So they played about Ireland as they had played all their lives in Australia. The Irish blood that was in them made them curiously at home; they liked the simple, kindly country-folk, and found a ready welcome in the scattered cottages, where already Norah had made friends with at least half a dozen babies. Her education developed on new lines: she picked up a good deal of Irish, and became steeped in the innumerable legends of the country, not in the least realizing that in being told the “ould ancient” stories she was being paid a compliment for which the average tourist might sigh in vain,—for the Irish peasant is jealous of his folk-stories, and seldom tells them to anyone not of the country. In the great stone kitchen Mrs. Moroney gave her lessons in the manufacture of potato-cakes, colcannon, soda-bread, and other national delicacies, and, with old Nanny the cook, listened to stories of Australia with frequent ejaculations of “God help us!” while Jim and Wally talked much to Patsy Burke and John Conolly, and to the men in the villages, doing a little recruiting work as occasion offered. They also talked of Australia, since they could not help it, and became at times slightly confused as to the number of men for whom they had promised to find work after the war, on Billabong, if possible. However, as Jim said resignedly if Billabong overflowed with men, there were other places—Australia was large and empty. They could all come. “Are you there, Norah? Coo-ee!” An answering “Coo-ee!” came from one of the mouldering summer-houses in the garden, and Wally plunged down the overgrown walk in its direction. Norah was not in the summer-house, which she described as an insecty place, but cross-legged on a sunny patch of grass behind it, surrounded by innumerable letters. The Australian mail had arrived that morning; and, since mails in war time were apt to be “hung up” until a ship could be found to take them, letters were wont to accumulate in alarming quantities. “Good gracious, are you still reading?” inquired Wally. “I finished all mine ages ago: not that I ever get such awful bundles as you do. Jim and your father are plunged in business letters, and I’m like Mary’s little lamb, or Bo-Peep’s sheep, or whichever mutton it was that got lost.” “Poor old thing!” said Norah, absently. “Never mind; sit down and read dear old Brownie’s letter. It takes one straight back to Billabong.” “Well, that’s no bad thing—though I’d like to see a little more of Ireland,” said Wally, subsiding upon grass. “Poor old Brownie! can’t you see her, Nor, struggling over this in the kitchen at home. She’d be so much happier over tackling a day’s baking.”