The Dublin cars had been smart affairs, spick-and-span with bright paint and clean upholstering, every buckle on their harness polished brightly. Their rubber tyres strove to soften the asperities of cobbled streets. But the car to which Patsy Burke led the Australians was of a different aspect: small and forbidding, with straight up-and-down seats whereon reposed cushions from which the stuffing had chiefly escaped, the insignificant remnant remaining in hard knobs in the corners. The original wood peeped out through faint streaks of the original paint, while here and there patches of deal and hoop-iron lent variety to the exterior. Many different sets had contributed towards the composition of the harness, wherein nothing matched except in age and decrepitude. A tattered urchin stood at the head of the little horse which had an objection to trains. The horse was asleep. “If I were asked,” murmured Norah, surveying him, “I would say he had an objection to moving at all.” “He looks as if he would like to lean up against a tree and dream,” said Wally, “and good gracious! is he going to drag the lot of us!” “Why wouldn’t he?” asked Mr. Burke, with some asperity. “Git along with ye to the ass, John Conolly,”—to the boy—“and lend a hand to the big thrunk when the road does be rough, or it will fall off on ye. Will ye get up, miss?” “Is it far?” asked Norah, regarding the somnolent horse with troubled eyes. “’Tis five Irish miles, miss.” “But can he take us all? There’s—there’s so much of us,” said Norah, her glance roving over her tall menfolk, and dwelling finally on Mr. Burke, who was not less tall. “Him!” said Mr. Burke. “But isn’t the luggage on the ass-cart? Sure it’ll only be a luxury for him—many’s the time I’ve known that one with seven or eight behind him, going to a funeral, and he that full of courage, I’d me own throubles to keep him from bolting? Let ye get up, and ’tis little he’ll be making of ye.” They got up, unhappily, and Mr. Burke hopped into the driver’s seat—which is occupied only in time of stress, the jarvey greatly preferring to drive from the side. He said, “G’wan, now!” to the little horse, and that animal awoke and took the road gallantly, while a cracked bell on his collar rattled a discordant accompaniment to his hoof-beats. They jogged on between the high banks. The scent of the whitethorn that made snow upon their crests flooded the air, and mingled with deep wafts of odour from clumps of furze lying golden in the fields. There were other flowers starring the hedges; honeysuckle, waving long arms of sweetness, and, nestling closely in the grass-grown banks, clusters of wild violets, starry celandines and even a few late primroses. There were many houses in sight; little whitewashed cabins scattered over the hills, approached by narrow boreens or tiny lanes, so narrow that it seemed that even an ass-cart could scarcely manage to squeeze in between their towering banks.