meehan's consent to Winifred's\ndeparture for America. I found her sitting beside the hearth in her\naccustomed place, with the cat at her feet. Winifred was absent, and in\nthe outer court was the pleasant sunshine falling over solitude. Only\nthe fowls, so variously named by Winifred, disported themselves before\nthe window.\n\nMrs. Meehan greeted me cheerfully and cordially, and I saw that no\nshadow of future events had fallen upon her yet. Our conversation at\nfirst was on the usual topics--the fine weather, the prospect of good\ncrops. Then, as it were of a sudden, I remarked:\n\n\"Well, Mrs. Meehan, I have seen the schoolmaster.\"\n\nGranny started, and stared at me in silence for a few moments.\n\n\"Where, then, ma'am dear?\" she asked uneasily.\n\n\"In his own house.\"\n\n\"In the cabin up beyant there?\" she cried in amazement. \"Tell me was it\nup there?\"\n\n\"Yes, in the cabin amongst the hills, on the day of the storm,\" I\nanswered very calmly.\n\n\"The Lord be good to us, ma'am! And what took you to that fearsome\nplace--in such weather, too? Couldn't you have got shelter anywhere\nelse?\"\n\nShe was quite pale at the thought.\n\n\"I went purposely, Mrs. Meehan; for I had made up my mind to ask him for\nWinifred.\"\n\n\"To ask him for Winifred!\" she echoed in astonishment. Then her manner\nshowed something of offence. \"It was in my charge the colleen was left,\"\nshe declared; \"and 'tis I, and not Niall of the hill, that has the say\nabout her.\"\n\n\"But I was sure of your consent already,\" said I, quietly.\n\n\"And what made you sure of it, axin' your pardon for the question?\"\n\n\"Your intelligence, your love for the girl, and your fear of Niall's\ninfluence over her.\"\n\nShe seemed mollified, and I went on:\n\n\"Your intelligence will show you it is for the best, your love for\nWinifred will make you wish the best for her, while your fear of\nNiall--\"\n\n\"Speak lower, ma'am: he may be in hearin'!\" she said anxiously. \"He's\nthat strange he does be appearin' when least you expect.\"\n\n\"Well, in any case, I knew you would not oppose her going with me to\nAmerica.\"\n\n\"To America, is it?\" cried the woman, bristling up as fiercely almost as\nNiall himself. \"Oh, then, how am I to know that you're playin' me no\ntricks--that you haven't been sent to take her away from us?\"\n\n\"Mrs. Meehan,\" I said gravely, \"I gave you my word as a lady that I knew\nnothing of her till I came here.\"\n\n\"I ax your pardon!\" she said humbly. \"But, O ma'am dear, think of\nAmerica, over the big ocean, and me sittin' here alone among the hills,\npowerless to go to her if she needs me!\"\n\n\"She will be taken good care of,\" I said. \"I shall put her in a\nconvent, where she will be thoroughly educated and prepared for the part\nshe has to play in life.\"\n\n\"And will she be goin' away from the old land forever?\" she asked,\nclasping her feeble hand over her heart.\n\n\"By no means. It is my hope and wish that she come back here.\"\n\n\"But him you call the schoolmaster will never allow it!\" she cried, with\nsomething of the same triumph which had appeared in Winifred's face.\n\n\"The schoolmaster has already given his consent,\" I said quietly.\n\n\"Given his consent!\" repeated the old woman, flushing and paling; and\nthen a great wonder seemed to overcome every other feeling. \"You saw him\nin the cabin 'mongst the hills and you got his consent! But weren't you\nafeared, ma'am, to go there by yourself?\"\n\n\"I was somewhat afraid at first,\" I admitted; \"but I felt that for the\nchild's sake it had to be done.\"\n\n\"And you'll take her away from me?\" the old woman cried piteously. \"How\ncan you, ma'am?\"\n\n\"Don't you see yourself how much the best thing it is for her?\" I urged.\n\"You are afraid of Niall's influence over her; she can not grow up as\nshe is, roaming the hills, with no companions of her own age or rank.\"\n\nShe was silent a long time, and I thought she was praying.\n\n\"You are right, ma'am dear,\" she said tranquilly; \"it is for the best,\nand it seems to be God's holy will. But when must it be?\"\n\n\"We shall sail from here in August, I think,\" I answered. \"And then I\ncan place her in a convent near New York for the opening term of the\nschool year. If she stays there even two or three years, it will make a\ngreat difference. And then she will come back to take her place at the\ncastle, if it can be made habitable; or, at all events, in the\nneighborhood.\"\n\n\"But Miss Winifred's father is in the United States of America?\" said\nthe old woman, tremulously.\n\n\"Yes: he is in New York. I know him and have spoken to him.\"\n\nThe old woman's face flushed with a joyful, eager flush.\n\n\"You know my boy, the pulse of my heart--Roderick?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I answered. \"I know him, I may say, well.\"\n\nA look of trouble suddenly replaced the brightness of Granny Meehan's\nface.\n\n\"Then know too that if Roderick sets his eyes on Miss Winifred, we'll\nnever see her more here in the old land.\"\n\nThere was something indescribably mournful in her tone.\n\n\"Himself will take her,\" she went on; \"and who can say that his new wife\nwill give her a mother's love or a mother's care?\"\n\n\"He has no new wife!\" I said--\"no wife at all; and perhaps, among us, we\ncan win him back to the old world--to Ireland, to Wicklow.\"\n\n\"Say that again, asthore machree!\" cried the old woman,--\"that he has no\nwife at all. Oh, then, sure there's hope for him comin' back!\"\n\n\"Niall has made it a condition of his consent to Winifred's going,\" I\nobserved, \"that Roderick shall not see his child nor know of her\npresence in New York till the old man gives the signal.\"\n\n\"The old rap!\" cried Granny, with sudden ire. \"'Tis like him, the\nmarplot, the--but the Lord forgive me what I'm sayin'! And hasn't he\nbeen a father to the little one, with all his queer ways and his\nstrayin' about the hills when others were in their beds?\"\n\n\"He is altogether devoted to her,\" I said; \"and has a right to make\nwhat request he pleases.\"\n\n\"True for you, ma'am--true for you,\" said Granny. \"And my old heart's so\nfull with all you've told me that it seems as if the world was turned\nthe wrong way round. Oh, what a desolate spot this will be when Miss\nWinifred's gone out of it!\"\n\n\"Only for a time; and then, if all goes as we hope, think what happiness\nis in store for every one!\"\n\n\"I'll try to think of it, ma'am,--indeed and I will,\" said Granny. \"And,\nsittin' here in the dark alone, I'll be prayin', mornin', noon and\nnight, that all may turn for the best.\"\n\n\"Your prayers will help more than anything else can,\" I declared; \"be\nsure of that, and keep up your heart. But now I think I'll call upon the\npriest--Father Owen, I believe?\"\n\n\"Yes: Father Owen Farley.\"\n\n\"Very well. I shall see him and tell him all about the matter. He may be\na help to us, too.\"\n\nI bade the old woman good-morning and went on my way, feeling that I had\nquite overcome the opposition of those interested in the girl. I had\nonly to fear now some wilfulness on the part of Winifred herself, and I\ncounted on Father Owen to help me in that direction. I had already\ndiscovered that she had a strong, lively faith, the robust piety so\ncommon among the children of Ireland, and the respect for priests which\nseems to come by instinct. I had heard her speak of Father Owen with a\nreverence beautiful to see in one so young.\n\nAs I went on my way to the chapel, the sun, which had been under a\ncloud, suddenly burst out from a sky of tender, dappled gray. There was\na smell of the woods in the air, which a morning shower had brought\nforth; and a robin was singing as I approached Father Owen's residence.\nThe songster sat on the bough of a tree, his red breast swelling with\nthe melody he sent forth. His bright eye catching sight of me caused him\nto trill out more bravely than ever, as if to say: \"See how this little\nIrish robin can sing! Did you ever hear a finer song than that?\"\n\nI think it was at the same thought Father Owen was laughing as I drew\nnear. He stood in his little garden, a fine, venerable figure, with\nsnow-white hair, worn rather long on his neck. He was about the medium\nheight, thin to emaciation, with wonderfully bright eyes and the smile\nof a child. He turned at my approach. I introduced myself.\n\n\"You will know me best, Father,\" I observed, \"as the lady from America.\"\n\n\"The lady from America?\" he said. \"I'm glad to meet you. Of course I've\nseen you in church and at the holy table. This is a real pleasure,\nthough. Come into my little house now, and let me hear something of your\nwonderful country beyond the sea.\"\n\nI followed, charmed with his courtesy.\n\n\"I was listening to that rogue of a robin,\" he said, as he led me in;\n\"and I think he knew very well he had an auditor. Birds, I suppose, have\ntheir vanity, like the rest of us.\"\n\n\"The same thought occurred to me, Father,\" I answered. \"He did swell out\nhis little throat so, and sent his eye wandering about in search of\napplause.\"\n\n\"There's a deal of human nature in birds,\" said the priest, laughing at\nthe quaint conceit; \"and in the lower animals as well--every cat and dog\namong them.\"\n\nWe chatted on from one subject to another, till at last I introduced\nthat which had brought me.\n\n\"Father,\" I began, \"I want to talk to you specially about Winifred, the\norphan of the castle.\"\n\n\"Winifred!\" he said, his face lighting up. \"A lovable, charming child,\nbut a bit wayward; pure and bright in spirit as yonder mountain stream,\nbut just as little to be restrained.\"\n\n\"I thought I would like to hear your opinion of a plan I have formed\nwith regard to her.\"\n\nHe bowed his head, with an inimitable courtesy in the gesture, as if to\nsignify his willingness to hear, and fixed his dark eyes upon me.\n\n\"My idea is to take her to America and place her for a few years in a\nconvent.\"\n\n\"America,\" he said thoughtfully, \"is very far off; and if she has to\nlive in Ireland, might it not be better to select a convent nearer\nhome?\"\n\nThen I went more into details: told him of Roderick and of the\npossibility of bringing father and child together. His opposition--if\nopposition it could be called--vanished at once, and he cordially\nentered into the idea.\n\n\"Granny Meehan will certainly consent if we all think it best for the\nchild,\" he said; \"but what of that extraordinary being in the mountains\nup yonder? What of Niall?\"\n\n\"He has consented.\"\n\n\"You amaze me!\" cried the priest, holding up both hands in astonishment.\n\"Surely it takes you Americans to accomplish anything.\" Then he added\nafter a pause: \"Did he mention his relationship to Winifred, which is a\nsecret from all about here?\"\n\n\"He did.\"\n\n\"He is a most singular character--a noble one, warped by circumstances,\"\ncontinued the priest, thoughtfully. \"A visionary, a dreamer. Poor\nNiall! he was a fine lad when I knew him first.\"\n\n\"You knew him when he was young, then?\" I inquired.\n\n\"Yes, I knew him well. An ardent enthusiastic boy, brave and hopeful and\ndevout. Now--but we need not discuss that. It is as well, perhaps, that\nthe child should be withdrawn from his influence before she is older;\nthough, mind you, his influence over her has hitherto been for the\nbest.\"\n\n\"So I have every reason to think,\" I assented; \"but, as you say, Father,\ngrowing older, the girl will require different surroundings.\"\n\nAfter that we talked over our plans for the best part of an hour; and\nthe old priest showed me his simple treasures--a crucifix of rarest\nivory, so exquisitely carved that I could not refrain from expressing my\nadmiration again and again. This, with a picture or two of rare merit,\nhad come from Rome; and reminded Father Owen, as he said, of seminary\ndays, of walks on the Campagna in the wonderful glow of an Italian\nsunset, of visits to churches and art galleries. He showed me, too, his\nbooks.\n\n\"They have supplied to me,\" he observed, \"the place of companionship and\nof travel. I can travel in their pages around the civilized world; and I\nlove them as so many old friends. In the long nights of winter I have\nsat here, listening to the mountain storm while I read, or the streams\nrushing upon their way when the frost set them free.\"\n\nAs he talked thus there was the sound of hasty, rushing feet in the\nhall, and Winifred burst into the room.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\n\nHOW FATHER OWEN WON THE DAY.\n\n\nShe threw upon the table an immense mass of bloom she had gathered on\nthe banks of the Dargle; then rushed over to her beloved Father Owen,\ncrying:\n\n\"O Father Owen, Father Owen! she wants to take me away with her to\nAmerica, and it will break my heart--I know it will!\"\n\nThe tears streamed down her cheeks, and she never noticed me in this\nwild outburst of grief.\n\n\"My child, my child,\" said Father Owen, \"do you hear that robin singing\noutside there? And you, to whom God has given reason, are crying! The\nlittle robin sings in the sunshine and is calm in the storm.\"\n\n\"I can't help it, Father--I can't help it! The robin has no heart, but\njust feathers over his little bones.\"\n\nFather Owen laughed, and even the girl smiled through her tears.\n\n\"Let me see sunshine again on your face,\" the priest said, \"and hear the\nsong on your lips. If you are going to America there's no misfortune in\nthat--is there?\"\n\n\"No misfortune to leave everything I love and go away with a stranger?\"\n\n\"Not so great a stranger, Winifred,\" I ventured, reproachfully. \"I\nthought we were to be friends.\"\n\nThe girl started at sound of my voice and blushed rosy red.\n\n\"I didn't know you were here!\" she muttered confusedly.\n\n\"Well, it doesn't matter, my dear,\" I replied. \"You have shown nothing\nmore than natural feeling at the prospect of parting with the scenes and\nfriends of your childhood. But I want to tell you now in presence of\nFather Farley that you are free to stay or go. I shall not force you to\naccompany me; for perhaps, after all, you will be happier here than\nthere.\"\n\n\"Ah, happiness is not the only object of a life!\" Father Owen said\nquickly. \"Why, even that little bird yonder has to give up his songs in\nthe sunshine sometimes and go to work. He has to build his nest as a\nshelter for his family, and he has to find them food.\"\n\nHe paused, looking out of the window at the little workman gaily hopping\nabout as if making repairs in his dwelling, and thus pointing the moral\nand adorning the tale. When the priest turned round again to look at\nWinifred, her face was pale but composed, and her tears were dried on\nthe delicate kerchief she drew from the folds of her cloak.\n\n\"To my mind it seems clear,\" said the priest, \"that this lady's presence\nhere just now is providential; and that her offer to take you to America\nis most kind, as it is most advantageous.\"\n\nWinifred threw at me a glance which was neither so grateful nor so\nfriendly as it might have been; but she looked so charming, her eyes\nstill misty with tears and her curls falling mutinously about her face,\nthat I forgave her on the spot.\n\n\"And yet I came here to tell you, Father Owen, that I wouldn't go!\" she\ncried impetuously.\n\n\"Oh, did you?\" said Father Owen. \"Then you came here also to be told\nthat you must go.\"\n\n\"_Must!_\" I echoed. \"Oh, no, Father--not that!\"\n\n\"That and nothing else,\" insisted the priest. \"I shall be sorry indeed\nto part from my Winifred\"--his brown eyes rested on her with infinite\nkindliness. \"I taught her her catechism; I prepared her for her first\nconfession and holy communion, and to be confirmed by the bishop. I have\nseen her grow up like the flowers on yonder rocks. But she is not a\nflower: she has a human soul, and she has a destiny to fulfil here in\nthis world. Therefore, when an offer is made to her which will give her\nevery advantage that she now lacks, what are my feelings or Niall's or\nGranny's or hers?\"\n\nWinifred's eyes sought the floor in some confusion, and with a hint of\nnew tears darkening them; for her old friend's words had touched her.\n\n\"She thinks, I suppose,\" he went on, \"that because I am a priest I have\nno heart like the robin out yonder. Why, there is none of the little\nones that I teach that do not creep into my heart and never get out,\neven when they come to be big stalwart men or women grown. But I put my\nfeelings aside and say, 'What is best must be done.' And,\" continued the\npriest, \"look at Granny! She will be left desolate in her blindness, and\nyet she bids you go. Poor daft Niall, too, will be a wanderer lonelier\nthan ever without his little companion; but does he complain?\"\n\n\"O Father Owen,\" cried Winifred, \"I'll do whatever you say! You know I\nnever disobeyed you in my life.\"\n\n\"That's a good child, now!\" said the priest. \"And I hope I wasn't too\ncross. Go to my Breviary there and you will find a pretty, bright\npicture. And here I have--bless me!--some sugar-plums. The ladies from\nPowerscourt brought them from Dublin and gave them to me for my little\nfriend.\"\n\nWinifred flew to the Breviary and with a joyful cry brought out a\nlovely picture of the Sacred Heart. The sugar-plums, however, seemed to\nchoke her, and she put them in her pocket silently.\n\n\"When will you start for America?\" asked the priest.\n\n\"The first week of August, perhaps,\" I answered; \"so that Winifred may\nbe in time for the opening of school.\"\n\n\"Well, then,\" said Father Owen, \"it will be time enough to begin to cry\non the 31st of July, Winifred my child; and you have a whole month\nbefore then.\"\n\nWinifred brightened visibly at this; for a month is very long to a\nchild.\n\n\"Meantime you will take your kind friend here, this good lady, to see\nthe sights. She must know Wicklow well, at any rate; so that you can\ntalk about it away over there in America. I wish I were going myself to\nsee all the fine churches and schools and institutions that they tell me\nare there.\"\n\n\"You have never been in America, Father?\" I inquired.\n\n\"Nor ever will, I'm afraid. My old bones are too stiff for traveling.\"\n\n\"They're not too stiff, though, to climb the mountain in all weathers,\"\nI put in. For the landlord had told me how Father Owen, in the stormiest\nnights of winter and at any hour, would set out, staff in hand. He would\nclimb almost inaccessible heights, where a few straggling families had\ntheir cabins, to administer the sick or give consolation in the houses\nof death.\n\n\"And why wouldn't I climb?\" he inquired. \"Like my friend the robin, I\nhave my work to do; and the worse for me if some of my flock are perched\nhigh up. 'Tis the worse for them, too.\"\n\nI could not but laugh at the drollery of his expression.\n\n\"My purse is none of the longest either,\" he said, \"and wouldn't reach\nnear as far as America; and, besides, I'm better at home where my duty\nis.\"\n\nThis quaint, simple man of God attracted me powerfully, and I could not\nwonder at the hold he had upon his parishioners.\n\n\"Some of my poor people,\" he went on, \"have no other friend than the\nsoggarth; and if _he_ went away what would they do at all? Winifred my\npet, there's one of the geese just got into the garden. Go and chase it\naway; and I needn't tell you not to throw stones nor hurt it, as the\nboys do.\"\n\nWinifred went off delightedly, and we saw her, with merry peals of\nlaughter, pursuing the obstinate creature round and round the garden. No\nsooner did she put it out at the gate than it came in at a chink in the\nwall.\n\n\"Weary on it for a goosie!\" said the priest; \"though, like the rest of\nthe world, it goes where it will do best for itself. But I want to tell\nyou, my dear lady, while the child's away, how glad I am that she is\ngoing with you and to a convent. It was God sent you here. The finger of\nGod is tracing out her way, and I'm sure His blessing will rest upon you\nfor your share in the work.\"\n\nAt this moment Winifred, breathless from her chase, entered the room.\n\n\"Arrange your posy now, and take it over yourself to the church,\" said\nFather Owen; \"and maybe I'll come over there by and by to play you\nsomething on the organ.\"\n\nFor it was one of Winifred's greatest pleasures to sit in the dim little\nchapel and listen to the strains of the small organ, which Father Owen\ntouched with a master-hand. So the child, arranging the\nflowers--primroses chiefly, with their pale gold contrasting with the\ngreen of the leaves--prepared to set out. I, taking leave of the priest,\naccompanied her, and sat down in a pew while Winifred went into the\nsacristy for a vase. She came out again and put the flowers at the foot\nof the Blessed Virgin's altar; then she knelt down just under the\nsanctuary lamp, and I saw her childish face working with the intensity\nof her prayer.\n\nPresently we heard Father Owen coming in with Barney, who was to blow\nthe organ for him. The brightness of the day was giving place to the\nshadows of the afternoon, and the colors were fading gradually from the\nstained windows. Only the light of the sanctuary lamp gleamed out in the\ndusk. The priest touched the keys lightly at first; then he began to\nplay, with exquisite finish, some of the simple hymns to the Blessed\nVirgin which we had known since our childhood. \"Hail Virgin, dearest\nMary, our lovely Queen of May!\" \"On this day, O beautiful Mother!\" \"Oh,\nblest fore'er the Mother and Virgin full of grace,\" followed each other\nin quick succession. He passed from these to \"Gentle Star of Ocean!\" and\nfinally to \"Lead, Kindly Light.\"\n\nThe notes fell true and pure with a wonderful force and sweetness, which\nproduced a singular effect. It seemed as if every word were being spoken\ndirect to the soul. I felt as if I could have stayed there forever\nlistening; and I was struck with the expression of Winifred's face as\nshe came away from the altar, advancing toward me through the gloom. Her\nface, upturned to the altar, was aglow with the brightness of the\nsanctuary lamp.\n\n\"Isn't it beautiful?\" she whispered.\n\nI assented, and I saw that peace was made between us; for there was the\nold friendliness in look and tone. But I said, to make assurance doubly\nsure:\n\n\"This is a good place to forgive me, dear, and to think over my plan in\nits true light.\"\n\n\"You shall forgive _me_! I ought to have been glad and grateful,\"\nWinifred answered quite humbly.\n\nThere was a great sadness in her voice, however; for the sorrows of\nchildhood are very real and very deep, though they do not last.\n\n\"Father Owen plays every trouble away into peace,\" I observed.\n\n\"Yes,\" Winifred replied dreamily.\n\nThen we heard Father Owen coming down from the loft, and we stepped\noutside, thinking to meet him there and thank him for his music. But\ninstead he went directly into the church, and I returned thither to wait\nfor his coming. I could just discern his figure kneeling on the\naltar-step, the altar-lamp forming a halo about his venerable head; and\nI heard his voice repeating over and over again, in accents of intense\nfervor: \"My Jesus, mercy! My Jesus, mercy!\" No other prayer only that.\n\nI stole away, more impressed than I had ever been, out into the lovely\nsummer twilight. Winifred's hand was locked in mine as we went.\n\n\"I hope,\" I said before we parted, \"that you will soon be very happy\nover my project--or, at least, very brave.