Sometimes there were days on the lough at the far end of the Rathcullen bog: a well-stocked lough where no outside fishing was permitted, and which yielded them trout of a weight far beyond their dreams; and there were motor-drives far afield, exploring the country-side, with Sir John always ready with legends and stories of the “ould ancient” times. Even on wet days the big Rolls-Royce would appear early in the morning, bearing an urgent invitation; and wet days were easy to spend in Rathcullen—in the great hall, the well-stocked library, the conservatories, or the picture-gallery, where faces of long-dead O’Neills, some of them startlingly like their host, stared down at them from the panelled walls. In the billiard-room Wally and Jim fought cheerful battles, while Mr. Linton would write Australian letters in the library, and Norah and Sir John explore other nooks and corners of the great house, or discourse music after their own fashion. His friendship seemed fitted to each: with Mr. Linton he could be the man of affairs, deeply-read and thoughtful; while to the boys and Norah he was the most delightful of chums, as full of fun even as Wally. “He fits in so,” said Jim. “He’s never in our way, and—what is a good deal more wonderful—I don’t believe we’re ever in his!” Many times Sir John begged them to transfer themselves altogether to Rathcullen. But something of Australian independence held them back; they preferred to retain their rooms at the Lough Aniller house, though it saw less and less of them in the daytime, and Timsy openly bewailed their constant absence—until the sergeant came home on furlough, when Timsy promptly forgot every one else in the world, and walked with his head in clouds of glory. “Indeed,” Mr. Linton said, one day, in answer to a renewed invitation—“I am frequently ashamed to think how completely we seem to have quartered ourselves on you, O’Neill. It’s hardly fair to inflict you still further.” “If you could but guess what you have done for me, you might be surprised,” Sir John answered. They were in the motor, running along a smooth high road near the little narrow-gauge railway line. Ahead, Norah and the boys could be seen across a field, riding; they had come across country, taking banks and ditches as they came, and were making towards a point where they were all to meet. John O’Neill looked at the racing trio with a smile. “I was in a pretty bad way when Wally dropped on me in the boreen that morning,” he said, presently. “He said you were suffering terribly,” David Linton said.