“He swore to me he wasn’t, Miss; and, what’s more, he said that what he came about wasn’t his own business at all, but concerned _you_. That’s his whistle now--he gave, one awhile ago--and he said, ‘When I give three,’ says he, ‘I’m gone, for i’ll not lose the tide, whether she comes or not.’” “Go back to the house, Molly. I’ll go down and speak to him.” “Wouldn’t you let me follow you, Miss, to be near in case of anything?” “No, Molly. I’m not a coward; and I know, besides, that no man who meant harm to me would ever come ever here to attempt it.” “At any rate, he’d never go back again!” said the woman, fiercely. “Don’t be long, Miss, or I’ll be uneasy.” Kate now turned aside, and hastened down a little steep path which led to the Holy Well. The well itself was a sort of shrine built over a little spring, and shaded by a clump of dwindled oak-trees--almost the only ones in the island. As Kate drew nigh, she saw a man walking up and down beneath the trees, with the quick short step that implied impatience. It was her gift never to forget a face, and in one glance she recognised one she had not seen for years--O’Rorke of Vinegar Hill. [Illustration; 394] “I thought you’d never come;” cried he, as she descended the steps that led down to the well. “I have been waiting here about an hour!” He held out his hand to shake hands with her, but she drew back, and crossing her shawl in front of her, showed that she declined this greeting. “Are you too proud to shake hands with me?” asked he, insolently. “Whatever you have to say to me can be said just as well without.” “What if I wouldn’t say it, then, Kitty O’Hara? What if I was to go back the way I came, and leave you to rue the day you insulted me? Do you know, young woman, that it wasn’t on my own account I came here, that it was to serve others?” “They chose a bad messenger if they thought you’d be a welcome one.” “May I never see glory if I’m not tempted to turn away and leave you without telling one word I come for. Where’s John Luttrell? for I think I’ll tell it to himself.” “My uncle is at the Abbey, if you want him!” “Your uncle!” said he, jeeringly. “Why wasn’t he your uncle when you were up at Cush-ma-Creena, without a shoe, to your foot, or enough rags to cover you well? You were bare up to this, when I saw you last.” And he put his hand to his knee. “It was a national costume!” said she, with a quiet laugh, “and a patriot like Mr. O’Rorke should not find fault with it.” “Be gorra, it was your own self said that! and it was a lie they tould when they said you were altered!” And almost as if by magic the fellow’s ill-temper gave way, and he laughed heartily. “Listen to me now, Miss O’Hara, or Miss Luttrell, or whatever you call yourself.” “My name is Luttrell,” said she, calmly.