\"\n\n\"I shall try to be very brave,\" she answered; \"and then perhaps I'll be\nhappy. Father Owen says so, anyway.\"\n\n\"He is a wise man and a saint,\" I answered.\n\n\"Oh, yes!\" she assented, with pretty enthusiasm. \"He is just like St.\nPatrick himself.\"\n\nAfter that she accepted the situation cheerfully, and I never again\nheard her protest against going to America. Father Owen had won the day.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV.\n\nTHE CAVE IN THE MOUNTAINS.\n\n\nThe time fixed for our departure was drawing all too near; for the\nsummer had been a delightful one, with much of fine weather and almost\nconstant sunshine--rare in that land where Nature's tear is always very\nnear her smile. I had visited the Devil's Glen, with its wondrous falls,\nits turbulent streams, its mountain heights, reached by a path of\ntangled bloom. I had seen the \"sweet Vale of Avoca\" and Avonmore, and\nGlendalough, with its seven ruined churches; and St. Kevin's Bed, and\nall the other delights of Wicklow, the garden of Ireland.\n\nOn most of these expeditions I had been accompanied by Winifred, with\nBarney and Moira. If we were driving, Barney acted as driver and guide\nat once; if we were on foot, he carried the luncheon basket. Very often\nwe set out when the dew was still on the grass and the morning-star had\nscarcely faded from the sky.\n\nBut there was one more spot to be visited, and this time Barney and\nMoira were not to be of the party. Winifred had persuaded Niall to take\nus to the Phoul-a-Phooka, and show us there a mysterious cavern in which\nhe kept hidden his treasures. I looked forward to this visit with a\ncurious blending of fear and curiosity. Niall was so variable in his\nmoods, and Father Owen agreed with me in thinking that at times his mind\nwas unsettled and his temper dangerous. Still, I determined to take the\nrisk.\n\nOne warm day in July Winifred and I set out in company with Niall--not,\nindeed, that he gave us much of his society. When we were in the car he\ndrove in gloomy silence; when we were afoot he walked on ahead, wrapped\nin his cloak, with an air of gloomy preoccupation, his sugar-loaf hat\nserving as a sign-post which we were to follow.\n\nWhen we came up at last to this celebrated spot, my breath was fairly\ntaken away by its wild and mournful grandeur. Waterfall after waterfall\ncame down from a height of two hundred feet, over great, rocky\nprecipices, being spanned by a single arched bridge of Gothic design. On\none side of the falls are tasteful grounds, with shaded walks and seats\nfor the convenience of visitors; on the other, all is wild and\nbarren--rock rising above rock, crag above crag, in a morose solitude.\n\nIt was toward this solitude that Niall led us, the noise of the\nwaterfalls completely drowning our voices. We strode on by devious\npaths, turning more and more away from the water and upward by a steep\nascent, till we found ourselves in surroundings shunned by the common\nfolk, and wild, gloomy and forbidding enough to justify all that popular\nsuperstition said of this region. Once we paused to take breath, and I\nlooked down from an eminence on the waters rushing madly to the tranquil\nglen below; and then I turned my gaze from the Gothic bridge, the work\nof man, to the mountain crag, the work of the Creator.\n\nSuddenly Niall turned an abrupt angle, Winifred and I creeping after\nhim. I was full of fear; but Winifred was fearless and smiling, holding\nmy hand and encouraging me as though I had been a child. We stopped\nbefore a tangled mass of vines and brushwood. Niall pushed them aside,\ndisclosing a small, dark entrance in the rocks, through which he\npassed, signing for us to follow him. This we did, Winifred whispering:\n\n\"It's the cavern. I was here once before--that time I told you I was\ngoing to the Phoul-a-Phooka.\"\n\nWe bent our heads as we saw Niall do, for the entrance was very low; and\nwe advanced some paces along a kind of passageway cut in the rock either\nby the hand of Nature or by some long-forgotten outlaw of the hills. A\nsurprise awaited us, such as is common enough in underground places; for\nwe emerged all at once from the dark into a large and tolerably\nwell-lighted apartment. The rugged walls of rock, moss-covered in\nplaces, were dry; the floor was neatly boarded over, and a fire was\nready for lighting in a corner. Above it, a cranny in the wall permitted\nthe smoke to escape. In a little alcove apart from the principal cave\nwere a bed, a few chairs, and a table.\n\n\"Niall lives here for weeks at a time,\" explained Winifred.\n\nNiall had set a match to the fire; for, warm as the weather was outside,\nthere was a chilliness within as of a vault. Presently the sods blazed\nup, the flames leaping and glowing about the stooping figure of the old\nman, who seemed like some strange magician. We seated ourselves on the\nrough, deal chairs, near a table of similar material that occupied the\nmiddle of the cave; and Niall opened a curiously contrived cupboard and\nbrought forth some plates and cups and saucers. Winifred, opening our\nluncheon basket, took out and spread upon the table its simple\ncontents--cold meat, home-made bread, a pat of fresh butter, and a jar\nof apple jelly, which the landlord had specially recommended.\n\nNiall then abruptly left the cavern, and returned in a few minutes with\na pitcher of goat's milk; but how or where he had obtained it he did not\nexplain.\n\n\"I think he keeps some goats out there on the rocks,\" said Winifred in\na low voice to me, \"so that he can drink the milk when he is living\nhere.\"\n\nOur walk had given us an appetite; the coolness of the place, despite\nthe fire, was refreshing. Winifred was in high spirits, making a jest of\neverything and thoroughly enjoying the simple repast. I, forgetting my\nlate fears, was also disposed to be merry. Niall alone maintained a\nmoody silence, eating but little, and drinking only sparingly of the\ngoat's milk. When the meal was over, Winifred fetched some water from a\nmountain spring, and we washed the dishes in a rude earthen vessel and\nrestored them to their places in the cupboard built against the rock.\nWhen this was done, Niall said abruptly:\n\n\"I will show you now what you have come here to see--the treasure which\nthe earth has yielded up to me. Some of these things are from the tombs\nof kings or warriors; some buried at the time, perhaps, of the Danish\ninvasion. They are all, I believe, of value, greater or less.\"\n\nWhen he had thus spoken he began to creep around the cavern with a\nfurtive, stealthy movement, examining every chink and cranny, as though\nunseen eyes were watching him. At last he approached a certain corner,\nwithdrawing again, and looking all around him with eager, troubled eyes.\nThen he touched what seemed to be a secret spring, and before us was\nanother dark passage.\n\nThis dark passage had been made by some former occupant of the cave, who\nstood, perhaps, in danger of his life. We entered, and at the end of it\nwas a second and much smaller cavern, the darkness of which was relieved\nby the gleam of shining metal. I stood still and drew my breath hard.\nWas I dreaming, or had I gone back to the world of the Arabian Nights?\nThis could not be Ireland, and Niall a prosaic, end-of-the-century\nIrishman! He must surely be a magician of old--one of the genii sprung\nfrom Aladdin's lamp; and the child beside him, in her delicate, aerial\nloveliness, some fairy showing the treasures of the earth to mortal\neyes.\n\nNiall, putting aside his gloom, suddenly brightened into enthusiasm,\nwhich lighted up his face as with the fire of genius. He told us of the\nold warriors, chiefs and kings, or of the beautiful ladies in shining\nsatin robes, who had worn these costly ornaments--the fibul\u00e6 or\nbrooches, the breastplates of thin burnished gold, the crowns, the\nbracelets, the collars, some studded with precious gems. And there were\nshining heaps of gold besides, fresh from the mint. These Niall had\nobtained in exchange for the ore which he had dug up from the bed of\nstreams and also for gold still in the lump.\n\nThe time seemed to pass as in a dream. We were never tired listening,\nNiall of dwelling upon the glories of his treasure-house. The old man\nhad spent hours and days polishing those articles with chemicals, with\nwhose use he was well acquainted, and some of which gave out a strange,\npungent odor; for it had been no small labor to clean away the rust\nperhaps of ages.\n\n\"Every year I part with some of them,\" Niall said mournfully, rather as\none who spoke to himself than to us. \"And it is hard, hard; but I add a\nlittle each time to the pile of coin. When the day comes I shall sell\nthem all--all!\"\n\nHe motioned us to go out again into the first cavern; and, touching the\nspring, he closed away the treasures and sank once more into a listless\nmood, seated at the table, his head buried in his hands. Winifred, who\nhad listened with open-mouthed delight to Niall's tales of the past,\nand had been as much interested in seeing the treasures as though she\nsaw them for the first time, now sat thoughtfully beside me, gazing into\nthe fire. Presently she grew tired of inaction, and, springing to her\nfeet, began to dance about the cavern--a graceful, charming figure in\nthat rocky setting. And as she danced she chanted a weird song in the\nIrish tongue, which Niall had taught her.\n\nGradually Niall raised his head. The air or the words of the song seemed\nto have a strange effect upon him--to rouse him, as it were, from his\nlethargy. He fixed his eyes upon Winifred, watching her every movement\nwith a fierce eagerness. Then his eyes turned upon me, and there was the\nfire almost of insanity lighting them. As he gazed he rose from his\nchair, coming toward me with a slow, gliding step, while I sat paralyzed\nwith terror.\n\n\"Why should I not kill you,\" he said, in a deep, low tone, like the\ngrowling of some mountain torrent, \"and bury you here in the hills? You\nhave brought the curse upon me. Like the carrion bird, your coming has\nheralded evil. My heart is burning within me because of the sorrow that\nconsumes it. You have charmed the child from me to take her away to the\nunknown land.\"\n\n\"But remember,\" I managed to say, \"that it is with your consent, and\nthat I have promised to bring her back again when you will.\"\n\n\"Promised!\" he repeated fiercely. \"As if you could control\nevents--govern the wilful mind of a child and force her to remember!\"\n\nThere was a deadly calmness in his voice, more fearful than the wildest\noutburst of anger; and I trembled so violently that I could almost hear\nmy teeth chattering.\n\n\"Ha!\" he cried, \"you are afraid of me. I can see you tremble. And you\nmay well; for Niall, in his wrath, is terrible as the mountain torrent\nin its course.\"\n\nI fixed my eyes upon him as upon a wild beast whose fury I was striving\nto tame. Every moment I feared that he might spring upon me, when the\nvoice of Winifred suddenly broke the spell. It was evident she had not\nat first perceived what was going on.\n\n\"Niall!\" she said imperiously. \"What are you saying to the lady? Why are\nyou trying to frighten her?\"\n\nShe interposed her slender figure between us as she spoke.\n\nNiall's eyes sought the ground in a crestfallen manner, and he muttered:\n\n\"Forgive me, my little lady!\"\n\n\"I won't forgive you if you act like that any more, Niall!\" she\ndeclared. \"You know how the old chieftains and kings you are always\ntalking about treated their guests. And isn't the lady your guest here\nin your own cavern, Niall?\"\n\nNiall murmured:\n\n\"I forgot, I forgot! 'Tis all my poor head. At times I can think only of\none thing--that she is taking you away.\"\n\n\"And 'tis you who want me to go for my own good,\" Winifred said gravely.\n\nNiall turned away with a groan.\n\n\"I am willing to go,\" Winifred went on, \"because Father Owen said I\nshould. He knows what is best. He told me it was God sent the lady\nhere.\"\n\nNiall broke into an uncontrollable fury, which caused even Winifred to\nstep back.\n\n\"What care I for Father Owen or the lady?\" he exclaimed.\n\nHer face was pale; I think it was the first time she had ever been\nafraid of Niall. But she faced the old man bravely; though his face,\nworking with passion, his streaming hair and huge frame made him look\nlike a veritable Cyclops.\n\n\"Be still, Niall,\" she cried, \"or the lady and I will go away out of\nyour cave this minute, and be very sorry that we came here.\"\n\nShe put her small hand on his arm, and the touch seemed to calm him.\n\n\"Forgive me!\" he murmured once more, in the helpless, bewildered tone of\na little child; and, sinking again into one of the chairs near the\ntable, he buried his face in his hands and so remained for some moments.\nWe did not disturb him by so much as a word; but I, relieved somewhat\nfrom my late suspense, though dreading a new access of fury, and eager\nto be gone, let my eyes rove round that singular place. The rugged face\nof the rock above our heads and all around was lit by the crackling\nflames of the turf which burned so brightly. I was startled from my\nthoughts by the voice of Niall; but this time it was soft and low as\nthat of Winifred herself. Suddenly rising from his chair, he made me a\nlow bow and offered a humble apology for his late rudeness. After that\nhe was the same amiable and courteous gentleman he so often appeared,\nand as pleasant as possible, talking a great deal and telling us many\ninteresting things.\n\n\"In this cave,\" he said, \"during the penal times more than one priest\ntook refuge. Mass was said here, and the people flocked from far and\nnear to attend it. Here in the troubles of '98 it is said that the\npatriot O'Byrne took refuge. This may be the precise cavern in which he\ndwelt, or it may not; but it gives the place an interest--a sad\ninterest.\"\n\nHe paused and looked around him for an instant.\n\n\"I shall love this cave better than ever now,\" said Winifred; \"and I\nshall often think of it when I am far away in the New World--\"\n\nHer voice broke a little.\n\n\"Think of it, my child!\" cried Niall. \"Oh, _do_ think of it when you are\nfar beyond the ocean! Think of whatever will make you love Ireland and\nmake you remember.\"\n\nThe tears coursed down his cheeks and there was anguish in his voice.\n\n\"Don't cry, Niall!\" said Winifred. \"I shall always remember you and your\ncave and dear old Granny and Wicklow and Ireland.\"\n\nShe said the words as solemnly as if they were a vow; and they had a\nweird sound there in that hole in the rocks which had sheltered many a\nnoble and saintly soul.\n\n\"There spoke my own lady!\" cried Niall, triumphantly.\n\n\"Nothing shall ever make me forget,\" added Winifred.\n\n\"I, for my part,\" I broke in, \"shall do my best to help you to remember;\nand so I solemnly promise here on this holy ground, where Mass has been\nsaid and where martyrs have trod.\"\n\nIt was near evening when we left that wonderful spot, and, deafened once\nmore by the noise of the Phoul-a-Phooka, retraced our steps in silence.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI.\n\nIN THE CAPITAL.\n\n\nThe August morning which was to see our departure dawned at last. The\nleave-taking with old Granny Meehan was very pathetic. The poor woman,\nwith her deep resignation, her confidence in God's providence, was a\nstriking illustration of the best virtues of her race. Calmly she bade\nus farewell, praying many a prayer, invoking many a blessing on the\nbeloved head of her little charge. We left her sitting at her accustomed\nseat near the hearth, with Tabby purring against her and the pleasant\nsunshine flooding the apartment.\n\nWinifred had been up early, as she said, to bid \"good-by!\" to every\nstick and stone. She called each fowl in the courtyard by name, as she\nhad done on that other morning when I saw her feeding them; and her\ntears fell silently as she bent over them.\n\nWhen the moment came to say the last farewell, Winifred seized Brown\nPeter, the cat, in her arms; and the animal blinked knowingly, and\npurred and rubbed its head against her soft cheek. Then Winifred threw\nher arms once more around Granny's neck, and that part of the\nleave-taking was over. Barney and Moira set up a howl and followed us\ndown as far as the inn, where the jaunting-car with the luggage was\nwaiting for us.\n\nNiall I did not see at all. He had taken leave of Winifred the evening\nbefore, and then, with a wild gesture of despair, had fled to the hills.\nHe left for me a letter of instructions, recalling all my promises and\nthe conditions upon which he had allowed the child to go. With the\nletter was a sum of money to be used for Winifred's education. Could I\nhave seen him I would have begged him to take back this latter; for when\nI had proposed taking the girl with me to America and putting her in a\nconvent, it was, of course, to be at my own expense. I mentally resolved\nnot to spend a penny of the amount, but to put it at interest for\nWinifred.\n\nAt the inn we found Father Owen in conversation with the landlord. He\ncame forward at once to greet us, crying out cheerfully to the child:\n\n\"So there you are, my pet, setting out upon your travels to seek your\nfortune, like the people in the fairy books!\"\n\nWinifred's grief, which had been of a gentle and restrained character\nthroughout, and unlike what might have been expected from her impetuous\ndisposition, broke out again at sight of her beloved friend.\n\n\"Tut, tut, my child!\" cried the priest. \"This isn't April. Nature is\nsmiling, and you must smile too. You're going away to a great, fine\ncountry; and when you've seen everything, you'll be coming back to tell\nus all about it.\"\n\nWinifred wept silently, her tears falling down upon her gingham frock,\nso that she had to wipe them away. Father Owen turned to me, thinking it\nbetter, perhaps, to let the bitter, short-lived grief of childhood take\nits course.\n\n\"And so you're leaving Wicklow and Ireland, carrying with you, I hope, a\ngood impression.\"\n\n\"That I am,\" I responded heartily; \"and my most fervent wish is that I\nmay come back again.\"\n\n\"To be sure you will, with Winifred here; and I hope, if it be God's\nwill, we'll all be here to receive you.\"\n\n\"I hope so indeed,\" I answered.\n\n\"I had a letter a few days ago from Father Brady in New York,\" went on\nFather Owen. \"I was in the seminary with him in France. He knows you\nwell and is glad I made your acquaintance.\"\n\n\"I have known Father Brady for many years,\" I replied; \"he is a great\nfriend of mine.\"\n\nThe old priest nodded as if to express his satisfaction. I thought,\nperhaps, he had written to make assurance doubly sure as to my fitness\nfor the care of the child. If so, I could only admire his wisdom.\n\n\"Niall is in a bad way,\" he whispered; \"and will be, I don't doubt, for\ndays to come. I met him raging and tearing through the woods like a\nmaniac. That is his manner of expressing grief. It was useless to argue\nwith him, so I just had to come away and leave him.\"\n\nI told Father Owen how shocked I was to hear this, but he answered:\n\n\"Oh, he will get over the worst of it in a few days! How different,\nthough, from Granny Meehan! I went in to see her yesterday. She's marked\nwith grace, is that poor blind woman. 'It's God's will for the child to\ngo,' she said; 'and if I never have her with me again here below, why,\nwe'll meet above in glory, and we'll be the happier for this sorrow.'\nWasn't that beautiful, my dear lady? didn't it make me ashamed of my own\nshortcomings!\"\n\nI assented heartily.\n\n\"Yes, Father: she has a fine nature and a beautiful faith.\"\n\nMeanwhile Winifred dried her tears, and was trying to soothe her humble\nfriends, who had accompanied us with lamentations all the way.\n\n\"I'll come back again,\" Winifred said to them; \"I won't be _very_ long\naway, and I'll bring each of you something from America.\"\n\nHer voice quivered as she made these promises, which caused Moira's face\nto brighten a little through her tears, and Barney to stammer out,\nbrokenly:\n\n\"Och, then, Miss Winifred alanna, if you bring us back yourself, it's\nall we'll be wantin'!\"\n\nHis red eyes and tear-stained cheeks gave force and sincerity to his\nwords.\n\n\"Be a man now, Barney,\" said Father Owen, \"and just tell Miss Winifred\nyou wish her joy in the fine voyage she's going to take. Come, Moira my\ngirl, dry your eyes and say good-by. Look how the sun is shining, and\nthink how the goodness of God is over those that go and those that stay,\njust like yonder blue sky. Hear the thrush and the blackbird in the\nhedges giving glory to God whatever comes.\"\n\nBy this time we were seated in the car. I exchanged a few farewell words\nwith my landlord, who showed real emotion at our departure.\n\n\"God be with you, ma'am!\" he cried. \"It's yourself has brightened us all\nup for weeks past. And God be with you too, Miss Winifred dear! Sure\nwe'll be missin' your very pranks. Do you mind the day that you led me\nastray in the hills above, makin' b'lieve you were a Will-o'-the-wisp?\"\n\nAnd the landlord forced a laugh, which was not very genuine. I think he\nwould have continued his reminiscences longer had not Father Owen judged\nit best to put an end to the parting scene.\n\n\"Don't be keeping them any longer,\" he said; \"let them get away before\nthe heat of the day. And now I'll give you my last blessing, Winifred my\ndear, and your kind friend too.\"\n\nWinifred knelt at the old priest's feet in the morning sunshine. I,\nbeing already seated in the car, bent my head. Father Owen solemnly\nraised his hand--the consecrated hand of God's minister,--looking\nupward, while his white hair framed his face like an aureola. Fervently\nhe invoked the blessing of Heaven upon me and upon the child, upon our\nvoyage and our arrival. His voice broke as he came to the last words,\nand he attempted to say no more; while I made a sign to the driver, who\ndrove quickly from the door, followed by a parting howl from Barney and\nMoira.\n\nI stole a last glance at the lovely Glen of the Dargle, the waterfall in\nthe distance, and the natural bridge spanning the ravine, on which I had\nfirst seen Winifred. The thought flashed into my mind that I had come\ninto the paradise of her youth, disturbing its idyllic peace; whether\nfor better or worse was yet to be seen. I consoled myself with the\nassurance that, in any event, I had acted for the best.\n\nWe took the Enniskerry road to Dublin, and the drive was delightful. At\none point in the journey we passed between the rude granite sides of\nthat cleft in the mountains known as \"The Scalp.\" As I looked up at them\nin their stern grandeur I had an uneasy feeling that some of the huge\nmasses of rock, which appeared to be quite loose, might tumble upon our\nheads. Winifred, who was becoming, if not more cheerful, at least more\ncomposed, was greatly interested in \"The Scalp,\" and told me the legend\nof the place.\n\n\"The devil,\" she said, \"was once driving sheep to Dublin, and when he\nreached this mountain he couldn't get through it. So he gave a great\nkick with his foot and made the passage for himself and his flocks. And\nthat, 'tis said, is why it is so wild and strange. But of course it\nisn't true,\" Winifred concluded, eying the great rocks above us with\nher wistful eyes. \"Still, it is different from other mountains.