Two days afterward Lady Kathleen called Bridget aside, and, linking her hand through her arm, said in an affectionate tone:

"If you can spare me five minutes, Biddy, I have a pleasant little bit of news to give you."

Bridget O'Hara had resumed all the finery which had been more or less tabooed at school. The time was seven o'clock, on a summer's evening. She had on a richly embroidered tea gown of pale green silk, a silver girdle clasped her slim waist, the long train of her dress floated out behind her; it was partly open in front, and revealed a petticoat of cream satin, heavily embroidered with silver.

Strictly speaking, the dress was a great deal too old for so young a girl; but it suited Biddy, whose rich and brilliant coloring, and whose finely formed and almost statuesque young figure could carry off any amount of fine clothing. She and Lady Kathleen were standing on the terrace walk, which looked down on the lake. Its waters were tranquil as glass to-night; a few fleecy clouds in the sky were reflected on its bosom. A little boat with a white sail, which flapped aimlessly for want of wind to fill it, was to be seen in the distance. The Squire was directing the boat's wayward course, but it was making its way after a somewhat shambling fashion to the nearest landing-place. Bridget waved a handkerchief in the air.

"Turn the boat a bit, daddy, and the sail will fill," she shouted. "Now, then, Aunt Kathleen, what is it you want to say to me?"

"If you will only attend, Biddy," said Lady Kathleen. "Your thoughts are with your father, child; he's as safe as safe can be. Hasn't he sailed on the waters of Lake Crena since he was a little dot no higher than my knee?"

"But it is called the Witch's Cauldron, too," said Bridget, her eyes darkening. "They say that misfortune attends on those who are too fond of sailing on its waters."

Lady Kathleen laughed.

"You superstitious colleen," she said; "as if any sensible person minded what 'they say.'"

"All right, Aunt Kathleen, what's your news? what are you exciting yourself about?"

"I'm thinking of you, my pet, and how dull it must be for you after all the young companions you had at school."

"Dull for me at the Castle?" exclaimed Bridget, opening her big eyes wide. "Dull in the same house with daddy, and the servants, and the dogs? I don't understand you!"

"Well, my darling, that's just your affectionate way. You are very fond of your father and the dogs, of course. The dogs are the dogs, but you needn't try to blind me, my dearie dear. To the end of all time the young will seek the young, and boys and girls will herd together."

"Well, there are my cousins, Patrick and Gerald, coming next week."

"Just so. Fine bits of lads, both of them; but, when all is said and done, only lads. Now, girls want to be together as well as boys; they have their bits of secrets to confide to one another, and their bits of fun to talk over, and their sly little jokes to crack the one with the other; they have to dream dreams together, and plan what their future will be like. What a gay time they'll have in the gay world, and what conquests they'll make, and whose eyes will shine the brightest, and whose dress will be the prettiest, and which girl will marry the prince by and by, and which will find her true vocation in a cottage. Oh, don't you talk to me, Bridget; I know the ways of the creatures, and the longings of them, and the fads of them. Haven't I gone through it all myself?"

"You do seem excited, Aunt Kathleen, but you must admit too that there are girls and girls, and that this girl——"

"Now, I admit nothing, my jewel. Look here, my cushla macree, you're the soul of unselfishness, but you shall have your reward. You shall have girls to talk to and to play with, and by the same token they are coming this very moment on the jaunting car to meet you."

"Who are coming on the jaunting car?" asked Bridget, in a voice of alarm.

"Well now, I knew you'd be excited; I knew you better than you knew yourself. Your face tells me how delighted you are. That dear little Janet May, that sweet little friend of yours, the girl you are as thick as peas with, is going to spend the holidays at Castle Mahun. I sent Larry off with the jaunting car after the early dinner to the station to meet her. She'll be here in a minute or two with a sister of hers whom she's nearly as fond of as she is of yourself. Now, isn't that a surprise for you, my pet?"

"It is," said Bridget, in a low voice.

It was against all the preconceived ideas of the O'Haras to show even by the faintest shadow of discontent that they were wanting in hospitality. Bridget felt that the high spirits which had been hers during the last two days, which had lifted the weight of care, and the dreadful sensation of having done wrong, from her young heart, had now taken to themselves wings, and that the awful depressed sensation which used to try her so much at Mulberry Court must be once again her portion.

"You're pleased, aren't you, Biddy?" said Aunt Kathleen.

"Of course," said Bridget, in an evasive tone, "but there's daddy just landing, let me run to him."

She flew away, skimming down the steep ascent with the agility of a bird. She was standing by her father's side, flushed and breathless, when he stepped out of the little boat.

