“I guess I would cut a foot off it without arguing at all,” said Jim, laughing. “Skirts are fool-things out of a house. Well, lead on, my child: I suppose we’re all going pin-hunting.” The road to Gortbeg lay between high banks, with occasional gaps through which could be seen pleasant moors and fields, and sometimes an old mansion, almost hidden by enormous beech-trees. Most of the great houses of the country were silent and closely-shuttered; the men of the family away fighting, the women doing Red Cross work in London, or nursing as near the firing-line as they could manage to establish themselves. In a few were faint signs of occupation: a white-haired old lady on a lawn, an old man, surrounded by a number of dogs, of many breeds, wandering through the woods; but even in these houses there was an air of brooding quiet and expectancy, of silent daily watching for news. The gardens were gay with summer flowers, and nothing could spoil the beauty of the trees; but there were weeds in the mould, and the paths were unkempt and moss-grown. The district was never a rich one, and now the war had taken all its men and money. Down the road, to meet them, came a boy on a donkey: a cheery small boy, sitting very far back with his knees well in. The donkey was guiltless of bridle or saddle, obeying, with meekness, if not with alacrity, suggestions conveyed to it by the pressure of the bare knees and occasional blows with an ash cudgel. “The asses of Ireland are a patient race,” remarked Wally. “They had need to be,” Jim answered. “It’s up to the ass to be patient in most places,” remarked Mr. Linton. “Life isn’t exactly a picnic to him anywhere. On the whole, the Irish donkeys seem well enough cared for; I have seen their brothers in other countries far worse treated. That’s a nice donkey you have, sonny”—to the small rider, who passed them, grinning cheerfully. “He is, sorr”; and the grin widened. “They’re such jolly kids in these parts,” Wally said. “They always greet you as if you were the one person they had wanted to see for years; and they’re so interested in you. It doesn’t seem like curiosity, either, but real, genuine interest.” “So it is, as far as it goes,” Jim said. “Well it may not go far, but it’s comforting while it lasts—and it generally lasts as long as one is there oneself. It’s just as well it doesn’t go deeper, or visitors would leave an awful trail of unrequited affection behind them. As it is, one feels they recover after one has gone, after doing all they can to make one’s stay pleasant. Yes, I think Ireland’s a nice, friendly country,” Wally finished. “And there’s Gortbeg, looking as if it had forgotten to wake up for about five hundred years.”