\"\n\n\"It has an uncouth shape,\" I agreed; \"and I suppose that's what put it\ninto the people's heads that the devil must have had a hand in its\nformation.\"\n\nWe arrived in Dublin somewhat tired after our drive, which was not,\nhowever, so very long; and found ourselves comfortably lodged by night\nin a hotel on Sackville Street, whence we were to set forth again on our\ntravels in a few days. For I had purposely arranged that we might spend\na little time in the capital of Ireland, so that Winifred might get at\nleast a bird's-eye view of it. I could not guess what was passing in her\nmind as we went out, after resting a while, to stroll about in the\nlighted streets. She had never been in a city before, and must have been\ninterested in so much that was novel. But she said little: she had not\nyet recovered her natural buoyancy.\n\nThe following morning, however, we set out specially for sight-seeing.\nWe went for a walk in the Phoenix Park, and from a vantage-point near\nthe magazine looked down on the entire city, with its splendid bridges,\nits domes and spires. We saw the Nelson Pillar and the Wellington\nMonument, and we roamed at will along the verdant banks of the beautiful\nLiffey. We saw the Viceregal Lodge and the Corinthian Pillar and the\nRoyal Hospital of Kilmainham. Then, of course, we had to see the\nchurches. It would be tedious indeed to set down here all that we did\nsee.\n\nWe were walking along Westmoreland Street one afternoon, just as the sun\nwas setting. There had been a heavy shower, which had relieved the\nsultriness of an August day, and the ground was damp; but the trees were\na brighter green and sent forth a sweeter fragrance for the rain.\nWinifred said suddenly:\n\n\"I remember this place very well--Dublin, I mean. I was here long ago,\nwhen I was little.\"\n\n\"Yes? I suppose one's memory does go back very far,\" I observed\nthoughtfully. \"But can you recall, for instance, where you lived?\"\n\nShe shook her head.\n\n\"It was in a big house,\" she answered, \"with a good many stairs in it\nand a lot of people. Some of them may have been servants. And I remember\na lady in a yellow dress. Perhaps she was my mother.\"\n\nShe stopped abruptly, as though the subject were painful; then resumed:\n\n\"Since I came to this place, I remember a good many things. The lady in\nthe yellow dress was standing one evening in a great big room, and she\nhad a flower in her hair. Oh, she was very beautiful! A gentleman came\nin. He was tall and dark.\"\n\n\"With very bright eyes?\" I put in eagerly.\n\n\"Yes, they were bright,\" she assented; \"at least I think so. I remember\nthe lady better than the gentleman. They were talking, and I couldn't\nunderstand much of what they said; but I am almost sure the gentleman\nwas angry, for his face got very red. Then the lady laughed, and the\ngentleman went away quickly and shut the door hard. The lady laughed\nagain and said to me: 'I hope you haven't your father's temper, child.\nPoor Roderick! he does flare up so quick. He is just raving now because\nI don't want to go to some outlandish place in the hills.'\"\n\nThe child stopped, but the little drama of the past which she had evoked\ntold me a great deal. Niall had blamed Roderick for not bringing his\nwife to the castle; but the wife--a somewhat hard and cold beauty, as\nold Granny Meehan had once described her--would not come. Roderick had\nnot cared to throw the blame upon her, and so had quarrelled with his\nkinsman. Winifred seemed to ponder upon what she had just told me.\n\n\"I wonder where he wanted her to go?\" she said slowly.\n\nI did not answer; for I knew it would pain her to hear her dear old\ncastle described as an \"outlandish place.\"\n\n\"And I wonder how he could be angry with her,\" the child continued, \"she\nwas so pretty and had on such a lovely dress!\"\n\n\"Beauty is not the only thing, and fine dress still less,\" I urged.\n\nWinifred turned on me with flashing eyes, as though I had cast some\nreflection upon the phantom evoked from her youth by the presence of\nfamiliar scenes.\n\n\"But that was my mother!\" she cried, as if that silenced every\nobjection. Then she added, more gently: \"I am sorry my father was angry\nwith her.\"\n\n\"Yet your father has a noble heart,\" I declared.\n\nShe smiled as if pleased.\n\n\"Some day I may see _him_,\" she said; \"but my mother is dead.\"\n\nThere was great pathos in that simple remark; and after that Winifred,\nin her usual fashion, turned away altogether from the subject. Just then\nwe came to a point whence we had a distant view of the Wicklow Hills. I\ncalled Winifred's attention to them. She gazed at them with tear-dimmed\neyes, and I think after that took very little interest in the rest of\nthe landscape.\n\n\"My own hills!\" she said. \"Oh, I wonder if Niall is abroad on them now,\nand if Barney and Moira are leading poor Cusha to the pasture? And\nGranny, I suppose, is sitting alone--all alone. She can not go out on\nthe hills nor see their beauty.\"\n\nI tried to divert her thoughts, but for the time being it was useless.\nThat was our last day in Dublin. Early on the morrow we were to set out\nfor Liverpool, whence we were to sail for the Land of the Free.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII.\n\nARRIVAL IN NEW YORK.\n\n\nOur voyage to America was a very pleasant one. The weather was\nexcellent. The warm glow of midsummer was over everything, and the cool\nocean breezes were most grateful as we sat at evening on the deck and\nwatched the stars burn above our heads in the sky, which always seems so\nvast when one is on the face of the water. After the first two or three\ndays, neither of us was seasick, and Winifred took to the sea at once.\nShe loved the salt air, the cool spray blowing in her face as she stood\nupon the deck, her hair flying about her and her face aglow. Often she\nspoke of the dear land she had left and of her dear ones, while her eyes\nfilled with tears and her voice trembled with emotion.\n\nOne afternoon, as we watched the sun glinting on the waves, Winifred\nsaid:\n\n\"Just now that same sun is lighting all the hills! That was what made\npeople call them, in the Irish tongue, the hills of 'the gilt spurs.'\"\n\n\"That is a pretty name,\" I observed; \"and well describes how they look\nat this hour of a fine evening.\"\n\n\"I wish I could see them now,\" said Winifred; and then she fell silent,\nas if in thought.\n\nShe was very shy of the strangers on board the steamer, and rarely\nexchanged a word with any of them except at table; though many of them\nnoticed her and spoke with admiration of her charming face and her\ngraceful ways.\n\nIt was a lovely, calm morning when we steamed into New York Bay. We\nboth were up early and on deck; and I pointed out to Winifred Staten\nIsland, lying green and garden-like on the water's breast; and\nGovernor's Island, with its forts; and Bedloe's Island, with its huge\nLiberty statue, the goddess standing with colossal torch at the entrance\nto the New World. At last there was New York itself, the Empire City,\nthe great metropolis; and over it rested a haze, whence emerged the\nsteeple of Old Trinity, the Custom House, and the tops of various high\nbuildings, which filled Winifred with wonder; she had never seen\nanything like these \"sky-scrapers,\" as they are called. She talked of\nthem even after we had landed, and as we drove up Broadway to the hotel\nwere I had my quarters. This great thoroughfare seemed to bewilder her\naltogether.\n\n\"The people!\" she cried--\"all the people! Why, they are thicker together\nthan trees in a wood,\" and she simply stopped her ears against the\nnoise. \"It seems as if there was a thunderstorm going on all the time!\"\nshe exclaimed.\n\nShe was much amused also at the swift, gliding motion of the cable-cars,\nunlike anything she had yet seen.\n\n\"Isn't it all wonderful!\" she would cry. \"Oh, if Niall could see this!\"\n\n\"He has seen just as wonderful sights and far more so,\" I reminded her.\n\"You know how much he has travelled.\"\n\n\"Well, if Barney and Moira and the other people from home could see this\nplace, they'd think they were dreaming. I'm not quite sure that I won't\nwake up--only,\" she added, with one of her droll looks, \"I couldn't be\nasleep in such a noise.\"\n\nWe had reached the corner of Twenty-third Street, and I saw Madison\nSquare and the Fifth Avenue Hotel arising on my vision. There was even\nan unusual traffic just then. Cars, express wagons, private carriages,\nvehicles of all sorts, were crowding and jostling one another to the\nimminent risk of those within them, as well as those who attempted to\ncross on foot. The carriage in which we sat had to stop for an instant,\nand in that instant I saw standing at the corner of the street Roderick\nO'Byrne. His face was clouded by care or anxiety of some sort, which\nwholly changed its ordinary bright character. He was looking\nthoughtfully before him, while he waited a favorable opportunity to make\nthe crossing.\n\nSuddenly his eyes fell full upon Winifred, who was looking out of the\nwindow with eager interest. He started as if he had been stung. Yet he\ncould not possibly have recognized the child, who was, happily,\nunconscious of his regard. It must have been some resemblance he\ndiscovered in her. Fortunately, he was so absorbed in his study of her\nface that he did not perceive me. I shrank back as far as possible in my\ncorner of the vehicle and waited breathlessly, till next moment the\ncarriage swept onward, and those two, so closely bound by the tenderest\nties of kindred, were parted in the great vortex.\n\nI felt a sense of relief that Roderick had not glanced in my direction.\nHad he done so, he would inevitably have recognized me, and I should\nhave been confronted at our next meeting with all manner of awkward\ninquiries. For I could not tell him that his daughter was in my keeping\nand then refuse to let him see or communicate with her.\n\nThe hotel seemed a most magnificent place to Winifred; for though we had\nbeen in very comfortable quarters in Dublin, the luxury of a New York\nhotel seems quite a different affair. The service in the dining-room,\nthe table appointments, the variety of the bill of fare, the orchestra\nwhich played sweet strains during all the meal, were dreamlike, almost,\nto this child of the hills. The elevator seemed to her as something very\namusing. She would like to have gone up and down in it several times.\nShe had a charming little room adjoining mine, all done in gray and\npink, and an outlook upon the gay street.\n\nShe could scarcely tear herself away from the window in the few days\nthat elapsed before I had decided upon a school for her and made some\nsimple preparations. Indeed, I found it rather difficult to decide upon\na school for the child, not because there were no good ones, but for the\nopposite reason that there were so many. But to one thing I made up my\nmind: she must be out of town. The presence of her father in New York\nmade that a necessity. Yet, on the other hand, I could not send her too\nfar away, as I wanted to see her often, mark her progress and the effect\nof austere school-life on one who had been accustomed to a free, wild\nexistence on the beautiful Wicklow hills. It was this circumstance which\nfinally determined my choice. I must be in easy distance of the child,\nso great was my responsibility.\n\nI took her to her new home one evening just as the shadows were\ndeepening and New York lay like a great map traced out in lights. They\ngleamed and glowed through the gathering darkness, and through the smoke\nclouds which arose from the countless factories. I felt a curious sense\nof desolation, and I was certain that Winifred would suffer from this\nwhen she found herself enclosed in an unfamiliar building, to become a\nmere atom, as it were, in a multitude.\n\nThe child was grave and quiet, but did not seem to shrink at all from\nschool-life. In fact, she had rather entered into the prospect of going\nthere with the enthusiasm of her age, and had begun to plan out the\ndetails of her new existence. She told me after that she had\nexperienced an awful sense of loneliness when going to bed in a strange\ndormitory, with its rows of curtained beds, amongst so many whom she had\nnever seen before. During the night prayers and the final hymn she had\ncried all the time.\n\nThese sensations are common enough to all who go into new scenes for the\nfirst time; but for some weeks after Winifred's arrival at the convent\nshe reminded me of nothing so much as a bird in a cage. I am sure the\nordinary little restraints of school-life must have been intolerable to\none brought up, as she had been, unrestrained upon the hills. In the\naustere convent parlor, with her black dress, and her curls fastened\nback from her face with a ribbon, she was like a spirit of her former\nself. She told me, in her quaint speech, that she only lived from one\nvisit of mine to another. Usually she was pale, sad and listless. The\nspirit of mischief seemed to have gone out of her, and the Religious who\npresided in the parlor told me that she was docile to her teachers and\nvery diligent in her studies.\n\n\"If I study very hard perhaps I will get home sooner,\" Winifred\nexplained to me as we sat hand in hand in the corner of the parlor. \"My\nheart aches to see Ireland again, and the Dargle and the hills and\nGranny and Niall and Father Owen, and every one.\"\n\n\"It will not be very long till you see them all again,\" I observed\nsoothingly. \"Time passes very quickly.\"\n\nShe heaved a deep sigh, as if to signify that time did not pass so very\nquickly for her.\n\nWhen I rose to go that day I told her that I was going to get\npermission, if possible, for her to come down and spend a day with me.\n\n\"To spend a day with you in the big city down there!\" she cried. \"Oh,\nit will be lovely! We can see so many things and we can talk about\nhome.\"\n\nThat seemed to be indeed her greatest pleasure. The permission was\ngranted, with even better terms than I had expected; for she was to come\ndown on the following Tuesday morning and remain with me till the day\nafter.\n\n\"It is a privilege we do not often grant,\" the nun said, smiling. \"But\nin this child's case we think it is really essential. The change from a\nwidely different life was so very sudden.\"\n\n\"So you are to come on Tuesday, and this is Sunday,\" I told Winifred.\n\nHer eyes fairly sparkled with delight, as she danced along by my side\nwith something of her old gaiety. \"There is only one day between.\nTo-morrow I shall study very hard, and say all my lessons and practise\nfor my singing lesson on Thursday, and do everything well.\"\n\nI smiled.\n\n\"Father Owen would say you should do that every day,\" I reminded her.\n\"You remember how he pointed out that the robin did his work in storm or\nsunshine.\"\n\n\"Oh, but 'tis much easier to work in sunshine!\" Winifred cried out.\n\n\"I suppose it is,\" laughed I; \"but that is no reason why you shouldn't\ntry to do what is harder.\"\n\n\"I do try,\" Winifred said earnestly. \"I get up the moment the bell rings\nin the morning--though I don't find that as hard as some of the girls\ndo, for I was often out on the hills at sunrise. Then I'm one of the\nfirst in the chapel; and in class I study my lessons and I hardly ever\ntalk. At recreation I don't feel much like playing yet, but perhaps I\nshall after a while--when I know some of the girls better.\"\n\n\"Yes, I am sure you will. How do you like your companions?\" I asked.\n\n\"I think a good many of them are nice. But it takes me a long time to\nknow strangers, I suppose because I scarcely ever saw any.\"\n\n\"And your teachers?\" I inquired.\n\n\"Oh, they are all very kind, especially to me, because I come from so\nfar away and have no mother! I like my music teacher best, though. I\nwish you knew her.\"\n\n\"I must make her acquaintance some time,\" I remarked; \"I want to know\nall your friends.\"\n\n\"The French teacher is the crossest. She isn't a nun, though, and\ndoesn't wear a nun's dress. She scolds me if I don't know the verbs or\nif I make mistakes in spelling. I told her the other day that I didn't\nwant a stranger to speak so to me. The girls all laughed, but she didn't\nunderstand what I was saying.\"\n\n\"Just as well in that case.\" And I laughed, picturing to myself the\nlittle girl addressing the Frenchwoman with her princess air.\n\nWe were standing all this time in the hall, which was not altogether\naccording to rule, as I well knew; for farewells are usually made in the\nparlor. But I had not the heart to send Winifred away, and the presiding\nReligious did not appear to notice. I fancy the nuns often strained the\nrule a little in her regard, taking the circumstances into\nconsideration.\n\n\"Good-by till Tuesday!\" Winifred called after me, as I stepped out into\nthe porch; \"and thank you for all the nice things you have brought me!\"\n\nFor indeed I never went empty-handed to see the child, remembering my\nown school-days. I had visited Maillard's that afternoon before taking\nthe cars, and had chosen from the dainty confections which so\ntemptingly fill the glass cases and adorn the plate-glass windows. I was\ntold that she always distributed my gifts amongst her companions with a\nroyal generosity, often keeping but little for herself. While I was\nstill in the porch I heard her telling a companion:\n\n\"I am going to town on Tuesday. Isn't that splendid!\"\n\n\"Oh, you lucky girl!\" said the other. \"I wish I had come from Ireland or\nsome other place: then I might get out oftener.\"\n\nI went homeward, musing on that happy time of life when a day out of\nschool, a promised holiday, gives a keener delight than anything in\nafter life.\n\n\"Why does youth ever pass away, with its glow and glory?\" I thought.\n\"And how dull its going leaves this prosaic earth!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII.\n\nAN UNEXPECTED MEETING.\n\n\nIt was a curious coincidence that on the very Sunday evening after I had\nvisited Winifred and arranged for her to spend Tuesday with me at the\nhotel, I should have gone to supper with a friend of mine who was also a\ngreat friend of Roderick O'Byrne. She was an exceptional woman, of rare\ngifts, of warm heart and of long purse. She had the social talent in its\ngreatest perfection, and gathered at her house a most brilliant and\nentertaining circle. She lived in a part of the city which is rapidly\nbecoming old-fashioned--in the once desirable Murray Hill region--and\nher house was what is known to New Yorkers as an English basement-house:\nthat is to say, the dining-room is on a level with the street, while the\ndrawing-room, or suite of drawing-rooms, is reached by mounting the\nfirst stairs. A very handsome suite of rooms had my friend, appointed\nwith the utmost elegance, and containing innumerable souvenirs of\ntravel, artistic trifles of all sorts, with exquisite pictures and\npriceless statuary, arranged to give the best possible effect.\n\nI had a standing invitation for the Sunday evening suppers, which were\nan institution of the house, and where one was always sure of meeting\nvery agreeable people. The conversation was usually of everything\ninteresting under the sun. As the guests began to assemble that evening,\nI saw amongst them, with very mingled feelings, the familiar figure of\nRoderick O'Byrne. It was my first meeting with him since my return from\nIreland, and his presence made me conscious of a curious sensation. I\nhad heard so much of his past history, the most hidden pages of his\nlife, that it seemed strange to meet him there in an ordinary\ndrawing-room. When I thought of Niall, of the old castle with its\nromance and mystery, it was hardly credible that this tall and slender\ngentleman in the well-fitting evening clothes should be the central\nfigure in such a drama. And all the time I was withholding from him such\na secret as the presence in America of his only child.\n\nWhile Roderick stood exchanging a few words with his hostess, I thought\nall at once of that little scene which Winifred had recalled--when he\nparted in anger from the lady in the yellow dress, who must have been,\nof course, his wife. As soon as he saw me he came forward to shake\nhands, and dropped into a chair at my side. I found a change in him: he\nseemed more silent and preoccupied than I had ever seen him. However, he\nwas never given to talking commonplaces, and I waited till his mood\nshould change. He sat near me at supper, and on the other side of him\nwas a young and very gushing lady. Roderick seemed amused at her efforts\nto interest him.\n\n\"I have just heard,\" she exclaimed, \"that you are Irish, Mr. O'Byrne;\nand I am so glad! Our hostess has told me that you are not only from\nIreland, but intensely Irish. Now, I think that everything that is\nintensely Irish is intensely nice.\"\n\n\"Thanks so much!\" replied Roderick, carelessly. \"I am glad you approve\nof my nationality; for I have to plead guilty to a very unfashionable\nlove for my country.\"\n\n\"Oh, you needn't plead guilty at all!\" cried the charmer. \"It is so\nrefreshing nowadays. And you Irish are so delightfully enthusiastic and\nimpressionable, and all that.\"\n\nRoderick raised his eyebrows ever so slightly.\n\n\"By the way,\" he observed, turning abruptly to me, \"I wonder if you\nwill agree with the sentiment expressed by my neighbor--you who are so\nlately back from Ireland?\"\n\n\"'That everything that is intensely Irish is intensely nice'?\" I asked.\n\"I am prepared to endorse that sentiment; for I am more Irish than the\nIrish themselves. I know I have borrowed somebody else's saying; but,\nreally, I have fallen in love with the dear old land. Its hills and\nglens have got into my heart.\"\n\nThere was a softened look on the man's face and a moisture in his eyes;\nfor he was deeply affected. Presently he said in a low tone:\n\n\"Do you know I am very homesick of late? I am pining for a sight of the\nbeautiful hills of the Gilt Spurs and the glorious Dargle. Oh, what\nwould I not give for one good look at the Dargle, glen and river both!\"\n\n\"Why don't you take a trip to Ireland?\" I asked.\n\n\"Oh, for many reasons!\" he said hurriedly.\n\nHe did not go into detail and I could not ask.\n\n\"But you will go back some day?\" I urged.\n\n\"Go back?\" he repeated. \"I used to think I should: indeed, at one time I\nlonged for the day and hour of my return; and now--\"\n\nI wanted to ask the question which rose to my lips, out I dared not; and\njust then the conversation became general. Our hostess liked to strike\nsparks from all her guests, and especially from the brilliant Roderick\nO'Byrne. After we had all returned to the drawing-room he gradually\ndrifted back again to his chair beside me. We had always been friendly,\nbut I knew that my society had a special attraction for him just then,\nas a link between him and Ireland. He very soon, in fact, reverted to\nthe subject of our previous talk, inquiring as to this or that place\nnear his old home; though I observed that he never once mentioned any\nperson or persons in the neighborhood. It was evident for some reason\nthat he did not wish to bring Niall into the discourse, and I was just\nas anxious at the time to avoid that part of the subject.\n\nSuddenly Roderick said:\n\n\"I was struck very much the other day by a face which I saw just for a\nmoment.\"\n\nMy heart stood still. I knew what was coming, and I almost dreaded it.\nBut, happily, he did not associate the incident with me.