At last they pulled up at a tumbled-down gate. The last time that gate was painted must have been many long years ago. There was an avenue winding along inside and covered with weeds. Nat lifted the leather trunk out of the cart with reverence. Phinias took off his shabby hat, pulled his forelock and said, "Welcome, ten thousand times, _céàd míle fáilte_, to Desmondstown, missie _asthore_, missie _mavourneen_." Then he bent his head and, lowering his voice, said, "We must be about our business, missie, but we'll put the bit trunk under this laurel bush and some of thim young boys 'ull fetch it for ye, and ye walk down the avenue bould and free, wid no sort of shyness in ye, and when ye comes to the front door, ring the bell. Most like the bell 'ull be broke. If so it be, and like enough it will be, turn the handle and walk in. There ain't no one 'ull interfere wid ye, but bear in mind we are all _young_ in these parts." With these words he left the somewhat desolate little girl. CHAPTER III. AN IRISH CHIEFTAIN AT HOME. Now The Desmond was tall, broad, and of enormous height. Although he was by no means a young man, he walked with great erectness. His hair, somewhat scanty now, was of a soft white. His beard was long and white, also, but his eyes were large and black and his complexion somewhat resembled that of little Marguerite St. Juste. It was of a soft brown tint and, old as he was, there was still a vivid colour in his cheeks. This ancient descendant of an ancient race was, however, more feared than loved. In short, The Desmond ruled his little kingdom with a rod of iron. He never allowed familiarities between himself and his retainers. He could scarcely be spoken of as affectionate, and yet he had a strain of affection somewhere in his heart. That affection was entirely bestowed upon his lost, most beautiful and most dearly loved child, Kathleen. Like many Irishmen of his race, he was reserved with regard to his secret sorrows. He could not bear Kathleen's name to be mentioned in his presence and never once did he allude to the orphan child whom his pretty girl had left behind her. If he had any feeling towards the father of the said child, it almost amounted to hatred. He could not abide, as he said once to Madam, "the Frenchies and their ways." Henri St. Juste had, beyond doubt, hastened the end of his beautiful Kathleen. This was his belief. He wept the slow, difficult tears of the aged often at night as he thought about her, but he made no enquiries whatsoever with regard to the child and once, when Madam, in her timid, coaxing way, ventured to suggest that Kathleen's child should come to Desmondstown, The Desmond raised a shout of mighty anger and desired her to hold her peace or she would be sorry for herself.