“It was not—only a poor hump backed chap with some sort of a handle to his name. He’s Sir John O’Neill, and he has a lovely place; but you never saw a man with less ‘frill,’” Wally remarked. “Simple as anyone could be. And I don’t think I’ve ever been so sorry for anyone.” “Is he badly crippled?” Jim asked. “No—only he seems awfully delicate, and subject to beastly fits of illness. He’s got any amount of pluck—rides and shoots and fishes, and has motored half over the world. But of course he’s terribly handicapped; the wonder is that he has done half as much.” “That must be the man Patsy was talking about—only he called him the young masther,” Norah said. “Is he quite young?” “Oh, I’d put him down at about forty,” said Wally, to whom that age was close on senile decay: “I think the old hands here would call a man the young master until he died of old age. He’s queer: at times he’s like a kid; and then I suppose the pain gets hold of him, because, in a minute he seems to grow quite old, and he drops laughing and gets bitter.” “Poor fellow!” said Mr. Linton. “How did you find him, Wally?” “Why, I nearly fell on top of him getting down a bank into a lane,” Wally answered. “He was sitting on a stone, hating himself, but he didn’t seem to mind my sudden appearance at all, though I’m sure clods hit him. Then we yarned, and I helped him back to his car, and he got me to go back to lunch with him—I didn’t want to, but——” He was silent. “I expect he was glad of someone to talk to,” Mr. Linton said. “That’s it—he’s just as lonely as he can be. All his people are fighting, and he’s knocked himself out over Red Cross work, and has had to come back to Ireland and get fit. He’s coming to call on you, sir—and he wants us all to go over to Rathcullen—his place—as much as we can.” “H’m,” said Jim and Norah, together. “I wish baronial halls appealed more to my family,” said Mr. Linton, laughing. “I didn’t mean to be horrid; but trout and loughs and bogs appeal so much more,” said Norah. “Of course we’ll go, if he wants us.” “Well, it’s a jolly place, and he’s horribly lonely,” Wally answered. “And I don’t know about his halls being baronial, but certainly his stables are: they’re simply topping. He hasn’t many horses left—the Government took most of them for the war; but there are two ripping hunters, and some extra good ponies. And he wants to lend ’em to us.” “Eh!” said Jim, sitting up. “Wally, my child, how did you manage it?” “Didn’t have to,” said Wally, grinning. “He simply threw them at me. Asked me if you could ride, Norah, so I suggested that if he had a quiet donkey it might do.” “We have one that is not quiet,” said Norah, regarding him with a fixed eye. “Tell me the truth, Wally—is there something I can ride?” “Wait till you see it—that’s all. And he’s going to teach us to jump banks and ditches and things.” “Oh-h!” said Norah, blissfully, “I said this place only wanted horses to make it perfect!”