\n\n\"It was that of a child,\" he said, somewhat gravely. \"It was a beautiful\nface, I suppose; but it was not that which specially attracted my\nattention. I only caught a glimpse--the merest glimpse--of it, but it\nbrought back the past to me as in a flash.\"\n\n\"Strange!\" I commented mechanically; for I scarce knew what to say.\n\n\"Yes, it was very strange,\" went on Roderick. \"I was standing at the\ncorner of Twenty-third Street, waiting to cross, and it must be owned\nthat I was thinking of anything else than Ireland and my past life\nthere. You know what a crowd there is at that particular place. Suddenly\na carriage stood still an instant, delayed by the traffic; and out of it\nlooked that exquisite child-face, full of wonder, of curiosity, and, I\nthought, of sadness.\"\n\nI concealed my emotion by an effort; and had he not been so occupied\nwith his subject he might have perceived at once that the story had an\nunusual interest for me.\n\n\"Would you believe,\" he said, \"that New York faded from before me, and\ninstead I saw the Dargle, the glen and the river, with all their lovely\nsurroundings--yes, I saw them as distinctly as I see you now? The\nDargle and--other places about there,\" he concluded, after a brief\npause.\n\nI wondered if he were thinking of the castle.\n\n\"By the way,\" he asked of a sudden, \"were you in that part of Ireland at\nall--I mean Wicklow?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes!\" I said, trying to speak indifferently. \"I saw most of the\nshow places there.\"\n\n\"Did you meet any people thereabouts?\" he inquired, speaking very slowly\nand playing with a paper-knife which he had taken up from a neighboring\ndavenport.\n\nIt was my turn to hesitate a moment before I replied:\n\n\"I met the parish priest, Father Owen, as he is popularly called.\"\n\n\"Father Owen Farley!\" exclaimed Roderick, apparently carried away by a\nsudden burst of enthusiasm; \"the dearest, the best, the kindest of men!\"\n\n\"You know him, then?\" I asked.\n\nThe glow faded from his face almost at once.\n\n\"I was brought up in that part of the country,\" he said in a reserved\nway, as if anxious to drop the subject; \"so that of course I knew him\nwhen I was a boy.\"\n\n\"Well, he certainly is all you say of him,\" I declared cordially; \"he\ncharmed me from the very first.\"\n\n\"Yes, he has an unusually attractive way with him,\" Roderick said--\"or\nused to have long ago.\"\n\nAnd then he dismissed the subject and began to talk of some matter of\ncurrent interest. However, he very soon reverted to that one topic which\nseemed to be occupying his thoughts. Waking out of a reverie, he\nsuddenly exclaimed:\n\n\"I wish I were a miniature painter, and I should try to put on ivory,\njust from memory, that exquisite child-face.\"\n\n\"Perhaps you will see her again,\" I ventured.\n\n\"I never expect to,\" he said decisively. \"New York is not Ireland.\nPeople are swallowed up here as in a quicksand.\"\n\n\"Life has many surprises,\" I observed tentatively.\n\nHe looked at me keenly for an instant; then he resumed his indifferent\nair and continued to play with the paper-knife.\n\n\"You will think me altogether a dreamer,\" remarked Roderick, \"to be so\nimpressed by a passing face.\"\n\nI do not know what impelled me to say then:\n\n\"Perhaps there was some special reason. Possibly she may have reminded\nyou of some one whom you once knew.\"\n\nHe started; the paper-knife fell from his hands, and he was long in\npicking it up. But the flash of his dark eyes in that brief moment\nrecalled Niall. The incident was not without its value. I saw my way\nclear before me. I should gradually try to revive his interest in the\npast: to forge a chain which should lead him inevitably back to the\ncastle of his ancestors, to Winifred and to his eccentric but devoted\nkinsman. And at the same time I might chance to discover his motive for\nso long neglecting his only child.\n\nWhen Roderick raised his head again, and replaced the paper-knife, with\na hand which trembled somewhat, upon the davenport, he said, in a tone\nof studied carelessness:\n\n\"Don't let us talk of this any more. It does seem very absurd. I am half\nashamed of having told you anything about it. And there is the professor\ngoing to the piano.\"\n\nDuring the music Roderick lay back in his chair, and as he listened to\nthe dreamy, soothing sound of the \"Songs without Words,\" I knew that his\nmind was running on the sweet child-face which had so impressed him, and\non the train of associations which that chance meeting had conjured up.\nI had no further conversation with him on that occasion, and very soon\nafter I took my leave and went home to ponder over the situation, which\nI found most interesting. It seemed as if I were holding the thread of a\ntangled skein, which must sooner or later straighten itself out. I lay\nawake half the night, picturing to myself Roderick's delight when he\nshould discover that the sweet child-face was that of his own Winifred;\nand his sorrow, and perhaps remorse, for the past, when he had neglected\nher. I wondered where and when the disclosure should take place and how\nit would be brought about. I also resolved to interest Winifred in her\nfather. I could see that she clung much more to the memory of her\nmother, and seemed to remember Roderick only as the dark gentleman who\nhad got angry with the beautiful lady and slammed the door.\n\nI rose early next morning, for I wanted to go down town. I was going as\nfar as Barclay Street to buy a small statue of the Sacred Heart, which I\nwished to give Winifred as a present. I was impatient for her coming;\nfor, besides the fact that I was really attached to the child and took a\nsincere pleasure in her society, I felt a new interest in her since my\nlate conversation with her father.\n\nI looked out the window. There was a drizzling fog. The shops opposite\nlooked dreary and uninviting, and the people who were hastening down\nBroadway had all the same miserable appearance, looking spectral in the\nfog. My heart sank. If it were the same kind of weather on the morrow\nthere would be no chance of having Winifred with me. In the first place,\nshe would not be allowed to come; and in the second, there would be very\nlittle pleasure in bringing her down from the convent just to spend a\nfew hours shut up in my apartments at the hotel.\n\nI dressed and went out. The streets were glazed over with a thin coat\nof frost, which made the walking treacherous and unsafe. The snowfall of\ntwo or three days before had entirely disappeared. I picked my way\nalong, making one more in the procession of spectres, till I reached the\nnearest elevated station, which was in the square at Thirty-third\nStreet, near the _Herald_ building. I was soon flying through the air,\nand in the twinkling of an eye was almost in the heart of the business\nportion of the great \"down-town.\" Warehouses arose on all sides: from\nsome came a fragrant odor telling of coffee and spices; from others\nflashed visions of delicate china, rich bronzes, and beautiful\nglassware. And finally I was set down within a block or so of my\ndestination.\n\nI picked my way carefully along the narrow lane-like street, and emerged\njust opposite old St. Peter's, the mother-church of New York. Its somber\nwalls looked gray and dismal in that dreary fog; but within it was warm\nand cheerful, and imposing in a massive, old-fashioned way. I prayed\nearnestly for the success of all our scheming--that is, Niall's and\nmine; and, above all, for the happy reunion of father and daughter.\n\nAfter that I went out again to purchase my statue. I was now in the\nregion of the Catholic publishers, which is full of many memories of\nother days and the various phases of Catholic life in New York. There\nmuch has been done for the Catholic cause; much has been discussed, much\nhas been attempted, and many attempts have failed. It is historic\nground. I bought my statue and hurried home, glad to be housed on that\nchilly and disagreeable day. I had a few other preparations to make, on\nthe chance that the weather would clear up; but I resolved to leave them\ntill the morning, when they might be easily accomplished by the aid of\nthe telephone.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX.\n\nWINIFRED GOES SIGHT-SEEING.\n\n\nThe next morning I woke earlier than usual; and, getting up at once,\nlooked out of the window. Every trace of the fog had vanished, and there\nwas the sun leaping and dancing as merrily as if it were midsummer\ninstead of December. I hurried off to Mass, and got back again, to take\na hasty breakfast and sit down in my room to wait for Winifred. It was\nabout ten o'clock when, with my eyes glued to the window, I saw her\nlittle face looking out of the carriage which I had sent for her. I ran\ndown to the ladies' entrance to bring her in. She looked brighter and\nbetter than I had seen her since she left Ireland. She wore her black\nschool costume, but her hair was no longer brushed painfully down to\ncomparative smoothness: it broke out into the same saucy curls I knew of\nold. She darted out of the carriage and in at the open door, throwing\nherself into my arms.\n\n\"Here I am!\" she cried. \"And so glad to see you again!\"\n\n\"I began to be afraid yesterday,\" I observed, \"that we were both going\nto be disappointed.\"\n\n\"Oh, so was I!\" said Winifred. \"I went to the window the first thing, to\nbe sure that the sun was shining and the fog gone away.\"\n\n\"So did I. But there couldn't have been much sun at the time you got\nup.\"\n\n\"Oh, it was there! And I saw there wasn't any fog and that it was going\nto be a fine day.\"\n\nI brought her up to my room and installed her in a chair to rest while I\ngot on my things.\n\n\"For of course we must go out as soon as we can,\" I declared. \"It will\nnever do to miss a moment of such a perfect day, and it will be all too\nshort.\"\n\nA shade seemed to pass over Winifred's sensitive face at the words. But\nI called her attention to the street below; for Broadway on a sunshiny\nmorning is a very pleasant and cheerful sight, and to Winifred it was\nall new; so that it was certain the constant panorama of human beings,\nall jostling one another, eager, excited, apparently in a fearful hurry,\nwould keep her fully occupied while I completed my toilet. Once the\nchild called me to the window to see a Chinaman. She had never seen one\nbefore, and she went off into a peal of laughter at the odd sight. This\nparticular John was dressed in a pale blue silk shirt over his baggy\nblack trousers. His pigtail was long and luxuriant, denoting rank.\n\n\"What is he?\" cried Winifred. \"You have such funny people in America. I\ndon't think there are any like him in all Ireland.\"\n\n\"Not in Wicklow, at any rate,\" I answered. \"Indeed, I don't know what\nthey would think of him there. He looks as if he had just stepped off a\ntea-caddy, straight from China.\"\n\n\"Oh, he is a Chinese, then! I never saw one before except in pictures.\"\n\nThe next thing that attracted her attention was one of the great vans,\ndrawn by enormous dray-horses.\n\n\"Look at their big legs and feet!\" laughed Winifred--\"as big as a tree\nalmost! Oh, I wish Barney and Moira could see them!\"\n\nThe ladies' dresses, too, astonished her--especially of those who drove\nin the carriages; for she had never seen such costumes before.\n\nAt last I was ready, and we passed down the stairway, with its heavy\npiled moquette carpet, to the street without. Just across the way was a\nflorist's, and I told Winifred we should make our first visit there. We\nhad to wait a favorable moment for crossing Broadway. The child was\nnaturally fearless, but she was somewhat afraid of the multitude of\nvehicles--cars, carts, and private carriages--which formed a dense mass\nbetween the two sidewalks.\n\n\"Yet crossing the street up here is nothing,\" I said. \"Wait till you try\nit some day down on lower Broadway--at Wall Street, for instance, or\nnear the City Hall Park.\"\n\n\"This is bad enough!\" cried Winifred. \"You feel as if some of the horses\nmust step on you.\"\n\nHowever, we got safely across, with the aid of a tall policeman, who\npiloted us through the crowd, putting up an authoritative hand to stop a\nhorse here, or signing to a driver there to give place. We entered the\nflorist's shop. It was like going from winter to a lovely spring day.\nThe fragrance from the many flowers was exquisite but almost\noverpowering. Masses of roses, of carnations, of chrysanthemums were\nthere in the rarest profusion; flowering plants, palms, costly exotics,\nmade the place seem like some tropical garden under Southern skies. The\nsight of the violets brought the tears to Winifred's eyes: they reminded\nher of her home beyond the sea. But when she heard the price of them she\nwas amazed.\n\n\"Why, we get them for nothing in the Dargle--as many as we want--coming\non the spring,\" she whispered. \"Don't give so much money for them.\"\n\nShe persisted so much in the idea that it would be fearful to waste\nmoney on flowers which might be had at home for nothing, that I bought\nher roses instead. I made her select a bunch for herself from the mass.\nShe was charmed with their variety of color, varying from the pale\nyellow of the tea-rose to the deepest crimson. We recrossed the street,\nand I made her go back to the hotel with the roses, so that they might\nkeep fresh in water. When she came down again to where I was waiting on\nthe sidewalk, I said:\n\n\"Now there is going to be a circus procession on Fifth Avenue. It is\njust about time for it; so we will go round the corner and see it.\"\n\n\"What is a circus procession?\" she inquired gravely.\n\n\"You shall see for yourself in a few minutes,\" I answered briefly.\n\nWe went across Twenty-ninth Street to Fifth Avenue, and stationed\nourselves on a high brownstone stoop, which, fortunately for us, was not\nyet crowded. All along the streets people were waiting in serried rows.\nSmall boys were mounted on trees, calling out jeering exclamations to\nthose below; fruit venders and venders of peanuts elbowed their way\nabout, or stood on corners with furnaces aglow for the roasting of\nchestnuts. It was a busy, animated scene; while the cheerful laughter\nand the shrill, gleeful voices of the children added to the general\nmirth.\n\nPresently the arrival of the procession was announced by the small boys\nand the blowing of a bugle by a man on horseback. The first to appear\nwas a train of magnificent horses, some with Arab riders, some\ncontrolled by wonderfully dexterous women. Next in order was a beautiful\nlady, clad in a gorgeous, bespangled costume, seated in a gilt chariot\nand driving with the utmost skill six snow-white horses.\n\n\"A gold carriage!\" whispered Winifred, awestricken. \"Oh, if Barney and\nMoira could only see that!\"\n\n\"All is not gold that glitters,\" I replied promptly. \"But the white\nhorses are certainly beautiful.\"\n\n\"Oh, what are these?\" she asked.\n\nI looked. It was the camels that had attracted the child's attention.\nTheir appearance so astonished and amused her that she went off into\npeals of merry laughter, which caused many a responsive smile around us.\n\n\"What funny things you have in America!\" she exclaimed. \"Just see how\nthese things walk and the queer men on their backs.\"\n\n\"The animals are called camels,\" I said; \"and their drivers are supposed\nto be Arabs from the desert.\"\n\n\"Oh, I have studied about the camels and the deserts!\" Winifred said,\nand she looked at them with new interest.\n\nHer astonishment reached its climax when she saw the elephants.\n\n\"What are they at all?\" she cried, gazing at their enormous bulk with\nstartled eyes, as they slowly plodded on. Her glance wandered from their\ntrunks to their great legs and huge sides. I told her what they were,\nand I think her studies had supplied her with some information about\nthem and the ivory which is obtained from their tusks.\n\nShe was charmed with the monkeys.\n\n\"I'm sure they're little old men,\" she said--\"just like those Niall used\nto tell about, who were shut up in the hills.\"\n\nShe was never tired of watching their antics, and only regretted when\nthey were out of sight. Two or three of them were mounted on tiny\nponies; and, to Winifred's great glee, one tumbled ignominiously off and\nhad to be picked up out of the mud by an attendant.\n\n\"What's coming now?\" she cried, as one of the vans containing a lion\nhove into sight. The great beast lay tranquil and unmoved, gazing at the\npassers-by with that air of nobility which always belongs to his\nspecies. His appearance seemed to fascinate my companion and she gazed\nat him very earnestly.\n\n\"That is a lion,\" I remarked.\n\n\"Oh, the king of the forest!\" put in Winifred. \"He looks like a king.\"\n\n\"A very fierce one at times,\" I replied. \"But that next is a tiger--a\nfar more cruel and treacherous beast.\"\n\n\"I don't like him,\" said Winifred, decisively; \"although he is something\nlike a big, big cat, only for the stripes on his back.\"\n\nThe leopards next passed by, fidgeting up and down the cage, with their\nspotted coats glittering in the sun. Hyenas, wolves, foxes, jackals,\npassed in quick succession, giving place at last to a giraffe. I pointed\nthis animal out to Winifred.\n\n\"He has a long, long neck,\" she observed; \"he looks as if he had\nstretched it out so far that he couldn't get it back again.\"\n\nThe doings of the clown, I think, puzzled more than they amused\nWinifred.\n\n\"Is he a man or another kind of animal?\" she asked me gravely. She was\nnot at all sure what kind of being he was, or why he should be so\ndressed up and act in such a manner. I told her that it was to amuse\npeople.\n\n\"But he isn't half so funny as the monkeys,\" she declared,\ncontemptuously. \"Why, you never told me that there were such wonderful\nthings in America!\"\n\n\"I'm sure I never thought of it,\" I replied, laughing. \"But I am glad\nyou have seen the circus. It is quite an education in natural history.\nNow you will know an elephant from a giraffe, a lion from a tiger, a\ncamel from a zebra, and a monkey from a fox. But, dear, we must hurry on\nand see what sight-seeing we can do. I declare it is almost noon\nalready.\"\n\nPresently, indeed, we heard the shrill sound of many whistles and the\nringing of more than one bell.\n\nWinifred put her hands to her ears.\n\n\"What a noise!\" she cried; and she laughed merrily as she did so, her\nfeet fairly dancing over the pavement in the pleasant sunlight of that\nwinter day. And so we pursued our way up Fifth Avenue, with its rows of\nimposing brownstone houses, toward the cathedral, which was our\ndestination.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX.\n\nANOTHER UNEXPECTED MEETING.\n\n\nComing to the cathedral, where it stands on the corner of Fiftieth\nStreet and Fifth Avenue, we stopped to observe its proportions, at once\nnoble and graceful, its white marble fa\u00e7ade and tall spires being one of\nthe ornaments of the Empire City. Entering the edifice, we knelt a while\nin prayer before we began to examine all its beauties in detail. The\nrich glow of the beautiful stained windows was a revelation to the\nchild, and the stories which they tell of saints and martyrs appealed to\nher strongly. She watched their varied tints falling upon the marble\naltars with a visible delight.\n\n\"I must write a letter about this to Father Owen,\" she said as we came\nout again upon the dignified bustle of Fifth Avenue, so unlike the\nactivity of Broadway, but still noticeable after the quiet of the great\ntemple. \"It is all so grand in there!\" she said--\"grand as our own\nmountains and beautiful as the Dargle. It reminded me of heaven. Perhaps\nheaven is something like that.\"\n\nI smiled and did not contradict her; for the calm and repose of a great\ncathedral is very far removed indeed from earth.\n\n\"Of course there are several other churches I want you to see,\" I\nobserved; \"but perhaps that one will do now. As we had breakfast late,\nand are not in a particular hurry for our luncheon, I think we will take\na trip in an elevated car first.\"\n\nWinifred, of course, consented eagerly; and, having procured the child\na cup of hot bouillon at a druggist's as a preventive against hunger, we\nclimbed up the great iron stairs of the elevated station at Fourteenth\nStreet and Sixth Avenue, and were soon seated in the car.\n\nIt seemed very wonderful to Winifred that we should be flying through\nthe air at such a rate of speed; but she was delighted with the swift\nmotion and had no thought of fear. She kept looking in with eager\ncuriosity at the houses or the shops as we passed by their second- or\nthird-story windows, and down at the pigmy-like people on the sidewalk,\nmaking continual exclamations of wonder or interest.\n\nWe got out at the Battery; and before taking the East Side car up town I\nlet Winifred take a run in Battery Park, so that she might have a\nglimpse of the bay and the huge ferry-boats landing their loads of\npassengers, and the funnels of the steamers or the masts of tall vessels\nin the offing.\n\n\"Across all that water,\" she cried, stretching out her arms with a\npretty and graceful gesture, \"is my home--my dear hills, the Dargle, and\nthe people that I love!\"\n\nShe sniffed the salt air as though it were wine; and ran about in the\nalleys, gazing longingly at the green grass, while I sat upon a bench\nand waited. At last I reminded her that time was flying, and that she\nwould be a very hungry little girl by the time we made our trip up the\nEast Side of the city and got down again to luncheon.\n\nWe were soon seated in a Third Avenue elevated car and passed up Chatham\nSquare and the Bowery--that great thoroughfare, where such curious\npeople congregate; where the very shops have a different air, and the\noyster-saloons and other places of refreshment seem to revel in strange\nsign-boards and queerly-worded advertisements. The Jews are there in\nlarge numbers, as also Syrians, Chinese, and other Orientals, so that it\nhas a strange and foreign air.\n\nIt all amused and interested Winifred, and she called my attention every\nnow and again to some grotesque figure on the sign-boards or to some\nposter on the wall. I pointed out to the child Stuyvesant Park and Union\nSquare Park as a rest to the eyes tired with so much sight-seeing. Then\nwe jogged up the uninteresting and uninviting Third Avenue till finally\nwe were in the vicinity of Harlem Bridge and away up in the open\ncountry, past Harlem and Mott Haven, and well up toward High Bridge\nitself.\n\nAt last I called a halt, and we alighted and began the descent again. I\nresolved to take the little girl to luncheon at the Waldorf as a special\ntreat, so that she might see modern luxury, so far as hotels are\nconcerned, at its height. We sat in the Empire dining-room, with the\nimperial eagle of the great Napoleon on our chair-backs and a large\nbunch of fragrant pink roses on the table before us. Our soup was\nbrought in small silver bowls, which reminded Winifred of Niall's\ntreasures. She much enjoyed the very choice and daintily served luncheon\nwhich I ordered for her, particularly the sweet course and the dessert.\nAn orchestra was playing all the time of luncheon, changing briskly from\ngrave to gay; and its strains helped to make the whole scene dreamlike\nand unreal to the child of Nature, accustomed only to the glory of the\nhills.