“Time we went down, I’m afraid,” he said, cheerfully. “Before we go, Norah, I will proceed to relate for your benefit the six womanly gifts which were demanded of properly-brought-up young women in the high and far-off times in Ireland. They were, the gift of modest behaviour, the gift of singing, the gift of sweet speech, the gift of beauty, the gift of wisdom, and the gift of needlework!” “Wow!” said poor Norah, in dismay. “Perhaps it’s as well I got born in Australia!” CHAPTER XI NORTHWARD “Says he to all belongin’ him, ‘Now happy may ye be! But I’m off to find me fortune,’ sure he says, says he.” MOIRA O’NEILL. ‟IS Mr. Linton in, Timsy?” “He is, sir. Leastways, he’s out, down by the lough, and all of them with him.” The small boy looked up at Sir John O’Neill with more awe than he was wont to regard most people. “Will I get him for you, sir?” “No—I’ll go down, myself. Is your father well, Timsy?” “He does be splendid, sir,” said Timsy, his eye brightening. “Only they’ll be takin’ him back soon, to fight them ould Germans.” “I expect Lord Kitchener can’t do without him,” said Sir John, confidentially. “Never mind,—we’ll have him back in Donegal altogether, before long, please goodness. And whisper, Timsy—when he comes back for good, he’ll have a splendid medal on his coat!” He patted the small boy on the head and left him speechless before a prospect so tremendous. The Linton party was discovered by the well on the lough shore, where Wally was scratching the nose of the patient donkey and talking to him, as Norah said, as man to man. He had his back to the path down from the garden, and did not hear Sir John’s approach. “If you’d come back to Australia with us, acushla machree,” he said, “I’d guarantee you the best of grass and you wouldn’t have any water to draw at, all.” The ass drooped his head lower, and appeared, not at all impressed by this dazzling future. “And Murty would love you, and Norah would ride you after cattle.” (“I would _not_!” from Norah.) “And you could tell the horses about Ireland, and we’d tie green ribbons round your neck on St. Patrick’s Day, and let you wave a green flag with a harp on it in your pearl-pale hand. Oh, lovely ass——!” “Were you speaking to me?” asked Sir John, politely, near his ear; and Wally jumped, and joined in the laugh against himself. “We’re twin-souls, this patient person and myself,” he explained. “I’ve found it out, and I’m trying to make the ass see it. Never mind, old chap; we’ll continue this profitable conversation when we are alone; unfeeling listeners only make you bashful.” He produced a carrot from his pocket, and the ass ate it, despondently.