“Bored!” Mr. Linton said in amazement. “Why, they are having the time of their lives! I could not possibly have given them half the pleasure you have Put in their way. You talk of gratitude, but to my mind it should be entirely on our side.” “No,” said O’Neill firmly. “Still, I’m glad to think they are enjoying themselves,—not merely being polite and benevolent!” Whereat David Linton broke into laughter. “I trust they’d be polite in any circumstances,” he said. “But even politeness has its limits. You wouldn’t call that sort of thing forced, would you? Look.” He pointed across a field. Norah and the boys were galloping to meet them. They flashed up a little hill, dipped down into a hollow, and scurried up another rise, where a stiff bank met them, with a deep drop into the next field. Norah’s brown pony got over it with the cleverness of a cat, and she raced ahead of the boys, who set sail after her, vociferating quite unintelligible remarks about people who took unfair short cuts. Their merry voices brought echoes from the hills. Norah maintained her advantage until a low bank brought them out into the road, and all together they trotted towards the waiting motor. Their glowing faces sufficiently answered Sir John’s doubts. “Why, of course you beat them, Norah—easily!” he said, shamelessly ignoring the boys’ side of the race. “Didn’t I tell you that pony could beat most things in Donegal, if she got the chance?” “I did cut a corner,” Norah admitted, laughing. “But ’tis themselves has the animals of great size—and they flippant leppers!” She dropped into brogue with an ease born of close association with Timsy and his parents. “Sir John, is that the Doon Rock?” She pointed with her whip to a great rocky eminence half a mile away. “Yes, that’s the Rock,” O’Neill answered. “It’s rather a landmark, isn’t it? We’ll wait for you at the foot, if you’ll jog on after us.” The riders followed the motor slowly. The road led past the great mass, half hill, half rock, that towered over the little fields. It was about three hundred feet high, with sparse vegetation endeavouring to find a footing on its rugged sides, and grey boulders, weather-worn and clothed with lichen, jutting out, grim and bleak. The motor halted under its shadow, and the groom who occupied the front seat with Con, the lame chauffeur, led the horses away to a cottage close by. A few hundred yards away a curious sight puzzled the Australians. On a little green, where some grey stones marked a well, was a little plantation of sticks stuck in the ground. Fluttering rags waved from many of them, and ornamented the ragged brambles near the well. “You haven’t seen a holy well, have you?” O’Neill asked. “That is one of the most famous—the Well of Doon.” “But what are the sticks?” Wally asked. “Come and see.”