\n\nOther wonders awaited her: the _caf\u00e9_, with its ever-blossoming trees,\nand the goldfish swimming in its ponds; the onyx stairway, and the Louis\nQuinze salon, with its inlaid cabinets, its brocaded furniture, and\nabove all its gilt piano. This last object seemed to cap the climax of\nsplendor in Winifred's eyes. I think, indeed, that very modern hotel\nseemed to her a page from the Arabian Nights--some Aladdin's palace\nwhich the genii had built up. She was very pleased, too, with the\nprivate dining-room upstairs, where the turning on of the electric light\nshowed such a display of china of all sorts.\n\nWhen we were tired of exploring, and had, in fact, seen all that was\nreally worth the trouble or that was open to the public, I sat down at a\ntable in the Turkish parlor to write a note, bidding Winifred rest a\nwhile. She coiled herself up in one of the great armchairs, keeping so\nstill that I almost thought she had gone to sleep.\n\nThe rugs in that room are very soft and the draperies ample, and sound\nis very much deadened, so that I did not perceive any one coming in.\nLooking up suddenly from my writing, I was surprised to see Roderick\nO'Byrne. I grew pale and red by turns; my heart sank within me and I\ncould not meet his glance. I thought of Niall, his anger, his threats,\nmy own promises. Yet what was I to do in such a situation? Unconscious,\nof course, of the tumult he had raised in my mind, Roderick came\ndirectly toward me, making a few indifferent remarks on the weather, the\nlast political event, the hotel. Finally he asked, abruptly:\n\n\"By the way, do I remember aright, that you said you were in Wicklow\nduring your recent trip to Ireland?\"\n\n\"Yes--no!\" I cried, confused. \"Oh, yes, of course I was there!\"\n\nHe looked at me in some surprise; then he asked again:\n\n\"Of course you saw the Sugar Loaf Mountains, as the Sassenach call them,\nbut which we Celts loved to name the Gilt Spurs?\"\n\n\"Of course,\" I assented, more uneasily than ever; for I heard a movement\nin the chair.\n\n\"The Dargle goes without saying,\" he continued.\n\nAnother rustle in the chair.\n\n\"But I am not going to put you through a catechism on Irish local\nscenery,\" Roderick said, with a laugh; \"I am almost sure you told me\nthat you knew Father Owen Farley.\"\n\n\"Oh, my dear, dear Father Owen!\" cried Winifred from the depth of her\nchair. The mention of that beloved name had aroused her from the spell\nof shyness, or some other cause, which had hitherto kept her silent.\n\nRoderick turned quickly, and at the same moment Winifred stood up and\nfaced him. There they were together, father and daughter, as any one\ncould see at a glance.\n\n\"Do you know Father Owen, sir?\" the child asked; and at her voice\nRoderick started. He did not answer her question, but, gazing at her\nintently, asked instead:\n\n\"Who are you, child?\"\n\nSomething in the question abashed or offended Winifred; for she drew her\nlittle figure to its highest and replied not a word.\n\nRoderick smiled involuntarily at the movement; and I, stepping forward,\ninterposed myself between the father and daughter and drew the child\naway.\n\n\"Come!\" I said: \"we are in a hurry.\" And, with a bow and a few muttered\nwords of farewell, I hastened out of the room; and, rushing from the\nhotel as if a plague had suddenly broken out there, I almost ran with\nthe wondering Winifred to Broadway, where we took a cable car as the\nsafest and speediest means of leaving that vicinity behind us. I had\nleft the note which I was writing on the table; but, fortunately, I had\nsealed and stamped it, intending to put it in the mail-box in the hall.\nI was sure it would be posted, and gave myself no further concern about\nit.\n\nI knew Roderick would come to me sooner or later for an explanation of\nthat strange scene--the presence there of the child and my own singular\nconduct. His impetuous nature would give him no rest till he had cleared\nup that mystery. But at least the child should be safe back in the\nconvent before I saw him; and I could then refuse to answer any\nquestions, or take any course I thought proper, without fear of\ninterference on the part of Winifred.\n\n\"We shall go on up to the Park,\" I said to the child; for I had some\nfear that Roderick might come straight to my hotel.\n\nWinifred made no answer, and we took the car to Fifty-ninth Street,\nwhere we got out and were soon strolling through the broad alleys,\nthronged with carriages; or the quieter footpaths of that splendid\nCentral Park, justly the pride of New Yorkers.\n\n\"Why are you afraid of that gentleman?\" Winifred asked me in her abrupt\nfashion as I led her by a secluded path to show her a statue of Auld\nLang Syne which had always appealed to me.\n\n\"I am not afraid of him, dear.\"\n\n\"But why are you trembling, and why did you run away?\" she asked again.\n\n\"Because it was time for us to go. I still have much to show you.\"\n\n\"I like that gentleman,\" she said.\n\n\"Do you?\" I cried impulsively. \"I am so glad! Go on liking him just as\nmuch as ever you can.\"\n\nShe did not seem so much surprised at this statement and at my apparent\ninconsistency as a grown person would have been; but she went on:\n\n\"Only I thought it was rather rude of him to question me like that.\"\n\n\"He did not mean it for rudeness.\"\n\n\"No, I suppose not,\" the child said slowly. \"I'm sorry you took me away\nso quickly. I would like to have talked to him. He reminded me of\nNiall.\"\n\n\"Of Niall!\" I repeated in amazement.\n\n\"Yes,\" she answered. \"Of course he hasn't gray hair and he doesn't wear\nthe same kind of clothes that Niall does, but it's his face.\"\n\nI remembered how the same thought had on one occasion occurred to me.\n\n\"Then I think he knew my dear Father Owen,\" the child continued. \"I\nwonder how he knew him? Father Owen never came to America.\"\n\n\"Perhaps he heard of him,\" I suggested; for I was not anxious that her\ncuriosity in the subject should be too keenly aroused. I tried to divert\nher mind by showing her various monuments and busts of celebrated people\nas we went, and at last we stood before the stone group of Auld Lang\nSyne. It is so natural, so easy, so lifelike that one would think it\nrepresented three old men, boon companions, whom we had known. The very\nbuttons on their surtouts, the smile upon their faces, are to the life.\nWinifred stood by, smiling responsively, while I recited to her the\nfamiliar lines of that homely ballad which has found an echo in every\nland.\n\nWe could not see everything in the Park that day, especially as we began\nto feel tired. So, leaving the rest for a future occasion, we returned\nhome again and had a rest before dinner. The gaily-lighted dining-room,\nthe well-dressed guests, were a new source of pleasure to Winifred; but\nevery once in a while her thoughts reverted to the dark gentleman. I was\nhaunted by a fear that he would come that very evening for an\nexplanation, and I did not linger either in the hotel parlors or the\ncorridor. But the evening wore away and there was no sign of him. I took\nWinifred out to show her a little of New York by gaslight, and to lay in\na stock of chocolates and other sweets for her to take back with her on\nthe morrow.\n\nNext day, faithful to promise, I brought her back to school, where I\nleft her somewhat depressed and despondent, as the returning pupil is\napt to be for a day or two. Then I set myself to await Roderick's visit\nwith what heart I might.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI.\n\nA MYSTERY SOLVED.\n\n\nWhen Winifred had returned to the convent, I waited patiently for\nRoderick's coming, which I knew could not be long delayed. Indeed,\nbefore the week was out his card was brought to me where I sat at my\nsitting-room fire. I glanced up at him as he entered the room. His face\nwas grave, even stern in its expression, reminding me forcibly of Niall.\nAfter the ordinary salutations had been exchanged, he stood before me\nsilent a moment; then he said, with an abruptness quite foreign to his\nmanner:\n\n\"I think you will agree with me that this is no time for commonplaces. I\nhave come to know the meaning of this mystery.\"\n\n\"Mystery!\" I repeated vaguely; for, with all my planning and thinking\nwhat I should say when he came, I was still hopelessly at a loss, and\nresolved to be guided by the event.\n\n\"Yes, mystery,\" he declared emphatically. \"I saw in your company the\nvery child of whom I told you I had had a glimpse and whom I was so\neager to see again.\"\n\n\"But how could I know that the child with me was the one who had\nattracted your attention?\"\n\n\"Well, in the first place,\" he answered, looking at me keenly, \"I gave\nyou a tolerably accurate description of the girl in question. The type\nis not a very common one, and might, I think be easily recognized.\"\n\nHe paused; and I remaining silent, he went on again:\n\n\"I hope you will not consider it rude if I say that I think you did know\nit was the child I was in search of.\"\n\n\"And why?\" I asked, still with a mere helpless idea of gaining time.\n\n\"Because of your manner and your course of action the other day in the\nparlor of the Waldorf. I saw at once that, for some reason or another,\nyou were disturbed at my presence there. When the girl spoke and thus\nattracted my attention, you were distressed; and while I was in the act\nof addressing her you seized her by the hand and fled from the hotel.\"\n(An irrepressible smile came over his face at the recollection.) \"You\nleft in such haste that you forgot the letter you had been writing.\nHowever, I posted that for you. And you went along Thirty-third Street,\nI should be afraid to say at what rate of speed. Did you suppose I was\ngoing to pursue you and forcibly wrest away the child?\"\n\nI could not help laughing in sympathy at the drollery which shone out\nthrough the anxiety of his face, like sunshine from a cloud.\n\n\"Well, not exactly,\" I observed; \"but, truth to tell, I had no desire to\nhold any conversation with you just then. And, besides, I was in a\nhurry.\"\n\n\"Oh, you _were_ in a hurry--there was no possible doubt about that!\" he\nassented, still laughing.\n\n\"Will you not sit down?\" I inquired. \"You look so very unsociable\nstanding, and the night is cold enough to make this fire agreeable.\"\n\nHe took the chair I indicated, but he did not turn from the subject.\n\n\"May I ask,\" he resumed, \"if the child whom I saw on that occasion is\nhere with you?\"\n\n\"She is not,\" I responded briefly, elated that I could do so\ntruthfully.\n\n\"Where is she?\"\n\n\"That I can not tell.\"\n\n\"Can not tell!\" he repeated musingly. \"Surely that is a very strange\nanswer. Perhaps, at least, you will tell me _who_ she is?\"\n\n\"I am not at liberty to tell that either,\" I replied firmly.\n\n\"Mystery on mystery!\" he cried, with an impatient gesture. \"What in the\nname of common-sense--if you will forgive my bluntness--is the purpose\nof this mystification?\"\n\n\"The mystification arises,\" I declared, \"from the fact that I am\nsolemnly pledged to keep both her identity and her whereabouts a\nsecret.\"\n\n\"From whom?\"\n\nThe question was a shrewd one. I hesitated how to answer it; but at last\nI said:\n\n\"From all inquirers.\"\n\n\"Are there likely to be many?\" he asked, quizzically.\n\n\"That I can not say.\"\n\nRoderick lay back in his chair and pondered, keeping his eyes fixed upon\nmy face.\n\n\"Under ordinary circumstances,\" he said, after a pause, \"I should, of\ncourse, respect your desire for secrecy and say no more about the\nmatter. But there are reasons which make the identity of this child of\nvital interest to me.\"\n\nI could not answer: there was now nothing I could say without revealing\nthe secret I was pledged to keep.\n\n\"You will pardon me for saying further that I strongly suspect _I_ am\nthe person toward whom you are pledged to maintain this secrecy.\"\n\n\"You!\" I repeated. \"Why, surely you are in a singular mood to-night,\nfull of fancies and suspicions!\"\n\n\"For which I have good and sufficient reasons. Are yours equally so for\nmaintaining this secrecy?\"\n\n\"I believe that they are,\" I replied gravely.\n\nHe rose and paced the floor a while. Then he sat down again, and drew\nhis chair nearer mine, as if impelled by some sudden resolve.\n\n\"Since you will not give me your confidence--\" he began.\n\n\"Since I can not,\" I corrected quietly.\n\n\"Well, since you can not or will not, I shall give you mine instead, and\nopen for your inspection a page of my life which I fancied was closed\nforever.\"\n\nHe paused, and an expression so sad and troubled crossed his face that,\nin my deep pity, I almost regretted my promise to Niall.\n\n\"I was brought up,\" he went on, \"in the neighborhood of the Dargle. That\nbeautiful glen and stream were alike familiar to me. I inhabited an old\nfamily mansion, which, to say the least, stood sadly in need of repair.\nI was under the guardianship of a kinsman who, though eccentric, was of\nsterling worth.\"\n\nThere was a touch of emotion in his voice, as he thus referred to Niall,\nwhich pleased me.\n\n\"When I was about twenty-three we had a serious difference of opinion,\nwhich arose in part from my marriage. For at that time I married a very\nbeautiful girl, who lived only a few years, and left one child--a girl.\"\n\nHe hurried over this part of the story, which seemed deeply painful to\nhim.\n\n\"It is always unpleasant to go into family affairs, but my relations\nwith my wife's family were such that I removed the child from their\ninfluence and took her back to the old dwelling. There I placed her in\ncharge of an old woman who had been my nurse. I refused to accept any\nof my wife's money, even for the maintenance of the child; and, my own\ncircumstances being not of the best, I came to America. I had but one\nobject in view--to make money, that I might return, claim my child and\nrestore the old dwelling of my fathers to something of its former\nstate.\"\n\nAgain there was a long, troubled pause; and I did not interrupt him by\nso much as a word, nor did I give any sign that some of his story was\nalready familiar to me. When he resumed it was in a different tone. His\nface was drawn and haggard, his voice tremulous:\n\n\"For some time I sent the half-yearly remittance faithfully to my little\nWinifred, and I was happy in so doing. Then I received a letter--from\nwhom precisely I know not, though I believe it purported to be from a\npriest. It was written in the third person and it simply informed me\nthat my child was dead.\"\n\n\"Dead!\" I exclaimed--\"dead! How cruel!--how--\"\n\nI was about to say untrue, but I checked myself in time. Roderick\nglanced quickly toward me but said nothing.\n\n\"It was indeed a cruel blow,\" he resumed at last; \"and after that I gave\nup all desire to see Ireland again. I drifted on here, doing whatever\ngood I could and working still, but with little personal hope or\ninterest to cheer me in my labors.\"\n\nHis weary, despondent tone went to my heart, which was beating just then\nwith exultation; for I was truly rejoiced to know that Winifred's father\nwas worthy of her, that poor Niall's dreams might one day come true--at\nleast in so far as seeing the reunion of father and child, with\nRoderick's return to the home of his youth. I resolved to write to Niall\nwithout delay, tell him of what I had discovered and obtain his\npermission to reveal all to Roderick. In the meantime, however, I must,\nof course, be true to my promise and give Roderick no hint of the\nknowledge I possessed.\n\n\"And you never found out from whom that letter came?\" I inquired.\n\n\"Never: there was no means of finding out. Father Owen was at that time\nabsent in Rome. I presumed it was from the priest who had replaced him.\nI wrote to him; the letter followed him to a distant parish in a remote\npart of Ireland, whither he had already returned. He had never written\nto me, he replied, and had no knowledge of the matter at all. I wrote to\nGranny Meehan, the woman who had charge of Winifred. She never answered.\nI suppose on the death of the child she had wandered away. I then sent a\nletter to Niall, the eccentric kinsman to whom I before referred. He, I\nsuppose, was either dead or away on some of his wanderings.\"\n\n\"Your story is indeed a sad one,\" I put in, grieved that I could do\nnothing to dispel his sorrow. I could not let him know that Granny\nMeehan was still faithful to her post, that Niall was still dreaming and\nplanning for his welfare and for the restoration of the old place; and\nthat, best of all, Winifred was still living and such a child as might\ndelight a father's heart--in fact, that she was the child who had so\ndeeply interested him already. Whether he suspected that such was the\ncase or merely saw in her some chance resemblance I could not yet tell.\n\n\"You may well say it is a sad story,\" Roderick answered. \"To me it seems\nall the more so that since the receipt of that letter which dashed all\nmy hopes Fortune has smiled upon me. Everything I touch seems to turn to\nmoney. The novel, rejected before, has since been accepted, and has run\nthrough several editions; articles from my pen are in demand by leading\nmagazines; all my speculations have turned out well, and my insurance\nbusiness has prospered. It is the old, old story of Fortune coming too\nlate.\"\n\nI sat still, joyful, yet amazed; thinking within myself:\n\n\"How wonderful are the ways of Providence! Niall's dream of restoring\nthe old place shall certainly be realized now. Father and child,\nreunited, shall dwell amongst those lovely scenes; while the faithful\nhearts of Niall and Granny Meehan shall be filled with joy. How seldom\ndoes life work out events so happily!\"\n\n\"Would you like to see the old place again?\" I asked.\n\n\"What use now?\" he cried. \"Some day I may take the journey to see if\nNiall be still amongst the living; but I shrink from that as yet.\"\n\nWe sat silent after that for some moments, I afraid to break the spell\nlest I should in any way betray the knowledge which so filled my heart.\nBut presently Roderick roused himself with the remark:\n\n\"That child whom I first saw in the carriage on Broadway, and whom I\nnext saw in your company, has awakened a strange train of thought in my\nmind. I have even dared to hope that I have been the victim of a trick\nand that my child still lives. Her voice, when she spoke in the Waldorf\nparlor the other day, seemed as an echo of my vanished youth. It was the\nvoice of my wife; and when the child rose from the chair and confronted\nme, for an instant I believed that the grave had given up its dead. It\nwas my wife herself as I saw her first, many years before our marriage.\"\n\n\"Resemblances are very delusive,\" I said lamely.\n\n\"But was _this_ resemblance delusive?\" he asked, leaning forward and\nlooking me in the face.\n\n\"How can I answer? I never saw your wife,\" I replied.\n\nIt was an evasion, and perhaps he saw it; but he only sighed deeply.\n\n\"I had expected better things of you,\" he went on; \"for we are old\nenough friends that I might have looked to you for help in clearing up a\nmystery. As it is, you will not or can not; and I must drag on in the\nsame weary, hapless fashion or follow out the clue for myself. Indeed, I\ntrust you will think it no discourtesy when I tell you that I _must_ and\n_will_ find out who this child is.\"\n\nHis resemblance to Niall was once more almost startling; though,\nneedless to observe, there was no wildness nor violence of any sort in\nhis manner.\n\n\"I wish I were able to give you the information you desire,\" I said\nformally. \"But at present it is impossible.\"\n\nHe rose to take his leave.\n\n\"In that case I must not intrude upon you any longer,\" he answered\ncoldly. \"I am afraid I have been thoughtless in occupying so much of\nyour time with my personal affairs.\"\n\nI felt at that moment that a valued friendship of many years was\nendangered, but I could not be false to my trust. Niall must hear all,\nand then it would be for him to act. I held out my hand. Roderick took\nit but there was no warmth in the handshake; and as he disappeared down\nthe corridor, I stood looking after him sadly, fully realizing that for\nthe time being I had lost much in his estimation. Yet I hoped to be able\nto repair all and explain all in good time.\n\nI did not lose a moment in getting out my writing-desk and writing to\nNiall a full account of all that I had heard. My pen moved rapidly and\njoyfully over the page. I had so much to tell! Roderick still true to\nhis child, his kinsman, and his old home; Roderick having acquired\nwealth which he would be only too happy to spend in fulfilling the old\nman's dream. I also wrote to Father Farley and begged him to let Granny\nMeehan know the good news as speedily as possible. How I wished that I\ncould fly over the ocean and be myself the bearer of those good tidings!\nI fancied the patient old face of Granny brightening, and the loving,\ntender voice giving forth thanks to her Creator.\n\nThe scene rose so vividly before me that I sat back in my chair, with\npen uplifted, to ponder it over. There was the hearth in the great\nkitchen, near which Granny Meehan sat. A fire was burning there--a clear\npeat fire; beside it the tranquil figure of the blind woman, with the\ncat, Brown Peter, purring against her dress; and Barney and Moira in the\nbackground, hanging about to hear the great news which good Father Owen\nhad to tell. And I conjured up the fine face of the priest beaming with\nthe glad tidings; and I seemed to hear once more his genial voice\nreading aloud the welcome letter from America.\n\nI returned to my task and wrote on, while the clock on my mantel tolled\nout eleven, and the din of the street below began to give place to the\nsilence of night. I had a curious impression that Winifred stood beside\nme as I wrote, her image seemed so very vivid. I resolved to go to see\nher on the morrow, which was Thursday--visiting-day at the convent. But\nI knew it would be another trial to refrain from telling her of her\nfather and of the mystery concerning him which had just been cleared up.\nMy original intention of striving to kindle her affection and admiration\nfor the father she scarcely remembered was strengthened by the knowledge\nI had gained. Knowing her father to be entirely worthy of her love and\nto be devotedly attached to her, I could with a clear conscience\ndescribe him as he really was, and clothe the phantom she remembered\nwith the lovable attributes of the real man.\n\nMy letters finished, I rang for a bell-boy, and had them posted at once;\nfor it seemed to me that they would never get over to Ireland, and that\nI would never have an answer back again. Then I stood for a moment at\nthe window and looked out at the still brightly lighted streets, where\nthe passers-by were fewer; though many still hurried to and fro from the\ntheatres, concerts, or lectures--all intent on business or pleasure.\nCarriages swept by, cars with belated passengers in them still ran, and\nthe hum of the great city was audible from afar even at that late hour.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII.\n\nAT THE CONVENT.