"Eh, colleen," he exclaimed, "what do you say to coming for a sail with me?"

"Give me a hug, daddy."

"That I will, my girl; eh, my jewel, it's good to feel your soft cheek. Now, then, what are you rubbing yourself against me for, like an affectionate pussy cat?"

"Nothing. I can't go for a sail, though; it's a bother, but it can't be helped."

"And why can't it be helped, if we two wish it, I want to know?"

"There are visitors coming to the Castle; we'll have to entertain them, daddy."

"Visitors! of course, right welcome they'll be; but I didn't know of any. Who are they? Do you think it's the O'Conors now, or may be the Mahoneys from Court Macherry. What are you staring at me like that for, child? If there are visitors coming, you and I must go and give them a right good hearty welcome; but who in the world can they be?"

"One of them is a schoolfellow of mine, her name is Janet May."

"Janet May," repeated the squire; "we don't have those sort of names in Ireland. A schoolfellow of yours? Then, of course, she'll be right welcome. A great friend, I suppose, my pet? She'll be welcome; very welcome."

"Look at me, daddy, for a minute," said Bridget, speaking quickly and in great excitement. "Let us welcome her, as of course all true Irish people ought to welcome their guests, but don't let's talk about her when you and I are alone. She has a sister coming too, and there's Aunt Kathleen waving her hands to us, and gesticulating. They must have arrived. If I had known it, I'd have ordered the bonfires to be lit on the hilltops, but I did not hear a thing about it until aunty told me a few minutes ago."

"It was remiss of Kathleen, very remiss," said the squire. "It is positively wanting in courtesy not to have the bonfires lit. Let's go up at once, Biddy, and meet your guests in the porch."

Squire O'Hara took his daughter's hand. They climbed the ascent swiftly together, and were standing in the porch, Lady Kathleen keeping them company, when the jaunting car drew up.

To an Irish person bred and born there is no more delightful mode of locomotion than this same jaunting car, but people fresh to the Emerald Isle sometimes fail to appreciate its merits.

The jaunting car requires an easy and yet an assured seat. No clutching at the rails, no faint suspicion on the countenance of its occupant that there is the least chance of being knocked off at the next abrupt turn of the road, or the next violent jolt of the equipage. You must sit on the jaunting car as you would on your horse's back, as if you belonged to it, as the saying goes.

Now, strangers to Ireland have not this assured seat, and although Janet was too clever and too well bred to show a great deal of the nervousness she really felt, she could not help clinging frantically to the rail at the end of her side, and her small face was somewhat pale, and her lips tightly set. She had maneuvered hard for this invitation, she had won her cause, all had gone well with her; but this awful, bumping, skittish rollicking car might after all prove her destruction. What a wild horse drew this terrible car! What a reckless looking coachman aided and abetted all his efforts at rushing and flying over the ground! Oh, why did they dash down that steep hill? why did they whisk round this sudden corner? She must grasp the rail of her seat still tighter. She would not fall off, if nerve and courage could possibly keep her on; but would they do so?

Janet had plenty of real pluck, but poor Sophy was naturally a coward. They had not gone a mile on the road before she began to scream most piteously.

"I won't stay on this awful, barbarous thing another minute," she shrieked. "I shall be dashed to pieces, my brains will be knocked out. Janet, Janet, I say, Janet, if you don't get the driver to stop at once I'll jump off."

"Oh, there aint the least soight of fear," said Larry, whisking his head back in Sophy's direction with a contemptuous and yet good-humored twinkle in his eyes.

"I can't stay on; you must pull the horse up," shrieked the frightened girl. "I can't keep my seat; I am slipping off, I tell you I am slipping off. I'll be on the road in another minute."

"Here then, Pat, you stay quiet, you baste," said Larry.

He pulled the spirited little horse up, until he nearly stood on his haunches, then, jumping down himself, came up to Sophy's side.

"What's the matter, miss?" he said; "why, this is the very safest little kyar in the county. You just sit aisy, miss, and don't hould on, and you will soon take foine to the motion."

"No, I won't," said Sophy. "I'll never take to it; I am terrified nearly out of my senses. I'll walk to that Castle of yours, whatever the name of it is."

"You can't do that, miss, for it's a matther of close on twenty mile from here."

"Oh, dear! oh, dear!" Sophy began to cry. "I wish I'd never come to this outlandish, awful place!" she exclaimed, forgetting all her manners in her extremity. "Janet, how heartless of you to sit like that, as if you didn't think of anyone but yourself! I'd much rather be back with Aunt Jane, or even taking care of those horrid Persian cats. Oh, anything would be better than this!"

