“Now run along”--he spoke between his shut teeth--“and try and break down the stone gap into the boreen.” This feat Mary accomplished without difficulty, and Ulick and his lame hunter passed through into the lane. All up the lane, they were closely attended by the child, who seemed to consider them both under her care. At last they reached a black wooden gate leading into the so-called demesne; as she opened it, she halted, and so did Ulick Doran. “Well, little Foley, you are a queer little devil, and a real brick. I wish I’d something to give you, but I can’t get at my pocket, as you know.” “Sure, I wouldn’t take anything, thank your honour,” she answered, with amusing hauteur, “not if it was gold itself.” He stared down hard into the serious, uplifted eyes, and asked-- “But are you not Pat Foley’s girl; the one I see with the red head peeping through the gate at Foley’s corner?” “Yes, ye’ honour, I am so.” “You have done a good job for me to-day: you know that I’d like to do something for you. What would you say to a nice big doll?” “Is it a doll? No, no!” reddening, “nothing, nothing.” “Then I’m in your debt, and I hate to be in any one’s debt. You’ve got my hat, I see; I can’t put it on just now.” “No, sir, I’ll take it up this evening; ye may be wanting it.” “Well, good-bye. I must try and get on home, before I fall off;” and as he gave the limping brown his head, the pair moved painfully away. It was many a day before Ulick Doran wanted his hat. He had had a bad fall--broken his arm, and two of his ribs; it was a miracle how he had ever mounted his hunter and ridden home. The doctors agreed that he was a boy of incredible fortitude and resolution, and as a man, he would be bound to go far. Ulick explained to his family the scene of the accident, and how Foley’s little girl had come to his assistance. “Only for her I suppose I might have lain there a week. She is a wonderful child, and has her head screwed on the right way. I daresay you know her?” he added, turning to his mother. “Oh, yes, the little foxy thing,” she rejoined indifferently. “She’s uncommonly plucky and handy,” urged her son. “I hope you did not praise her to her face! She is spoiled enough as it is,” declared Mrs. Doran. “Being the only child Katty ever reared, they think the world does not hold her equal. Katty dresses her almost like a lady!--gets her shoes from Cork, and knits her long black stockings, just the same as the Rectory children wear. It’s a sin to be giving the brat a taste for dress. For my part I think she is just a flighty, impudent little monkey, and whenever I come across her I take right good care to give her a setting down.”