“At the well yonder, trying to place on her head a pitcher not much smaller than herself. She tells me she is a stranger here, only waiting for her grandfather to come and fetch her away.” “And where to?” asked Vyner. “To Glenvallah.” And she pointed in the direction of the mountains. “And where have you come from now?” “From Arran--from the island.” “What took you to the island, child?” “I was at my aunt’s wake. It was there I got this.” And she lifted one of the beads of her necklace with a conscious pride. “Amber and gold; they become you admirably.” The child seemed to feel the praise in her inmost heart. It was a eulogy that took in what she prized most, and she shook back the luxuriant masses of her hair, the better to display the ornaments she wore. “And it was your aunt left this to you?” asked Grenfell. “No; but we had everything amongst us. Grandfather took this, and Tom Noonan took that, and Mark Tracey got the other, and this--this was mine.” “Were you sorry for your aunt?” asked Vyner. “No, I didn’t care.” “Not care for your father’s or your mother’s sister?” “She was my mother’s sister, but we never saw her. She couldn’t come to us, and he wouldn’t let us come to her.” “He, I suppose, means her husband?” The child nodded assent. “And what was the reason of this; was there a family quarrel?” “No. It was because he was a gentleman.” “Indeed!” broke in Grenfell. “How did you know that?” “Because he never worked, nor did anything for his living. He could stay all day out on the sea-shore gathering shells, and go home when he pleased to his meals or his bed.” “And that is being a gentleman?” “I think it is; and I wish I was a lady.” “What was this gentleman’s name?” “John Hamilton Luttrell--Luttrell of Arran we called him.” “John Luttrell! And was your aunt his wife, child?” asked Vyner, eagerly; “and are you the cousin of Harry Luttrell?” “Yes; but he would not let me say so; he is as proud as his father.” “He need not be ashamed of such a cousin, I think,” said Vyner, as he surveyed her; and the child again raised her fingers to her necklace, as though it was there that lay all her claim to admiration. “Keep her in talk, George, while I make a sketch of her; she is the very brightest thing I ever saw in nature.” “Tell me the names of all these mountains,” said Grenfell; “but first of all, your own.” “My name is Kitty; but I like them to call me Katherine--as the priest does.” “It is statelier to be Katherine,” said Grenfell, gravely. And she gave a nod of haughty acknowledgment that almost provoked a smile from him. “That mountain is Caub na D’haoul, the Devil’s Nightcap; whenever he takes it off, there’s a storm at sea; and there’s Kilmacreenon, where the Bradleys was killed; and that’s Strathmore, where the gold mines is.” “And are there really gold mines there?” “Ay, if one had leave from the devil to work them; but it was only old Luttrell ever got that, and he paid for it.”