"Don't you cry, miss," said Larry, who was a very good-natured person. "The little kyar is safe as safe can be; but maybe, seeing as you're frightened, miss, you'd like to sit in the well. We has a pretty big well to this jaunting car, and I'll open it out and you can get in."

The well which divided the two seats (running between them, as anyone who knows an Irish jaunting car will immediately understand) was a very small and shallow receptacle for even the most diminutive adult, but "any port in a storm," thought poor Sophy. She scrambled gratefully into the well, and sat there curled up, looking very foolish, and very abject.

The two travelers were therefore in a somewhat sorry plight when they arrived at the Castle, and Sophy's appearance was truly ridiculous.

Not a trace of mirth, however, was discernible on the faces of the kind host, his sister-in-law, and daughter as they came out to meet their guests.

Dennis O'Hara lifted Sophy in a twinkling to the ground. Janet devoutly hoped that she would not be killed as she made the supreme effort of springing from the car. Then began a series of very hearty offers of friendship and hospitality.

"Welcome, welcome," said the squire. "I'm right glad to see you both. Welcome to Castle Mahun! And is this your first visit to Ireland, Miss—Miss May?"

"Yes," said Janet, immediately taking the initiative, "and what a lovely country it is!"

"I agree with you," said the squire, giving her a quick, penetrating, half-pleased, half-puzzled glance. "I must apologize for not having bonfires lit in your and your sister's honor; but Lady Kathleen didn't tell me I was to have the pleasure of your company until a few minutes ago."

"I kept it as a joyful surprise," said Lady Kathleen; "but now, Dennis, let the two poor dear girls come in. They look fit to drop with fatigue. And so this is your little sister Sophy, Mayflower! I am right glad to see you, my dear. Welcome to Old Ireland, the pair of you; I will take you up myself to your room. Biddy, darling! Biddy!"

But, strange to say, Biddy was nowhere to be seen.

There was a little old deserted summerhouse far away in a distant part of the grounds, and there, a few minutes afterward, might have been heard some angry, choking, half-smothered sobs. They came from a girl in a pale green silk dress, who had thrown herself disconsolately by the side of a rustic table, and whose hot tears forced themselves through the fingers with which she covered her face.

"I can't bear it," she said to herself. "I can't be hospitable, and nice, and friendly, and yet I suppose I must. What would father say if one of the O'Haras were wanting in courtesy to a visitor? Oh, dear! how I hate that girl! I didn't think it was in me to hate anyone as I hate her! I hate her, and I—I fear her! There's a confession for Bridget O'Hara to make. She's afraid of someone! She's afraid of a wretched poor small specimen of humanity like that! But it is quite true; that girl has got a power over me. She has got me into her net. Oh, what induced Aunt Kathleen to ask her here? Why should the darling beloved Castle be haunted by her nasty little sneaking presence? Why should my holidays be spoiled by her? This is twenty times worse than having her with me at school, for we were at least on equal terms there, and we are not here. She's my visitor here, and I must be polite to her. I don't mind that abject looking sister of hers, who sat huddled up in the well of the car, one way or the other; but Janet is past enduring. Oh, Aunt Kathleen, what have you done to me?"

Bridget sobbed on stormily. The old sensation of having lowered herself, of being in disgrace with herself, was strongly over her. She hated herself for being angry at having Janet in the house, for so strong were her instincts of hospitality that even to think an uncourteous thought toward a visitor seemed to her to be like breaking the first rules of life.

She had rushed to the summerhouse to give herself the comfort of a safety valve. She must shed the tears which weighed against her eyes. She must speak aloud to the empty air some of the misery which filled her heart. She was quite alone. It was safe for her to storm here; she knew that if she spent her tears in this safe retreat she would be all the better able to bear her sorrows by and by.

As she sobbed, thinking herself quite alone, the little rustic door of the old summerhouse was slowly and cautiously pushed open, and a dog's affectionate, melting eyes looked in.

The whole of a big shaggy head protruded itself next into view, four big soft feet pattered across the floor, and a magnificent thoroughbred Irish greyhound laid his head on the girl's knee.

"O Bruin, Bruin; oh, you darling!" exclaimed Bridget. "I can tell you how sorry I am! I can tell you how mean and horrid and contemptible I feel! Kiss me, Bruin; let me love you, you darling! you darling! You'll never tell that you found me like this, will you, Bruin?"

"Never!" said Bruin's eyes. "Of course not; what can you be thinking about? And now cheer up, won't you?

"Yes, I will," said Bridget, answering their language. "Oh, what a great comfort you are to me, Bruin, my dog!"