Mr. Patsy Burke was rather feverishly busy with the boat—it had apparently occurred to him that since the new-comers would assuredly want her it might be as well to make certain that she was sound. She was not sound—to rectify which obvious condition Mr. Burke laboured mightily. “She’s seen better days,” remarked Mr. Linton, looking at the ancient vessel with critical eyes. Already she had been extensively patched: her paint was merely a memory, and she bore “a general flavour of mild decay.” The oars, which lay near, had also been mended many times. They did not match: a fact which the Australians were to discover later. “Ah, sure, she’s a good boat,” said Mr. Burke. “’Tis only the thrifle of a leak she have in her. You wouldn’t ask an aisier or a kinder boat to pull than that one—begob, she’s the best boat to be found on any lough hereabouts.” This assertion also was to be verified by time. “In the ould times, when the family was here, many’s the day I’ve seen her, full of red cushions and fine ladies, and she tearing up the lough like a racehorse!” The poetic nature of Mr. Burke’s memories moved him to a sigh. “Who was the family?” queried Mr. Linton. “The O’Donnells, to be sure,” answered Mr. Burke, his long face expressing faint surprise at ignorance so vast. “They owned all this country, from the ould ancient times—but there’s none of them left now. Me gran’father, and his gran’father before him, was tenants under them. I’m told they were kings, one time. But there’s nothing left of any of the ould stock now—all their houses is sold, or falling to pieces, an’ they at the ends of the earth, seeking their fortune.” “The house is very old, isn’t it?” Norah asked. “’Tis ould, and ’tis falling to decay—it ’ud take a power of money to put it right. Ah, the good days is gone from Ireland—what with the land war and the famine, all the money was swept from her.” Mr. Burke stopped abruptly. He pulled his battered felt hat over his eyes and hammered vigorously at the old boat. They went up through the fragrant garden, now heavy with evening shadows. Above them the gaunt old house towered, bosomed in its trees, dim with the night mist from the lough. Lights were beginning to twinkle from the windows, and the faint acrid smell of turf fires stole upon the still air. To Norah’s fancy the silent garden was peopled with shadowy forms—tall gallants and exquisite ladies of a bygone day, and little children who ran, laughing, along paths that had no tangle of neglected growth. It was theirs; the dream visions made her feel an interloper as she crossed the threshold into the lit hall. CHAPTER VI OF LITTLE BROWN TROUT