That first visit had stretched over the whole afternoon, no one quite knew how. Outside, the rain streamed down the window-panes and lashed the lough into waves; but within the old house a fire of turf and bog-wood blazed, casting ruddy lights on the furniture, and sending its pleasant, acrid smell into the room. They gathered round it in a half-circle and “yarned”—exchanging stories of Ireland, and Australia, and London and war. There could be no talk in those grim days without war-stories and war-rumours; but after a time they drifted away to far-off times, and Sir John, beginning half-timidly with an old Irish legend, found that he had a suddenly enthralled circle of listeners, who demanded more, and yet more—tales of high and far-off times and of the mighty heroes of Ireland: Finn MacCool and the Fianna, Cuchulain, Angus Og, and the half-real, half-legendary past that holds Ireland in a mist of romance. He knew it all, and loved it, telling the stories with the quiet pride of a descendant of a race whose roots were deep in the soil of the land that had borne them: and the children of the country that had no history hung upon his words. “What must you think of me?” he said at last, when, in a pause, the clock in the hall boomed out six strokes. “I come to call, and I remain to an unseemly hour spinning yarns. The fact is, you—well, you just aren’t strangers at all, and I certainly knew you before. Were you in Ireland in a previous incarnation, Miss Norah?” Norah laughed. “I would love to think so,” she said. “One would like to have had some part in the Ireland you can talk about. Will you come again and tell us more, Sir John?” His eyes were grateful. “If I don’t bore you. I fastened upon this poor boy”—indicating Wally with a friendly nod—“the other day when I was desperately sick of my own company, and now I seem to have done the same to you all; and you’re very good to a lonely man. But I want all of you at Rathcullen.” “We’re coming,” said Wally, solemnly. “Will you? I timed my call to-day, because I didn’t think even half-amphibious Australians would be out in such weather—and see what luck I’ve had!” He looked no older than the boys, his eager face glowing in the firelight. “But please don’t come to Rathcullen formally, Mr. Linton; if I bring the car over can I carry you all off to-morrow for lunch? There are horses simply spoiling to be ridden, Miss Norah.” “Oh-h!” said Norah. “But I’ve no riding-things with me.”