\n\n\nI went up to see Winifred next day, and, in the light of my new\ndiscoveries, to talk with her over past, present, and future. She came\ninto the dimly-lighted convent parlor with something of her former\nbrightness. Her little figure was particularly graceful and symmetrical\nin the somber black of the costume. An attempt had been made to brush\nher curls as smooth as the regulations required, but they still broke\nout mutinously; her eyes shone; while her complexion, though paler than\nbefore, was clear and healthful. All present in the parlor--for it was\nvisiting-day--turned to look at her, and I heard more than one whispered\ninquiry concerning her in the groups that sat around.\n\nI inquired first about her school-life--her lessons and all those little\ndetails of convent life familiar to girls who have ever been at\nboarding-school.\n\n\"I am singing in the choir now,\" she told me; \"and I like that very\nmuch. Did you ever sing in a choir when you were little?\"\n\n\"No,\" I answered; \"for the best of all reasons, that I had no voice.\"\n\n\"Well, we practise a great deal,\" she went on; \"and that is always nice.\nI think my voice sounded best on the hills. Do you remember when I used\nto sit on the tree over the Dargle? Well I could raise my voice very\nhigh then.\"\n\n\"I remember well,\" I replied; \"and those old ballads you sang suited\nyour voice. But I am glad you are getting interested in the choir and in\nyour singing lessons.\"\n\n\"Yes, and some of my other lessons I like very much. And, then, we are\nto have a play, in which I am to take the part of an Indian.\"\n\n\"You ought to do that well,\" I remarked, \"because you have lived so much\nin the open air.\"\n\nI thought as I spoke that she had indeed the free, wild grace of\nmovement peculiar to the children of Nature.\n\n\"That's what Sister said when she gave me the part,\" Winifred assented.\n\"It is great fun being an Indian. I have to wear feathers on my head and\nsome paint on my face, and a beaded skirt and a blanket embroidered with\nquills and things. Wouldn't Barney and Moira stare if they saw me!\"\n\nAnd she laughed at the picture she conjured up of their amazement.\n\n\"Granny Meehan would stare too, were it possible for her to see you,\" I\nobserved; \"though that she could not do even if you stood before her.\"\n\n\"Poor old Granny!\" Winifred said softly. \"I wish I could see her. But\nthere's no use wishing.\"\n\nAnd she dismissed the subject with that curiously unchildlike composure\nand self-control which I had often perceived in her.\n\n\"Winifred,\" I finally asked, \"do you remember your father at all?\"\n\nShe looked startled, but answered:\n\n\"I suppose it was he who shut the door hard when the lady in yellow made\nhim angry.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said: \"I suppose it was.\"\n\n\"He was very dark,\" Winifred went on, thoughtfully. \"I think it was the\nsame one who took me away. He was dressed all in black and he looked\nvery sad. He took me by the hand and we went out of the house and\nthrough some streets, and then he put me before him on a horse and rode\noff. He was very kind and not at all angry that day.\"\n\n\"They say he is living, Winifred my child,\" I ventured. \"Would you like\nto see him again?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes!\" she cried; \"though perhaps he would be like a stranger; it is\nso very long ago.\"\n\n\"Niall believes you will see him yet,\" I continued; \"so you ought to get\naccustomed to the idea. I used to know him, and he was noble and good\nand kind-hearted.\"\n\n\"You never told me before that you knew him,\" Winifred remarked, looking\nat me curiously.\n\n\"And yet I did, and he was all that I have said,\" I declared.\n\n\"But he does not care for me,\" said Winifred suddenly, \"or he would not\nhave gone away and left me.\"\n\nI was startled and at the same time touched by the deep sadness of her\ntone.\n\n\"Perhaps he thought you were dead,\" I suggested.\n\n\"Thought I was dead!\" repeated Winifred, in surprise.\n\nThen she burst into a peal of laughter.\n\n\"Winifred,\" I cried, bending toward her, \"think that--think anything\nrather than that your father has forgotten you or does not care for\nyou.\"\n\nThe tears came into her eyes, but she suddenly turned away from the\nsubject, as she usually did when deeply moved--a habit which she had in\ncommon with her father.\n\n\"You never saw my classroom, did you?\" she inquired.\n\nI answered that I had not.\n\n\"Then I will ask if I may take you up to see it,\" she said, darting away\nfor the desired permission.\n\nWe went up the great, broad stairs and along the shining corridor to a\nroom with a half glass door and a pair of broad, low windows. Within it\nwere rows of desks familiar to all convent girls, and a desk for the\nteacher standing upon a raised platform. There was a small statue of the\nSacred Heart and one of the Blessed Virgin resting upon brackets, with\nflowers before them; and a fine engraving or two of sacred subjects hung\nwith the maps upon the walls. An immense blackboard occupied one side of\nthe apartment. The room was empty as regarded occupants; and Winifred,\ndancing across the floor to one of the desks which stood near the\nwindow, cried:\n\n\"This is mine!\"\n\nI went and sat down on the chair, fastened securely to the floor, which\nlooked out upon the wintry landscape. At that moment a bird came\nchirping and twittering about the window-sill, and cocking his bright\nlittle eye as he looked in at us through the pane.\n\n\"He comes very often,\" said Winifred, regarding the little brown object\nwith a kindly glance. \"Sometimes I feed him with crumbs. He always\nreminds me of Father Owen's robin far away over the sea, and I wonder if\nhe will ever fly so far.\"\n\nI laughed at the idea.\n\n\"Perhaps he may go and take a message to that other bird,\" I suggested.\n\n\"Not until the spring, anyway,\" Winifred answered gravely. \"But when I\nsee him out there on cold, stormy days I think how Father Owen said that\nthe robin did his work in storm or calm and tried to sing and be merry.\"\n\n\"And I suppose you try to imitate him?\" I put in.\n\n\"Yes,\" she said, \"I think I do; but I'm not always merry in the storm,\nand my teacher tells me I'm too wayward and unstable: that I'm never two\ndays the same.\"\n\nI said nothing, and she went on:\n\n\"All my life people have told me that I'm wayward. I used to be called\nWayward Winifred. Perhaps it's from living so much on the hills; for you\nknow they change often. Sometimes they're beautiful, with the sun\nshining like gold on their heads; and again they're dark and\nthreatening.\"\n\n\"Like Niall,\" I added.\n\n\"Don't say anything against Niall--O poor, poor Niall!\" she interrupted,\nalmost vehemently.\n\n\"Well, that is not exactly against him. But he is rather variable,\" I\ndeclared. \"But now you are in a place where everything is the same day\nafter day.\"\n\n\"I found that hard at first,\" Winifred said--\"very hard; but now I don't\nmind so much. And I suppose if I stay long enough, I shall come to be\nalways the same too.\"\n\nInwardly I doubted if such a result were possible, but I did not tell\nher that. I asked her to show me what was in her desk, and she began to\ntake out, one by one, pencils, pens, colored crayons, exercise books, a\nslate, a pile of lesson books. She had also her beads and her\nprayer-book in there. The latter contained some very pretty lace\npictures, given her by her teachers as rewards of merit, on her birthday\nor some other festal occasion. One of the pictures, however, she took\nfrom between the leaves of the book and handed it to me.\n\n\"Do you remember the day Father Owen gave me that?\" she asked.\n\n\"Was that the one he told you to get out of his breviary?\" I inquired.\n\n\"Yes,\" answered Winifred; \"and it was on the day that you told me you\nwere going to bring me to America.\"\n\n\"Yes, it was that memorable day.\"\n\n\"I hated you then--oh, so much!\" cried Winifred; \"and I thought I should\nalways go on hating you, till we went into the church and Father Owen\nbegan to play the organ.\"\n\n\"Music has charms,\" I quoted, \"to soothe--well, I won't say the savage\nbreast, but the angry feelings of a certain little girl. I am very glad,\nthough, that it had that result; for I should not have liked you to go\non hating me. That would never have done; and I'm afraid in that case we\nshould have had to give up our trip to America.\"\n\nShe had a mischievous look about the eyes, which made me say:\n\n\"Perhaps you think that wouldn't have been so great a misfortune, after\nall, my Wayward Winifred!\"\n\nShe laughed merrily, and replied:\n\n\"Don't think me ungrateful. I'm glad in some ways I came. 'Tis a\nwonderful country this America; and I have seen such beautiful, strange\nthings.\"\n\n\"Not the golden streets,\" I observed; \"nor the trees with gold leaves\nnor the birds with jewelled wings.\"\n\n\"No,\" she agreed; \"I haven't seen anything like that, and I know those\nstories weren't true.\"\n\nShe sighed, as if for the dream that had vanished, and added:\n\n\"But I have seen so many beautiful things, and I am learning a great\ndeal that I could never have learned with Granny and Niall.\"\n\nHer shrewd child's wit had reached this conclusion unaided.\n\n\"And you have been so kind; I am grateful, and I do love you.\"\n\nShe said this with such pretty fervor and yet with that sweet\ncondescension that always made me feel as if a little princess were\naddressing me.\n\n\"You are getting to like the convent too?\" I said.\n\n\"Oh, yes!\" she cried; \"it is so quiet and peaceful, like a church; and\nevery one speaks nicely, and we hear so many things about God and our\nBlessed Mother and the saints. I am interested in a lot of things I\nnever knew before; and my teachers are different from any people I ever\nknew before.\"\n\nI was well satisfied; and when we returned to the convent parlor I had a\ntalk with the Religious who presided there, while Winifred went off to\nget her wraps--she having obtained permission to accompany me as far as\nthe gate. The Religious gave a very good account of Winifred. She\ndeclared that her training had made her different from other girls, and\nsomewhat wayward and hard to control by ordinary means.\n\n\"At first,\" she said, \"the rule and the monotony of convent life seemed\nmost irksome to her, as well as the indoor existence, accustomed as she\nhad been in Ireland to spend nearly all her time in the open air.\"\n\nI nodded assent.\n\n\"Being quite undisciplined, too,\" she went on, \"she was inclined to a\ncertain waywardness of character, which it was hard to fight against.\"\n\n\"I can understand,\" I agreed.\n\n\"She was a very independent young lady when she first came, I assure\nyou,\" the Religious said, smiling; \"but, on the other hand, she is such\na sweet, bright temperament, so wholesome, so generous, so innately\nrefined--a thorough little lady. And she is so genuinely pious: nothing\nsentimental or overstrained in her devotion. She has the faith and\nfervor of her country. Altogether, her nature is one susceptible of the\nhighest training. Her very faults are lovable.\"\n\n\"I am so glad to hear you say all this!\" I declared cordially; \"for it\nfits in so well with the impression I had formed of her; and, though I\nmet her as a stranger last summer, I have now the best of reasons for\nfeeling a particular interest in her.\"\n\n\"Her intelligence is quite remarkable,\" went on the Religious. \"Her mind\nis in some directions far in advance of her years, and she has really a\nfair share of education.\"\n\n\"You see she had for her teacher,\" I observed, \"an eccentric but really\nlearned kinsman.\"\n\n\"That accounts for it! And she has a good voice. Our music teachers are\nquite enthusiastic about it.\"\n\n\"She has a voice of uncommon sweetness and power,\" I assented. \"I heard\nher singing on the Irish hills. Altogether, I hope the best from her\nstay with you.\"\n\nWe were here interrupted by Winifred herself, who appeared in her hat\nand coat. She made a graceful curtsy to the teacher, and together we\nwent out arm in arm, walking over the crisp snow which had fallen over\nnight and which sparkled in the sunlight; and looking away into the\ndistance, where the afternoon was beginning to darken and the gray sky\nto take on a warmer glow. When we reached the gate we stood still a few\nminutes, Winifred looking wistfully out, as though she would fain have\ngone with me.\n\n\"It will be study hour when I get back,\" she told me; \"and we have a lot\nof hard things for to-morrow. Did you find globes hard when you were at\nschool?\"\n\n\"Indeed I did,\" I said, remembering my own bewildered flounderings about\nin that particular branch of study.\n\n\"Well, we have them, and ancient history and algebra--oh, that awful\nalgebra!--to-morrow. So I think I must be going.\"\n\n\"Good-by!\" I said; \"and, Winifred, don't forget to say a prayer\nsometimes for your father, that you may see him again in this world, and\nboth be happy together.\"\n\n\"I won't forget!\" Winifred promised. \"I always pray for my mother, who\nis dead.\"\n\n\"That is right, dear; but you must remember the living as well. And now\ngood-by again!\"\n\n\"I am going to run all the way back,\" she announced.\n\n\"Very well; I will stand and watch you. Now for the run! Let us see how\nquick you can get up the avenue.\"\n\nShe was off like a deer darting to cover; and it reminded me of the time\nwhen I had seen her running amongst the hills, springing lightly from\npeak to peak and almost horrifying me by her reckless movements.\n\n\"I should like her to have had a few years at the convent,\" I thought;\n\"the refined atmosphere there would be just what she needs to tone down\nher high spirits and give her the touches she requires. But I suppose\nwhen Niall hears all he will be too impatient for the reunion with those\nhe loves to wait. Besides, it would be unjust to Roderick. I must\nexplain everything to him as soon as I get Niall's permission.\"\n\nI pondered thus all the way to town, and wondered how soon I could hear\nfrom Ireland, and how I should pass the intervening time till my letters\narrived. But in New York time flies, and the days seem all too short for\nthe multitude of affairs; so that week followed week and ran into months\nbefore I realized that my letters remained unanswered.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII.\n\nWINIFRED TELLS HER NAME.\n\n\nUnhappily, the time went by without bringing any news of Niall, and the\nsuspense became almost intolerable. I met Roderick O'Byrne once or\ntwice; but he merely gave me a distant bow: I had no conversation with\nhim whatever. Every morning I eagerly questioned the hotel clerk. The\nanswer was always the same: \"No, there are no letters.\"\n\nThen Christmas came. Winifred spent the holidays with me, though I was\nin constant fear that she should meet with Roderick. One evening at a\nconcert I chanced to look toward a side of the hall where a few men were\nwalking to and fro in the pauses of the music. One who stood near the\nwall attracted my attention. It was Roderick O'Byrne, and he had\nevidently caught sight of us, and stood now with his eyes intently fixed\nupon Winifred's face. The remaining numbers on the programme fell on\ndeaf ears, so far as I was concerned. I did not know what any one played\nor sang; I could not tell a rondo from a caprice, or if the violinist\nwas accompanied by a flute or a violoncello. I had but one desire--to\nget out of the hall and away. I kept my eyes upon the programme,\navoiding another look.\n\nPresently Winifred touched my arm and whispered:\n\n\"Oh, see! he is right over there--the gentleman we met at the hotel.\"\n\nShe watched him as if fascinated; and I saw that their eyes met,\nexchanging a long, long look. Before the concert was over I arose\nhurriedly, and, complaining of the heat, told Winifred we must go at\nonce. To my relief, Roderick made no movement to follow us. His fine\ncourtesy prevented him from a course of action so obviously distressing\nto me. Next day, however, I got a note from him, in which he said:\n\n\"The chance meeting of yesterday evening has confirmed me more than ever\nin the belief that the child whom you choose to surround with so much\nmystery is in some way connected with my life. The sight of her renewed\nonce more those memories of the past, and filled me with a hope--so\nstrong, if delusive--that I was misinformed regarding the supposed death\nof my daughter. If this child be not my own Winifred, she must be in\nsome way related to my late wife. I implore you, by our years of\nfriendship, to end my suspense by telling me whatever you may know of\nthe girl. You will be doing the greatest possible service to\n\n\"Your devoted friend,\n\"RODERICK O'BYRNE.\"\n\nI answered him at once as follows:\n\n\"I beg of you in turn, by our friendship, to wait. Give me a month or\ntwo, and I promise to relieve your suspense, or at least to give you\nsuch excellent reasons for my silence that you will no longer doubt the\nsincerity of my desire to serve you.\"\n\nThe note posted, I persecuted the clerk more than ever by my inquiries\nfor letters, and I grumbled and growled at Niall and at Father Owen.\n\n\"Why on earth couldn't they answer, if it were only a line? What could\nthey be thinking of? Didn't they know I must be intolerably anxious?\"\n\nThis was the sum of my growling, and I continued it during all the\nChristmas holidays, when Winifred was with me; though, of course, I\ncould say nothing to her. One afternoon, when I had been particularly\nanxious, I went out with the child, spent a half hour at the cathedral,\nwhich was a daily haunt of mine, and then tried to control my feverish\nagitation by getting into a restless crowd of shoppers who thronged the\ndepartment stores.\n\nWinifred was delighted. It was a new experience. She never could get\nover her wonder, though, at the number of people in New York city.\n\n\"Where do they all come from?\" she cried; \"and where do they live? Are\nthere houses enough for them all?\"\n\nI assured her that most of them were housed, though there was a sad\nproportion of them homeless. I brought tears to her eyes with the\naccount I gave her, as we passed on to the quieter Fifth Avenue, of the\nsufferings of the poor in all big cities.\n\nShe talked on this subject most of the way home; and when I would have\nbought her some choice candies she begged me to give the money instead\nto the poor. This we did. I handed her the amount, with a little added\nthereto, and advised her to divide it amongst more than one. We met a\nblind man, and she gave him an alms; next was a miserable child, and\nafter that a very old woman.\n\n\"There we have the Holy Family complete,\" I remarked; and her face\nlighted up at the suggestion.\n\n\"There are so many poor people here!\" she said. \"There were plenty of\npoor people in Ireland too; but I don't think they were quite as poor as\nthese, and the neighbors always helped them.\"\n\n\"The poverty of a great city is worse, I think,\" I assented, \"than it\never is in country places.\"\n\n\"Except in the famine times,\" said Winifred. \"Oh, if you heard Niall\ntell about the famine in Ireland, and how some bad men and women went\nround trying to get the people who were starving to give up their\nreligion, and they wouldn't!\"\n\nThe child's eyes shone and her whole face was aglow as she cried:\n\n\"Rather than give up their religion they died by the road eating grass.\nThat was just splendid of them.\"\n\n\"Always keep that fine enthusiasm and that tender heart, dear child,\"\nsaid a voice.\n\nWe both turned quickly. I had little need to do so, for I knew the\nvoice. It was Roderick O'Byrne's. Winifred looked into his face for a\nmoment, then she held out her hand.\n\n\"I don't often speak to strangers,\" she declared, with her princess-like\nair, \"but I like you.\"\n\nRoderick O'Byrne's handsome face flushed, his lips parted eagerly as if\nto speak; but he restrained himself by a visible effort, and said after\na pause:\n\n\"I hope some day you will like me better.\" Then he turned to me, still\nholding Winifred's hand in his own strong brown one. \"Do not be afraid:\nI am not going to steal the little one away, and I am going to be\npatient and wait. But I was walking behind you and I heard the sweet\nvoice--the voice so like one I loved very dearly in other days--and it\nwas too hard to resist: I had to speak.\"\n\nHis voice took on that tone, half boyish, half pleading; and I felt\ncompelled to say:\n\n\"If you are not patient, I will have to spirit my little one away from\nNew York.\"\n\n\"Oh, don't do that!\" he cried. \"Let me see her sometimes--let me hear\nher voice, and I won't ask a question. See, I haven't even asked her\nname.\"\n\nHe had come round to my side, dropping his voice to an earnest whisper.\nBut the child caught the last words.\n\n\"My name is Winifred,\" she said in answer to them.\n\n\"Good heavens!\" exclaimed Roderick, turning deadly pale; while I,\nseizing the child firmly by the hand, turned a corner abruptly and\nhastened into Broadway, where, as before on a similar occasion, I took a\ncable car.\n\n\"And yet I have tried to be true to my trust,\" I repeated over and over\nto myself. \"At the risk of losing Roderick's friendship, I have refused\nto answer any questions.\"\n\n\"Oh, why did you go and leave the gentleman like that?\" asked Winifred,\nimperiously, as soon as we entered our rooms at the hotel. \"It's a\nshame--I tell you it's a shame!\" And she stamped her little foot on the\ncarpet.\n\n\"Winifred!\" I said severely. \"You must be careful!\"\n\n\"I don't care!\" she cried. \"I won't be good any more. It was very\nimpolite to run away from that gentleman; and I wanted to talk to him,\nbecause I think I knew him once, or perhaps only dreamed about him.\"\n\nI saw now that the _d\u00e9nouement_ was coming nearer and nearer. The matter\nwas indeed being taken out of my hands. I determined, however, that I\nwould be true to Niall; and that if some news did not soon come from\nIreland, I should remove the child from New York and go with her,\nperhaps, to Canada. I rejoiced that the holidays were over and that\nto-morrow Winifred must return to school.\n\n\"It may not be for long,\" I warned her; \"and then you may regret the\nadvantages you have had here. You see, Niall may get too lonesome and\nsend for you any time.\"\n\n\"I would love to see him and Granny and Father Owen and the others!\" she\nexclaimed. \"But if we went away to Ireland, I would like the dark\ngentleman to come too. Perhaps he would if you asked him.\"\n\n\"Everything will come right, I hope,\" I answered, evasively. \"And I am\nvery glad you like the dark gentleman, because you may see him very\noften when you are older.\"\n\n\"Do you think so?\" she asked eagerly. \"Oh, I shall like that! But are\nyou perfectly sure of it?\"\n\n\"I am almost sure of it,\" I replied; and then, telling her that the bell\nwas about to ring for the departure of visitors, I hurried away, for\nfear she might begin to question me too closely.\n\nAfter that I had many lonely days of anxious waiting as the winter sped\ndrearily away. February and then March drew their slow lengths along,\nand my letters were still unanswered. April was ushered in, more\nchangeable than ever; mornings of sunshine being followed by afternoons\nof rain, and days of almost midsummer heat giving place to the chilliest\nof evenings.