I was presently tempted to think that my landlord was right when he spoke of the "queer company" which Winifred sometimes kept. For, as I was rambling about one evening under the white blossoms of the hawthorn, I suddenly beheld her high up on a mountain pass. This time she was without her blue cloak, but wore a shawl of vivid scarlet, the corner of which she had wound about her head. Contrasting with the emerald green of the grass and the foliage all about her, she seemed more than ever like a mountain sprite who had suddenly sprung from the ground.

I was about to advance and address her, when I perceived that she was not alone. Beside her, upon the greensward, stood one of the wildest and most singular figures it has ever been my fortune to see. He was tall, and would have been of commanding presence but for a slight stoop in his shoulders. His hair, worn long, was dishevelled and unkempt, surmounted by a high-peaked, sugar-loaf hat, the like of which I had never seen before. His breeches were of corduroy, such as might be worn by any peasant in the vicinity; only that this particular pair was of a peculiarly bright green, vivid enough to throw even the grass of the Emerald Isle into the shade. A waistcoat of red increased the impression of color. He might have been some gigantic tropical plant, so gorgeous and so varied were these commingling hues. Over all he wore a garment, neither coat nor cloak, with wide, hanging sleeves. His countenance was as singular as his costume; his eyes keen, yet half-furtive, half-deprecating in their expression; his chin clean-shaven, showing the hollow, cavernous cheeks with fearful distinctness. His nose, long and slightly hooked, seemed as if pointing toward the ground, upon which just then his eyes were fixed.

He was discoursing to the child; and, as I came nearer, I thought he was using the Irish tongue, or at least many Gaelic words. Once he pointed upward to the sky with a wild gesture; again he bent down to the earth, illustrating some weird tale he was telling; whilst expressions of anger, of cunning, of malice or of joy swept over his face, each being reflected in the mobile countenance of Winifred, who stood by. She seemed to follow every word he said with eager interest.

In a pause of the narrative he took off his hat and made a courtly bow to the child, who held herself erect before him. Resuming his talk, he pointed more than once in the direction of the castle, so that I fancied he was dwelling upon the fortunes of the race who had once abode there and of the chiefs and heroes who had made it famous. Once, however, I caught the name of Malachy, which might have been that of any peasant in the neighborhood; and again the word "Lagenian." Then the old man relapsed into silence, sighing profoundly; whilst above his head the dark leaves waved softly and the projecting branches almost touched his hat.

Winifred finally broke the silence—I heard her clear, childish voice distinctly:

"Ever since we went to the Waterfalls that day I have been wanting to talk to you of the Phoul-a-Phooka."

"But I have told you. Miss Winifred," the man replied, with some impatience, "all that I know. The Phooka is a fierce beast, with fire streaming from his eyes and nostrils, coal-black and gigantic of size. That is how the legend describes him; and if any unlucky wayfarer meets him he is compelled to mount and ride. The place which I took you to see is called after him. You know how lovely it is, how wild, how solitary, and how well suited to the work I have in hand. I made discoveries there, Winifred—indeed, I did!"

Here his voice dropped to a whisper, and Winifred put two or three eager questions to him.

"But you didn't tell me when we were there," she said.

"It was better not. We have had listeners," the man responded.

"I was thinking," Winifred went on, changing the subject abruptly, "of that story of the tailor. You know, if the Phoul-a-Phooka had ridden down that precipice we saw, with him upon his back, why, the tailor couldn't have told what happened; for he would have been killed."

"There's no saying, there's no saying!" replied the stranger, absently. "There are mysteries, my girl; but the legend declares that it was the garment which the tailor carried that caused the beast to throw him off."

"Are legends true?" the girl asked.

"Who knows?" answered the old man, with the same dreamy air. "They hold a kernel of truth, every one of them."

"The lady says many things are not true," Winifred observed.

"The lady! What lady?" demanded the other almost fiercely, with a light of cunning gleaming from his black eyes.

"The lady from America."

"Oh, from America did you say?" exclaimed the man, in a hushed and trembling voice, bending low and looking about him with a terror and anxiety which were almost grotesque. "Don't say that word, Miss Winifred! Don't now, my beautiful white flower of the mountain!"

The incident reminded me that Granny Meehan at the castle had also shown, on the occasion of my visit, a certain alarm at the mention of America; and I wondered what mystery enveloped this singular child and those who were her guardians. Winifred had perceived the man's consternation; looking intently at her singular companion, she asked:

"Why, are you afraid of people from America?"

Standing thus before the old man, she put the question with the point-blank frankness of childhood.

"No, no, no!" came the answer, hurriedly and with the same tone of tremulous eagerness,—"at least, child, it is not the kind of fear you think."

"Why do you shiver, then, and look like that?"

"Because, O Winifred mavourneen, say it is not for you she's come!"

"For me!" echoed Winifred in astonishment; then she burst into one of her merriest peals of laughter, seizing a handful of leaves and throwing them at him. "Why do you think that, you dear, old Niall?"

"I suppose I'm getting old and full of fears," the man said. "The winter of life is like the winter of the years. It has its chills and frosts, its larger share of darkness. But what if one should come and take you away before we are ready—before the work we have to do is done?"

