“That doesn’t matter: I have two young cousins who occasionally pay me a visit, and their riding-kit is at Rathcullen, since they can’t use it in London. I’m sure you can manage with it; details of fit don’t signify much in Donegal.” He rose, and stood on the hearthrug looking eagerly at them. When he was sitting, his finely-modelled head and clever face made it easy to forget his dwarfed body: standing, among the lithe, tall Australians, it was suddenly pitifully evident. He felt it, for he flushed, and for a moment his eyes dropped; then he faced them again, bravely. Mr. Linton spoke, hurriedly. “We would be delighted to go to you. But are we not rather a numerous party? I think we ought to send a detachment!” “No, indeed—I wouldn’t know which to choose!” returned the Irishman, whimsically. “You see, you are just a godsend to me, if you will spare me a little of your time; I have been so long shut up alone. And it’s not good to be alone when one is spoiling to be in the thick of things; I grow horribly bad-tempered. When I know that these young giants are out of the hunt, too, I become more reconciled to circumstances. You see my complete selfishness!” He smiled at them delightfully. “So, may I come for you all to-morrow?” “Thanks—but there is really no reason why we should trouble you to bring the motor. We can easily walk over.” “There’s every reason; I’ll get you earlier!” said O’Neill, laughing. The motor slid down the avenue in the driving rain, and the Australians looked at each other. “Did you ever make friends so quickly with anyone, dad?” Jim asked. “I don’t think I did,” David Linton answered. “There’s something about him one can’t quite express: so much of the child left in the man. Poor fellow—poor fellow!” “I think he’s the bravest man I ever saw,” said Norah.