\n\nOne day I was sitting in my room at the hotel, embroidering a little,\nand disconsolately watching the throng on Broadway, when there came a\nknock at my door. A bell-boy entered with two letters upon a salver. My\nheart gave a great throb as I seized them, recognizing on both the Irish\npostmark. Broadway, with its throng of people, faded from before me; and\nI held the two letters in my hand--reading the address, now on one, now\non the other, and putting off the moment of opening them; for I felt a\ncurious dread. Suppose Niall should hold me to my promise or sternly\ncommand me to bring Winifred forthwith back to Ireland without even\nrevealing her identity to Roderick? At last I broke the seal of one of\nthe letters with a hand that trembled. I had to control a nervous\nagitation, which almost prevented me from seeing the characters before\nme, as with a pale face, I began to read.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV.\n\nLETTERS AT LAST.\n\n\nThe letter I had opened was, I knew, from Niall. I remembered the\nstrange, crabbed characters, almost resembling Arabic, in which he had\nwritten my letter of instruction.\n\n\"The hills of Wicklow,\" he began, \"are streaming with sunlight. Their\nspurs are all golden, and the streams are rushing in great gladness, for\nthey are full of joy. They have been freed from the bondage of winter.\n\n\"There is joy in the hills. It is sounding in my ears and in my heart.\nWords I dare not speak, daughter of the stranger! I can not put on paper\nthe thoughts that are burning in my brain. You have found him, the\nbeloved wanderer; and you have discovered that his heart has never\nwandered from us. I knew before now that he was not to blame; and of\nthat I shall tell you some day, but not now.\n\n\"Had I wings, I would fly to Roderick and to my beautiful little lady. I\nlove him, I love her. My heart has been seared by her absence. Until\nyour letter came, the hills spoke a strange, new language, and I have\nheard no human speech. When your letter reached the village, I was up at\nmy cabin in the hills, unconscious of good or evil, burning with fever.\nThe good Samaritan found me out; who he is you can guess. It was long,\nlong before my senses came back; and he would not read me your letter\nuntil I had grown strong. When I heard its contents, I feared even then\nthat my brain would turn. For two days I roamed the mountains. I fled\nto my cavern of the Phoul-a-Phooka for greater solitude. I could not\nspeak of my joy--I dared not think of it.\n\n\"And now, O daughter of the stranger, heaven-sent from that land afar!\nbring her back to my heart, lest it break with the joy of this\nknowledge, and with sorrow that the sea still divides me from her, and\nthat other equally beloved. Oh, what matters education now! Let the\nbeautiful grow as the flowers grow, as the trees shoot up, clothed in\nbeauty.\n\n\"Come now in all haste; and tell Roderick that on my knees I implore him\nto come too, that I may reveal all. Bid him hasten to Niall, the\nforlorn.\"\n\nHe broke off abruptly, with some words in Irish, which, of course, I did\nnot understand. My own head was swimming; a great joy surged up in my\nheart, and I could almost have echoed Niall's wild rhapsody. When should\nI see poor Roderick and tell him--what? I had not yet made up my mind as\nto how I should fulfil that delightful task. However, I would write to\nhim that very day and bid him come to hear the glad news.\n\nI took up the other letter, which was, I doubted not, from Father Owen.\nOf course he could add nothing to my great happiness; still, it would be\nof the deepest interest to hear every detail relating to this matter of\nparamount importance. The letter was just as characteristic as Niall's\nhad been; and I seemed to see the priest's genial face lighted up with\npleasure, as he wrote, and to hear his kindly voice.\n\n\"Laus Deo!\" began the letter. \"What words of joy or praise can I find to\nexpress my own sentiments and those of the faithful hearts whose long\nyears of waiting have been at last rewarded! I took your letter to Mrs.\nMeehan, and I had to use diplomacy--though that was a lost art with me,\nso simple are my people and my duties--for fear the shock might be too\ngreat. But I don't think joy ever kills. I wish you could have seen her\nface--so tranquil, so trusting, illumined with the light of happiness.\nYou can imagine the outburst of her praise rising up to the Creator,\nclear and strong as a lark's at morning. Barney and Moira were only\nrestrained by my presence from cutting capers, and at last I said to\nthem: 'Go out there now, Barney, my man, and you too, Moira, my colleen,\nand dance a jig in the courtyard; for I am pretty sure your legs won't\nkeep still much longer.'\n\n\"And now of poor Niall! When your letter came I went in search of him.\nNo one had seen him for a good while, and it was supposed he had gone\noff on some of his wanderings. None of the people would venture near his\ncabin, so I took my stick in my hand, and went there with the letter. I\nfound the poor fellow in a sad plight--alone, burning with fever,\ndelirious, and going over all kinds of queer scenes in his raving: now\ncrying for 'gold, gold, gold!' or giving heart-piercing cries for\nWinifred. Again, he would be back in the past, with Roderick, a boy, at\nhis side.\n\n\"Well, there was no one to take care of the creature; and, as it fitted\nin with my day's work, I took care of him myself. His gratitude, when he\ncame to consciousness, was touching; and yet I had only followed the\nplainest dictates of humanity. When I thought my patient was strong\nenough, I read the letter to him. Bless my soul! it was like a\nwhirlwind. He nearly took the breath out of me, rushing from the cabin\nin a kind of madness, and leaving me sitting there staring at the door\nby which he had gone. I did not see him for more than a week, and I\nassure you I was anxious. I was afraid he had lost his mind through\nexcess of joy.\n\n\"To make a long story short, when he did come back again I got hold of\nhim entirely. Joy seems to have changed his nature as sunshine will\npurify a noisome spot. He is as gentle and tractable as a lamb; and\nbetter than all, his old faith and piety have come back to him. He goes\nto Mass and the sacraments. The light of heaven seemed to flow in on him\nwith your letter. His sorrow for the past was like that of a child. I\ntold him not to be disturbed about it, but just go on asking for mercy,\nmercy--only that and nothing more. 'For,' said I to him, 'my poor\nfellow, there's the eye of God looking down; and as it sees the noxious\nweed and the fairest flower, so it beholds our sins and our waywardness\nas well as our virtues. If these weeds of sin are plucked, the flowers\nof our virtues are just as fair in His sight.'\n\n\"But, O dear lady, how the old man sits and longs for the hour of\nreunion! He is out on the hills when their spurs are burnished gold, at\nthe sunset hour; and he is there at the dawn waiting for the first beam\nto light up the Glen of the Dargle; he is out in the moonlight watching\nit making strange shapes out of the trees; and all the time with that\none thought in his mind. He looks for gold no more, because he says his\nlove of it was sinful; and the only treasures he seeks for now are the\nfaces of his loved ones. Do not keep him long waiting, I entreat.\n\n\"Tell my pet, Winifred, the robin is out there now, busy as ever; and\njust bursting his breast with the joy of coming spring. I am proud and\nglad to hear of her success at the convent and sorry she has to leave it\nso soon. Say a prayer sometimes for the old priest in far-off Ireland,\nwho soon will be slipping away to his rest--but not, he hopes, till he\nlays eyes on you again, and thanks you for the happiness you have\nbrought to him and to the little ones of his flock.\"\n\nI sat there for some time going over these letters, alternately, and\ndelighting in the pictures which their eloquent language evoked. To one\nthing I made up my mind; I should go back to Ireland and be present at\nthe joyful meeting. Indeed, my eye brightened, my cheek glowed at the\nthought of seeing again those lovely scenes, and of the pleasant reunion\nof hearts at which I was to be present. But it was my turn to write a\nletter, or at least a very brief note, asking Roderick to come to me as\nsoon as possible. That being Saturday, I thought I should have to wait\ntill Monday for his visit.\n\nSunday passed in a feverish state of agitation. I was going out to\nsupper in the evening, at the very same house where I had before met\nRoderick, but it was unlikely he would be there again. What was my\nsurprise to see his tall figure standing near the fire talking to our\nhostess! He saluted me gravely. I thought he looked thin and worn; but\nat first he did not come near me: and I feared he had resolved to avoid\nme. As we were all making a move for supper, I managed to whisper:\n\n\"I wrote you a note yesterday. Please promise to comply with the request\nI make you in it.\"\n\nHe turned sharply:\n\n\"You wrote to me?\" he queried.\n\n\"Yes,\" I answered.\n\n\"May I ask about what?\"\n\nThough the words were curt, Roderick's tone was genial and his face\nsmiling.\n\n\"Merely asking you to come to see me to-morrow evening--but your partner\nis waiting, you must go.\"\n\nHe turned to the young girl beside him, with an apology for his\nmomentary inattention. If his mind was inclined to wander from her to\nthe subject of my approaching communication, he was too courteous and\ntoo accomplished a man of the world to let her perceive it. I was almost\nsorry I had spoken, lest it should spoil his supper. Several times I saw\nhim looking at me; but I only smiled and went on talking to my partner,\na brilliant lawyer with a great reputation for wit. Very soon after\nsupper Roderick came over to me, with his usual almost boyish eagerness.\n\n\"What do you want to say to me?\" he demanded, smiling yet imperious.\n\n\"How do you know I want to say anything?\" I retorted, smiling back.\n\n\"Of course I know, and I am going to hear what it is, too!\" he cried,\nseating himself beside me.\n\n\"Now, Roderick,\" I said, \"if I were a charming young lady, such as that\none you have just left, I could never resist that face and that voice.\nBut as matters are, you'll just have to wait till I make up my mind to\ntell you; for spectacled eyes see without glamor, and gray hairs give us\nwisdom.\"\n\nHe laughed and his face took on a brighter look. I fancy that he knew by\nmy tone I had good news to tell.\n\n\"I won't go to see you on Monday night,\" he declared, \"unless you give\nme a hint.\"\n\n\"Well, I will give you a hint, and then you needn't come to see me.\"\n\n\"That is unkind.\"\n\n\"No; it would only be giving you trouble for nothing. The substance of\nwhat I have to say to you is this: that you must take a trip to Ireland\nvery soon.\"\n\n\"Alone?\"\n\n\"Yes, alone.\"\n\n\"And when I get there?\"\n\n\"You'll be glad you went.\"\n\nHe pondered deeply, for some moments.\n\n\"Isn't this very like a fool's errand?\" he inquired.\n\n\"Which is the fool, he who goes or she who sends?\" I replied,\nmischievously.\n\n\"Can you ask?\" he laughed. \"A man is nearly always a fool when he does a\nwoman's errand.\"\n\n\"But, seriously, you will go?\"\n\nHe thought a little longer.\n\n\"I will,\" he answered, \"if you will only promise me one thing.\"\n\n\"What is that?\"\n\n\"That there will be an end of all this mystification.\"\n\n\"I promise you that, most solemnly,\" I answered. \"Once on Irish soil,\nyou shall know everything.\"\n\n\"Tell me now,\" he said, with sudden eagerness, \"how is Winifred,\nasthore?\"\n\nThere was a world of feeling in his voice, though he came out with the\nepithet laughingly.\n\n\"Well and happy,\" I assured him.\n\n\"Will you give her something from me?\"\n\n\"I'm not so sure,\" I said, jestingly; \"for you've quite won her heart\nalready. She talks of nothing but the 'dark gentleman.'\"\n\nA glow of pleasure lit up his face.\n\n\"And now, what is it you want me to give her?\"\n\nHe took a small box from his waistcoat pocket. It was the prettiest\nlittle ring, with a green stone in the center.\n\n\"The color of hope--the color of Ireland,\" Roderick observed.\n\n\"A good omen,\" I said, looking at the gem, where it lay sparkling in the\nwadding.\n\n\"You will give that to Winifred from her unknown friend,\" Roderick\nsaid.\n\n\"She will be delighted--though, you know, of course, she will not be\nallowed to wear it in the convent.\"\n\n\"Ah, she is in a convent!\" he exclaimed. \"But in any case, let her keep\nit as a reminder of me.\"\n\nI thought as I watched him that if Winifred so closely resembled her\ndead mother, she was also like her father. His face was as mobile and\nexpressive as hers, allowing always for the mask which the years are\nsure to put over every human countenance.\n\n\"You fancy there is a resemblance in this girl to your dead wife?\"\n\n\"I know there is a resemblance to Winifred's dead mother,\" he answered.\n\nI was silent though I had little reason for concealment henceforth.\n\n\"How cruel you have been all this time,\" he exclaimed, as he watched me;\n\"I think it comes natural to your sex.\"\n\n\"Don't revile our sex for the faults of your own,\" I answered. \"But tell\nme more about your dead wife.\"\n\nHis face changed and softened. Then a look came over it--a look of\ntender remembrance, which did him credit.\n\n\"She was very beautiful,\" he began, \"at least I thought so. I met her\nwhen she was only fifteen. She was the image of what Winifred is now,\nonly her beauty was more pronounced, and she had a haughtier air. I\nnever forgot her from that moment. When she was eighteen, we were\nmarried. She was only twenty-four when she died, but I remember her\nstill as vividly--\"\n\nHe stopped, as though the subject were too painful, and then resumed,\nhalf dreamily:\n\n\"I am going to tell you now what will lend an added value to that\nlittle trinket I have given you for Winifred.\" He paused again, and drew\na deep breath, looking at me hard. \"It belonged to--to my wife, when she\nwas a child of Winifred's age. Winifred will prize it, because it\nwas--her mother's.\"\n\nI stood up, and Roderick, rising also, confronted me.\n\n\"Can you deny it?\" he asked defiantly.\n\nI was silent.\n\n\"Pray what is the object of further secrecy?\" he pleaded. \"Tell me, is\nnot Winifred my child, the child of my dead wife?\"\n\nI bowed my head in assent. Concealment was neither useful nor desirable\nany longer.\n\nThe look of triumph, of exaltation, of joy, which swept over his face\nwas good to see.\n\n\"But you will wait?\" I pleaded, in my return. \"You will go to Ireland,\nas agreed, and your child shall be all your own entirely and forever?\"\n\n\"I will wait,\" he answered quietly, \"though it is hard.\"\n\nAnd then we shook hands and parted. I felt that I must hurry away: for I\ncould not go on talking of commonplace subjects, either to Roderick or\nto any of the others. As I took leave of our hostess she said,\nlaughingly:\n\n\"You and Mr. O'Byrne were quite melodramatic, standing over there a few\nmoments ago.\"\n\nI laughed, but I did not give her any information. When I got home I\nwrote to Niall, telling him that in a month or two at furthest I would\nbring Winifred back, but that I wanted to show her a little of the\nAmerican continent before taking her home. On my next visit to the\nconvent, I did not say a word to the child--I was afraid it would\nunsettle her for her school-work, but I informed her teachers that it\nwould be necessary to withdraw her before the expiration of the term.\nAfter the trip which I intended to take with her to Niagara and a few\nother points of interest, I determined to cross the ocean once more and\nbring Winifred safely back to Niall. I should let Roderick sail by the\nCunard line, while we would take passage by the White Star line, so that\nour arrival would be almost simultaneous.\n\nI presented Winifred with her ring, though at the time I did not tell\nher it had been her mother's. She was more than delighted, as I had\nforeseen, and put it at once upon her finger. She was vexed, and\nindulged in one of her childish outbursts of petulance, when I explained\nto her that wearing it was against the rules. She had to be content with\nkeeping it where she could look at it, very often. She sent a very\npretty message to Roderick.\n\n\"Tell him,\" she said, \"I remember him when the birds sing, when the\norgan plays, when the sun shines--whenever there is happiness in my\nheart.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV.\n\nHOME AGAIN.\n\n\nThe next few weeks were full of the bustle of preparation. When I told\nWinifred she was to leave the convent before the end of the term, and,\nafter a few weeks of travel, to return to Ireland, she seemed fairly\ndazed at the unexpected news.\n\n\"Her education, of course, will have to be continued,\" I thought; \"but\nhardly in an American convent.\"\n\nOne May morning Winifred took leave of her teachers and school friends,\nand we set out direct for Niagara. When we reached the Falls, she was\nfor a time wholly lost in wonder. The stupendous mass of falling water\nseemed to produce upon the little girl a curious impression of\nbewilderment.\n\n\"Oh, it is grand, grand!\" she said. \"This America is a wonderful place.\"\n\nWinifred and I had, as it were, a surfeit of beauty; and so by the\nafternoon our exclamations of wonder and delight became exhausted, and\nwe could only look out upon the lovely and varied panorama in silence.\nBut we were roused to excitement as the afternoon sun began to take a\ndownward slope and we neared the far-famed Rapids. The passengers braced\nthemselves as if for certain danger (though in reality there is\ncomparatively little) as the steamer rushed into the great masses of\nfoaming water with a lurch and a bound that sent a tingle to every\nnerve. Onward she dashed, the speed seeming to become more terrific as\nwe descended the river in the direction of Montreal. It is a thrilling,\nthough delightful, experience. As for Winifred, she seemed to enjoy the\nsituation thoroughly. Not a shade of alarm crossed her face, while many\nof the older passengers were visibly agitated. From the steamer's deck\nwe took a last glimpse of the city, lying golden in the sunset, with the\nfigure of Our Lady of Good Help on the tower of Bonsecours church,\nstretching wide its arms in benediction over the great river which\nCartier discovered.\n\nAt dawn we were nearing Quebec, and rushed out of our cabins for a first\nsight of the Gibraltar of America. We flew past Levis, Sillery, and,\nrounding Cape Diamond, suddenly beheld the ancient walls, the colossal\nrock crowned by the citadel, with Lower Town, squalid if picturesque, at\nits feet. Landing, Winifred and I took a _cal\u00e8che_ to the Chateau\nFrontenac, where we breakfasted.\n\nRecrossing the American borders, we made a short trip through the White\nMountain region, exulting in those glorious scenes. At New York we\nrested a day or two in our old quarters, and did a good deal of\nshopping; for had we not Granny and Niall and Father Owen to think of,\nnot to speak of Barney and Moira, the landlord of the inn, and other\nWicklow notables? No one was to be forgotten.\n\nAfter this we went into Pennsylvania, one of the most wonderful of all\nthe States, and crossed the far-famed Horseshoe bend in the Alleghanies.\nWinifred looked fearlessly down into the vast chasm and saw with\ncomposure the end of our train on the other side of the ravine. It was a\nsight upon which few could look unmoved. We saw something of the\nwonders of the mining and coal districts, and the beauty of the Delaware\nand Lehigh.\n\nWe continued our breathless journey to Washington, where we remained a\nfew days to rest. It is a beautiful city, refreshing to mind and body,\nthough somewhat warm at that season of the year; but its noble\ndwellings, its public monuments, surpassed and overtopped by the\nCapitol, have a wonderful charm.\n\nOne evening we were strolling along in the very shadow of that classic\npile when Winifred said:\n\n\"Barney and Moira will think I've been in fairyland if I tell them half\nof all I have seen; but I love dear Ireland best, after all.\"\n\n\"We shall sail from New York by the next White Star liner,\" I observed\npresently; and I thought within myself: \"Roderick will be sailing by the\nCunarder. It will be a race which shall reach Liverpool first.\"\n\nBy an odd coincidence, as I thought thus, Winifred was turning round\nupon her finger the ring which Roderick had sent her.\n\n\"I should like to have seen him,\" she said, pointing to the ring, \"and\nthanked him for this. I suppose I shall never see him again. I have a\nstrange fancy that I saw him long ago, and that he is--\" she\nhesitated--\"that he is the dark gentleman who was angry with the lady in\nyellow,\" she concluded, slowly.\n\n\"Dreaming again, Winifred!\" I said.\n\n\"This is not dreaming,\" she corrected; \"for sometimes I am almost sure\nit is true, and that he is the same one--only I have never seen him\nangry.\"\n\n\"Perhaps the dark gentleman was not so very angry even then,\" I\nsuggested, to divert her thoughts from Roderick.\n\n\"Perhaps not,\" she said reflectively; \"but I think he was.\"\n\n\"Your father--for the gentleman you speak of was, I suppose, your\nfather--was devotedly attached to your mother.\"\n\n\"Was he?\" inquired Winifred, simply.\n\n\"Yes, indeed: he thought her the most beautiful creature in the world.\"\n\n\"I'm glad of that,\" Winifred said; and, in that fashion of hers which so\nconstantly reminded me of her father, she turned away from the subject.\n\nOn Saturday morning early we were on board the great steamer, in all the\nbustle of departure; and after a pleasant voyage we arrived at Liverpool\non schedule time, as the guidebooks say, and installed ourselves for the\nnight at a comfortable hotel. Next day we set forth to see whatever this\nsmoky city of industry has to show. We were passing along one of the\nsmokiest and narrowest of streets when Winifred suddenly pulled my arm.\n\n\"Did you see him?\" she cried excitedly.\n\n\"Who?\" I inquired, though I partly guessed--being fully prepared to see\nRoderick O'Byrne in Liverpool.\n\nWinifred touched the ring on her finger to show whom she meant.\n\n\"It may have been only a chance resemblance,\" I observed evasively.\n\n\"It was _he_,\" she declared decisively, and her eyes sparkled with\nexcitement. \"Oh, I am so glad!\" she went on. \"We must find him. I want\nto thank him for the ring.\"\n\n\"It will be impossible to find him in this crowd,\" I answered.\n\nShe pointed to a shop.\n\n\"He is in there,\" she cried, \"and I must see him! If you do not come\nwith me, I will go myself.\"\n\nShe was full of her old impetuosity, urging on my reluctant steps.\n\n\"One thing that I want to ask him,\" she went on, \"is whether he knew the\nbeautiful lady in yellow.\"\n\nWhen we reached the shop door, Roderick stood just inside; and I almost\nfancied he had stepped in there to avoid us, knowing that I did not wish\nfor a premature _d\u00e9nouement_ of the little plot. However, his face also\nwore an eager expression, and it lighted as Winifred confronted him. He\nopened the door and came out onto the pavement, looking at me for\ndirections. I put my finger to my lips, signifying that he must not as\nyet disclose himself.\n\n\"I want to thank you for this ring, with its lovely green stone,\" she\nsaid.\n\n\"It's only a trifle, little one,\" Roderick replied lightly.\n\n\"I was so sorry when I thought I should never see you again,\" Winifred\ncried, impetuously.\n\n\"Were you?