"No one shall take me away unless I like!" Winifred cried out, throwing back her small head proudly.

"Wilful I know you are as a mountain torrent," Niall answered with a smile; "but there are some who might take you away against your will and with none to say them nay."

"I wish you would not talk so!" Winifred said petulantly, tearing to pieces with her slender, delicate fingers a daisy which she had picked up from the grass. She threw the stalk away impatiently. "There!" she cried. "By your foolish talk you have made me destroy one of my own little daisies; and I always think of them as little children playing in the long grass, hiding from one another, letting the wind blow them about, and loving the sun, as all children do."

The strange man gazed thoughtfully at her as she spoke.

"The same old fancies!" he muttered; "the same turn of mind! But I think the country people are right: she's too wise. She has an old head on young shoulders; too old a head for a child."

It was Winifred's turn to stare at Niall.

"Why are you talking to yourself like that?" she asked. "It isn't polite."

But the old man, who had been suddenly seized with a new idea, clasped his hands as if in desperate anxiety, and bent toward the child, crying:

"You didn't tell her, daughter of the O'Byrnes—you didn't tell her? Oh, say you didn't! For that would mean ruin—utter, blank ruin."

Winifred looked at him with a flash of scorn that darkened her blue eyes into black,—a look of lofty indignation which struck me forcibly.

"So that's all you know of me, Niall," she cried, "after the years that we've walked the glen together, and up the passes of the Croghans and down by the streams! You think I could betray what I know to the first stranger that crosses my path!"

The man was struck dumb by the passionate cadence in the young voice, which went on reproaching, upbraiding, as some spirit of the mountain might have done.

"Oh, you're a nice companion for me when you could say such a thing—you that taught me the secret of the stars, and how they shine down, down just on the spot where that which we seek lies hidden, and after showing me its gleam in the shining waters!"

"Miss Winifred," cried the old man, "forgive me!" And he bent one knee before her. "I was thinking of the ordinary child, with its love of telling news; and not of the young lady, with the old blood in her veins and a mind of uncommon acuteness."

"I don't want you to kneel to me," she said gravely, in her princess-like manner. "You're old and I'm young, and you should not kneel. Neither should I have spoken to you as I did. But you must not doubt me—you must not believe I could betray your secret."

"Then you forgive me?" said the old man. "And, to show you how I do trust you, I'm going to give you another present, mavourneen. Oh, the like of it you never saw!"

He drew from his pocket as he spoke some object carefully wrapped up in a handkerchief; but as he unwound the wrapping I distinctly saw the gleam of gold, and, to my astonishment, a very beautiful gold bracelet, apparently highly wrought. The old man displayed it upon a leaf which made a charming background. Winifred clapped her hands and fairly danced with joy, her eyes shining and her face glowing.

"Oh, is that for me, you dear, good Niall?" she exclaimed.

For the third time in my hearing she called the man by his name.

"It is for you, child of my heart, my beautiful little lady!" said the man, gratified by her enthusiasm.

"It is the most beautiful, far the most beautiful, you have given me yet."

"It is a rare gem of art, of faultless carving and of the purest gold," said Niall, triumphantly.

"Where did you get it, pray?" asked the child.

The answer I did not hear, for the man stooped low and spoke in a whisper. I feared that, being discovered, I should find myself in an awkward predicament; so I thought only of beating a hasty retreat. In so doing I stumbled and fell. Fortunately, it was upon soft moss—the kindly breast of Mother Nature.

Winifred's keen eyes saw what had occurred, and she ran instantly to my assistance. I assured her that I was not hurt, and, on rising, looked about for her strange companion. He had disappeared as completely as if the grassy sward had opened and swallowed him. The child did not say a word about his having been there; and, for some unexplained reason, I felt that I could not ask any questions. There was about her more than ever on this occasion that air of pride and reserve which was sometimes so noticeable.

As soon, however, as she saw that I was unhurt she left me in a rather more unceremonious fashion than usual. She feared, perhaps, that I might refer to her conversation with the man whom she had called Niall. I watched her walking away more thoughtful than usual, her step scarcely touching the grass, so light was she; and I marvelled at her singular destiny.

When I reached the inn I took the landlord into my confidence, to the extent of telling him that I had seen Winifred in company with a peculiar-looking man, and that he had seemed disturbed when she spoke of the lady from America. As I had overheard a chance conversation, I felt bound, of course, to say nothing of the bracelet, or of certain other allusions in the old man's discourse which had puzzled me.

"Some do be sayin' that he has the Evil Eye," remarked the landlord, referring to Niall; "and, though meself doesn't hold much with them ould notions, there may be somethin' in what they say, after all. For the colleen bringin' you into the discoorse mebbe turned his ill-will upon you and caused, p'raps, the fall you had."

I smiled at this, assuring him that the fall had a very natural cause, my foot having caught in the root of a tree. But I could see that he was still unconvinced and regarded Niall as a more dangerous individual than ever. And, finding it useless to argue, I retired to my room to think over the events of the morning.