\" asked Roderick, with an unsteadiness in his voice which\ncaused me to give him a warning look.\n\n\"Yes, because I was leaving America forever. And one thing I wanted to\nask you so much was, if you remembered the beautiful lady in yellow. I\nhave been so anxious to know.\"\n\nShe looked up into his face with her great, starlike eyes; and he gazed\nat her in return.\n\n\"Do I remember the beautiful lady in yellow?\" he repeated. \"As I hope\nfor heaven, yes, and never shall I forget her while I live!\"\n\nThe answer, however, was given in an undertone, which she did not catch.\n\n\"Because if you knew her,\" went on Winifred, \"I was going to ask if you\nwere the dark gentleman who slammed the door?\"\n\n\"I'm afraid I was,\" he whispered in my ear. \"How our misdeeds do follow\nus, and what a memory the little one has! I had had a dispute with some\none very dear to me about going to the old place in Wicklow. She, poor\ngirl, had no wish to see the 'ruin,' as she called it. I lost my temper,\nand so came about the little scene Winifred remembers and describes.\"\n\nTurning to Winifred, he asked:\n\n\"Now, why do you think I could do such a naughty thing as slam a door?\"\n\nWinifred was confused. Her natural politeness prevented her from\nreplying.\n\n\"Am I so very fierce-looking or so violent?\" Roderick resumed; for he\nwas in high spirits and ready to carry the mystery further.\n\n\"It isn't that,\" answered Winifred; \"only you look like him.\"\n\n\"Look like a gentleman that got angry and slammed a door?\" he said in\nthe same jesting tone. \"Now, that is too bad of you altogether.\"\n\nHis bright, laughing face and sunny manner mystified the child even more\nthan his words.\n\n\"Never mind,\" he went on; \"I forgive you this time, but you must really\ntry to get up a better opinion of me. I must go now, but we shall meet\nagain, and it won't be over the seas either. I am going to hear more\nabout that uncivil dark gentleman who frightened a dear little girl.\"\n\n\"He was cross, too, to the lady,\" said Winifred, rather defiantly; for\nshe was vexed somewhat by his jesting.\n\n\"Well, I am sure he was sorry enough for that afterward,\" said Roderick,\nwith a sudden clouding of his face--\"as we are always sorry for our fits\nof ill-temper. Remember that, my child.\"\n\nHe waved his hand in farewell, and Winifred stood looking after him.\n\n\"I am glad we are going to see him again,\" she observed; though, with\nthe implicit faith of childhood, she did not ask when or where.\n\nWhen we had got back to the hotel she talked chiefly of Granny and\nNiall, of Father Owen, and of her humble friends Barney and Moira; and\ncould scarcely wait for the night to be over and morning to come that we\nmight set out for the scenes of her childhood.\n\nThe most impatiently longed-for morrow comes at last. It was a gray,\nlowering day when we left Liverpool. Before quitting the hotel, a box of\ncandy was handed to Winifred. When she opened it there was a card upon\nwhich was written:\n\n\"From the man that looks like the naughty dark gentleman who slammed the\ndoor.\"\n\nIt seemed as if it must be a dream when we drove in a hired car from\nDublin once more to the Glen of the Dargle. I had written to the\nlandlord of the neighboring inn to have our rooms in readiness. And\nthere he was at his door, stony-visaged and reticent; but the stone was\nfurrowed by a broad smile as he helped us from the car.\n\n\"Welcome back, ma'am! And welcome to you too, Miss Winifred alanna!\"\n\nWinifred shook him cordially by the hand; and turned with a cry of joy\nto where Moira stood, red in the redness of the dying sun which shone\nout through a mist--for the weather had been uncertain all that day; and\nred, too, with a new shyness, which caused her to stand plucking at her\napron. Barney kept urging her forward, but was not much more confident\nhimself.\n\nWinifred's greeting to them was good to hear. And she wound up by the\nflattering assurance:\n\n\"You'll think I'm a real fairy this time when you see my trunks open\nto-morrow.\"\n\nIt was some time, however, before that pair of rustic tongues were\nunloosed and they began to chatter away like magpies. After a little\nwhile Winifred proposed a run; and off they all flew, the young\ntraveler, in spite of the fatigue of her journey, leading in the race.\nHer curls, which had grown longer in her absence, formed a cloud about\nher head.\n\n\"Father Owen bid me tell you he was off for a sick-call, down to\nEnniskerry below there; but he'd be back in an hour's time, and you'll\nsee him as quick as he comes,\" said the landlord.\n\n\"It's good to get back again,\" I said, seating myself on the familiar\nbench at the door, and letting my eyes wander over the lovely\nscenes--the blossoming trees, the gold of the laburnum, and the whole\nsweetened by the pervading fragrance of the hawthorn.\n\n\"We're proud to have you with us, ma'am,\" the landlord declared. \"We\nthought the time long since you left.\"\n\nThe \"we\" referred to his better half, who, however, rarely left the\nkitchen, and with whom I had not exchanged half a dozen words.\n\n\"I don't think I'll ever go away, again,\" I said; \"so you may just as\nwell arrange my rooms accordingly. And now what of the schoolmaster?\"\n\n\"They tell me,\" he said, speaking in a confidential undertone, \"that\nFather Owen exorcised him--took off of him some spell that the 'good\npeople' had laid upon him, forcing him to wander night and day--and\nscatterin' his wits.\"\n\n\"At any rate, Niall of the hills has changed his ways, I hear,\" said I.\n\n\"Well, so they tell me; though there are them that met him wanderin'\nstill on the hills. But sure mebbe the poor daft crathure was only\ntakin' the air by moonlight.\"\n\n\"And Granny Meehan?\" I inquired.\n\n\"Oh, she's to the fore! And it's her ould heart that'll be rejoiced\nentirely by your return, not to speak of her colleen.\"\n\nAt that moment Winifred entered, with Barney and Moira thrown into the\nbackground by Father Owen himself, who held his little favorite by the\nhand.\n\n\"A hundred thousand welcomes!\" cried the priest, extending his\nunoccupied hand to me. \"So you have brought us back the old Winifred,\nwith a new varnish upon her that shines from afar. God be praised that\nwe're all here to greet you!\"\n\nThe landlord, with an exclamation at their dilatoriness in serving\nsupper, entered the inn, while Father Owen and I moved apart for a few\nmoments. I wanted to tell him that Roderick would arrive in a day or\ntwo.\n\n\"Thanks be to God!\" he ejaculated. \"Oh, what joy you have brought upon\nthe old house--_you_, under God! It is a privilege thus to make others\nhappy--the sweetest left us since the fall of Adam. But now I mustn't\nkeep you from your supper. We'll have many a long chat in the days to\ncome, and I just wanted to welcome you. I suppose you'll go up this\nevening to Granny and Niall?\"\n\n\"Indeed I will. But is Niall at the castle?\" I asked.\n\n\"He is. Granny will tell you all,\" he answered.\n\nAnd what a supper that was in the pleasant inn parlor, with the\nblossoming trees peeping in at the windows and the Irish robins singing\nour welcome! How savory tasted the trout from the stream, fresh-caught;\nand the rasher of bacon, with snow-white oaten cake, the freshest of\nfresh butter, and thick cream for our tea! What a walk we had up\nthrough the hills that lovely evening! Winifred's eyes were full of\ntears as I recalled to her memory the first time she had brought me to\nthe castle.\n\n\"Isn't it strange to think of all that has passed since then!\" she\nwhispered, in a voice full of emotion.\n\nBut though changes there had been, there were none in the hills. They\npreserved their immortal beauty, and the Glen of the Dargle was as\nfairy-like as ever in its loveliness. At the castle, too, all was the\nsame. Granny sat calm and motionless by the great hearth, as though she\nwere under a spell; and Brown Peter mewed and purred about her as of\nold. When we entered the room she rose uncertainly from her chair. Her\nvoice was plaintive and tremulous with the depth of emotion as she cried\nout:\n\n\"Winifred alanna, is it yourself that's in it?\"\n\nPresently the child was clasped in her arms; and I stood by, content to\nbe forgotten. At last I asked:\n\n\"Where is Niall?\"\n\n\"Barney will bring you to him,\" said the blind woman.\n\nAfter a moment he led us to that very hall where the game of chess had\nbeen played on the silver chessboard for the hand of a fair lady. Here\nNiall had established himself, and I caught a glimpse of his tall figure\nwalking up and down. I remained without, and sent Winifred in alone. I\nheard one inarticulate cry of joy, and then I walked away to a distant\nend of the corridor, leaving the two together for a while. When I\nreturned and entered the hall, I found Niall seated in a high-backed\narmchair, like some king of olden days. Winifred was upon her knees\nbeside him, leaning her head on his arm. He held out his hand to me, and\nI was struck by his altered expression. Scarce a trace of its former\nwildness remained; and his face shone with a deep content, a radiating\njoy.\n\n\"Daughter of the stranger,\" he said, \"you are one of us forever! Whether\nyour home be here amongst our hills or the stormy sea divides us, it\nmatters nothing.\"\n\n\"It is my intention to stay here,\" I announced, \"amongst your lovely\nscenes, and with you all, who have come so intimately into my lonely\nlife.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI.\n\nRODERICK RETURNS, AND ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.\n\n\nThe great day of Roderick's home-coming dawned; and a glorious one it\nwas, as if Nature were in harmony with our joy. The birds sang a perfect\nchorus in the early morning; the blossoming trees never smelled so\nsweet, the hills never blended light and shade more exquisitely, nor the\nstreams reflected a bluer sky, than when the car containing Roderick\nO'Byrne drove up to the inn. He sprang out with a boyish lightness.\n\n\"Mr. Roderick O'Byrne,\" I exclaimed, \"Nature is singing a perfect hymn\nfor your home-coming!\"\n\n\"My heart is singing too,\" he replied. \"All I love are here before me.\"\n\nWhen we had cordially shaken hands, I said to him:\n\n\"Now be very practical and prosaic. Come in and have something to eat.\"\n\n\"Oh, I couldn't!\" he cried. \"Let us go at once to them.\"\n\nI saw his eyes wandering round in search of Winifred.\n\n\"Control your impatience just a little while longer,\" I observed, \"and\ntake a sensible meal.\"\n\n\"More mystifications, more delays, O woman of many mysteries!\"\n\n\"Only one,\" I explained. \"I want you and Winifred to meet in the Dargle;\nthough she will probably think you have been evolved from the ground by\none of her favorite fairies.\"\n\nHe laughed.\n\n\"If it is your whim, I must submit; for you have been the goddess\nbehind the machine from the first. Continue to manage us puppets as you\nwill.\"\n\n\"Only for to-day,\" I replied merrily; \"after that I shall disclaim all\npower over you.\"\n\nHe followed me into the inn parlor, where the table was laid out; and,\nhaving taken a slight repast, was eager to be up and away once more. I\nhad not told the landlord who my guest was, lest any hint of his advent\nshould prematurely get abroad; but I saw the worthy man shading his eyes\nwith his hand and peering at him, now coming to the door and now\nretreating. At last, as we rose from table, he burst in upon us.\n\n\"Ah, then, Master Roderick, is it yourself that's in it!\" And he fell to\nlaughing almost hysterically as he seized and wrung the outstretched\nhand, which Roderick, quick to respond to any touch of genuine feeling,\nextended. He called the man by name, and began to recall many a pleasant\nincident of boyhood's days. The delight of mine host of the stony visage\nall but drew tears from my eyes. We enjoined secrecy upon him; and then\nRoderick and I set off for the Dargle, where I had bidden Winifred to\nwait for me.\n\n\"It is a lovely spot for such a meeting,\" I observed to Roderick as we\nwent.\n\n\"Lovely indeed,\" he answered. \"My eyes have hungered for a sight of it\nthese ten years.\"\n\nWe walked on in silence toward it; Roderick taking off his hat that the\nbreeze might blow through his hair, and drinking in the beauty around us\nwith visible gratification.\n\n\"An exile's heart never warms in the land of the stranger,\" Roderick\ndeclared presently. \"There's something in the native air that gladdens\nthe soul.\"\n\n\"Now,\" I said, as we entered the beautiful glen, with its atmosphere of\npoetry, its softened, delicate loveliness, \"here it was I first met\nWinifred, and here she shall meet you, and you can tell your tale your\nown way.\"\n\nI had arranged matters a little melodramatically; Winifred unconsciously\nadded to the effect by taking her seat upon her favorite tree, and, out\nof the pure gladness of her heart, singing a wild song full of trills\nand quavers like the notes of a bird. I slipped away among the trees,\nand presently Roderick spoke. His voice was soft and tender:\n\n\"Winifred asthore machree!\"\n\nWinifred looked at him long and strangely for a few seconds, then she\nabandoned her perilous perch and came running down to him swift as a\nbird upon the wing. Nature was speaking very loud in her heart. Roderick\nstood waiting for her, holding out both his hands. He took her slender\nones and held them, looking at her with a long, long look of tender\naffection; then, releasing his right hand, he took from his watch chain\na locket and opened it. Within, I learned later, was a beautiful\nminiature on ivory. Winifred gave a swift, startled cry of joy:\n\n\"The lady in yellow--oh, it is the beautiful lady!\"\n\n\"And I am the dark gentleman, my little one,\" Roderick whispered. \"Do\nyou know who he was?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Winifred, looking up into his face: \"he was my father.\"\n\n\"Have you forgiven him for being cross and slamming the door?\"\n\nShe nodded gravely.\n\n\"And are you going to love him--to love me very much?\"\n\nFor answer, Winifred threw her arms round his neck, weeping for very\njoy.\n\nAt that moment I left them, and they followed slowly up to the castle,\nWinifred clinging to her father's arm and telling him how she had loved\nhim almost from the first. And now a happy and complete confidence was\nalready established between them.\n\nAs they entered the kitchen, I was there with Granny, having prepared\nher somewhat for what was to come. She arose, tottering upon her feet\nand trembling.\n\n\"Son of my heart, Roderick avick!\" she cried; and Roderick took the old\nwoman in his strong arms and clasped her close, whilst the tears fell\nunheeded down his cheeks. Even the old woman's love for Winifred had not\nbeen so great as this other love which she had so long cherished in her\nheart of hearts.\n\n\"I can not see you, my boy,\" she whispered; \"but beautiful as the\nMayflowers in the sun of morning is your coming, and gladdening to my\nold heart as the first air of spring. Glory be to God and praise and\nthanksgiving that I have been spared to see this day!\"\n\nWhilst she still spoke we heard a step coming along the stone passage,\nand the tall figure of Niall entered the room. He advanced straight to\nRoderick, and, to our amazement, he bent the knee.\n\n\"The O'Byrne has come home again!\" he announced solemnly. \"The scion of\nthe younger branch does him homage.\"\n\n\"What's that you're sayin' about the younger branch?\" exclaimed Granny,\nbeginning to tremble again. \"And who are you that talks so?\"\n\n\"I am Niall O'Byrne, the uncle of Roderick and of Winifred.\"\n\nWinifred gave a cry of surprise, but poor Granny went on with the same\ntrembling uncertainty:\n\n\"And you've been alive all this time?\"\n\n\"Certainly.\"\n\n\"You didn't take any shape?\"\n\n\"Only that of the mad schoolmaster,\" Niall explained, with a grim smile.\n\n\"So that's who he was, praise and glory to God!\" cried the simple old\nwoman. \"And I to be afeard of him when he'd come hauntin' the house at\nall hours and goin' on with his quare ways! But sure I might have\nknown--indeed I might!\"\n\nGranny had known Niall in his younger days, before his departure for the\nEast; but after his mysterious return she, being blind, had never been\nable to recognize him, and he had purposely kept her in ignorance. She\nhad therefore shared all the misgivings of the countryside in regard to\nthe treasure-seeker, who from the nature of his pursuits had sought to\nconceal his identity.\n\nThe tears rolled down the old man's cheeks and he made more than one\nvain attempt to speak; while Winifred patted his arm, saying:\n\n\"Don't cry, dear Niall--don't cry! We have my father back again.\"\n\nAt last, mastering his emotion by an effort, and looking into the\nhandsome, kindly face before him, Niall spoke:\n\n\"I knelt to you just now as to the head of our house, the representative\nof the elder branch; but I should have knelt as a penitent.\"\n\n\"A penitent!\" repeated Roderick, in surprise.\n\n\"I deceived you, I caused you years of suffering!\" cried Niall, in a\nvoice of overmastering agony. \"But, oh, it was my love for you, for her,\nfor the old place, that urged me to it!\"\n\n\"Such faults are easily pardoned,\" said Roderick, believing that the\nold man was laboring under some delusion.\n\n\"Wait till you hear!\" said Niall, almost sternly. \"A judge must hear the\noffence before he can pardon. 'Twas I who wrote to you that Winifred was\ndead.\"\n\n\"_You?_\" exclaimed Roderick, the most unbounded amazement depicted on\nhis face, and for a moment something of Niall's own sternness clouding\nits good-humor. \"Why should you have done that to me?\"\n\n\"Listen!\" said Niall, extending one hand as if in supplication. \"I heard\nyou had remarried in America, and that was a sad blow to my hopes and\ndreams. You would never come back. Even if my plans succeeded, you would\nnever dwell in the old place. And then came the agonizing thought that\nyou would take Winifred away, and that with me our very name would pass\nfrom Wicklow. I deliberately deceived you. I withheld from Granny Meehan\nthe letter you had written her.\"\n\nGranny made an exclamation of \"God forgive you!\" For she, too, had\nsuffered from that wrong.\n\n\"I caused your letters to the priest to miscarry; I did everything, in\nshort, to cut you off from communication with this place. And by hints\nwhich I threw out, and vague messages which I sent through Winifred to\nMrs. Meehan, I filled her mind with a fear and distrust of America and\npeople coming from there. Oh, I remember what anguish I endured when\nthis lady first came into this region! I could have killed her where she\nstood. I believed her to be the second wife herself or some emissary\nfrom you come to spy upon us and discover our secret.\"\n\nRoderick stood all this time, his arms crossed upon his breast, a proud\nlook upon his face.\n\n\"And did you think all this of me?\" he asked at last--\"that I would\nforget home and kindred, forget the wife who lies sleeping in Irish\nsoil, and, taking away my child, abandon you all forever? Ah, Niall, you\nlittle knew me, after all!\"\n\n\"But I had suffered, Roderick; sometimes my mind wandered, perhaps, a\nlittle,\" pleaded the old man, pathetically. \"There was a confusion\nthere; and I only knew that if Winifred went away, you were both lost to\nme forever.\"\n\nRoderick's face softened. His great generous heart touched by that\nappeal, he cried out:\n\n\"Uncle, dear uncle, let us not talk of forgiveness, but only of your\nlong years of devotion to us all! We will speak no more of what is\npainful. Now all is peace and joy.\"\n\nFather Owen entered just at that moment, full of genial sympathy and\nheartfelt, simple delight; and with his coming the reconciliation was\nperfect. It took Winifred some time indeed to understand her new\nrelation to Niall; but she said that in any case she could not love him\nany better, though she was glad he belonged to the old castle and the\nold race.\n\nThe ornaments from Niall's cavern were disposed of to advantage, and it\nwas a great day when we all went with Roderick to the cavern of the\nPhoul-a-Phooka to examine them. The gold was removed to a bank; and, as\nRoderick had brought some considerable savings from America, the work of\nrestoration on the castle was begun. It was not, of course, necessary or\ndesirable that the whole edifice should be restored to its pristine\nsplendor; and some of the ruin remained in all its picturesqueness as a\nshow place for travelers. But the main building was made both habitable\nand imposing. By some strange convulsion of nature, the cavern in which\nNiall had concealed his treasures, and where he had spent many a lonely\nnight, was destroyed. The rocks fell in, and then the mountain stream\ngushed through it, sweeping away all trace of that singular abode.\n\nRoderick's return, Winifred's identity as heiress of the O'Byrnes, and\nNiall's kinship with the family, were publicly announced to the village,\nall mysteries being at last cleared up. But the landlord voiced public\nsentiment in confiding to me that the \"good people\" were surely mixed up\nin the affair, and that it was the removal of the fairy spell bewitching\nNiall, and perhaps Winifred, which had made all come right.\n\nRoderick was from the first the idol of the peasantry, to whom he\nendeared himself in every possible manner. His warm Irish nature had\nnever grown cold by change or vicissitude, and he labored in a hundred\nways to improve the position of his people. He was still in their eyes\nthe handsome and high-spirited lad who had galloped over the country on\nhis white horse.\n\nI became a fixture at the inn; though most of my time was spent at the\ncastle, where our little circle was often cheered by the presence of\nFather Owen. Niall at times unbent into positive geniality; and as we\nsat occasionally in homely fashion around the kitchen hearth, that\nGranny might not be excluded from our conferences, and that Barney and\nMoira might draw near unchecked, he told us many a strange tale of his\nadventures as a gold-seeker. Sometimes he brought us to the Far East,\nrelating his inquiries into the occult arts or the researches of\nalchemists; and again he led us, by many a devious path, through the\nhills of his native Wicklow and along the banks of its streams. Many of\nhis accounts sounded like some fabulous tale, a page from an old\nenchanter's book. Roderick, who knew that gold, even to the amount of\nten thousand pounds, had been in former years found in Wicklow, and that\nmines under government control had been established there, was far less\nsurprised than the rest of us had been that Niall had succeeded in\nwresting a certain amount of treasure from the earth.\n\nAnd Winifred was never again sent away to school. She had a governess,\nand she had Niall to direct her studies, Roderick himself taking an\ninterest in them. Her pranks are still told as of yore; for--pious,\ngood, exemplary as she is in the main, and ruled absolutely by her\nfather, whose will to her is law--she has her outbursts of petulance,\nand her old delight in playing a trick now and again on the unwary; or\nshe will mystify her nearest and dearest by indulging in the unexpected;\nso that many there are who still know and love her as Wayward Winifred.\n\n\nPRINTED BY BENZIGER BROTHERS, NEW YORK.","title":"Wayward Winifred","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":59836}