He asked for the Bishop, and was led like a stranger through his father's house to the door of the library. The little maiden was now alone in the room. She rose from her stool as he entered, and, without the least reserve, stepped up to him and held out her hand. He took her tender little palm in his great fingers, and held it for a moment while he looked into her face. It was a beautiful child-face, soft and fair and oval, with a faint tinge of olive in the pale cheeks, and with yellow hair--almost white in the glow of the red fire--falling in thin tresses over a full, smooth forehead. He sat and drew her closer to him, still looking steadily into her face. Then, in a tremulous voice he asked her what her name was, and the little maiden, who had shown no fear at all, nor any bashfulness, answered that her name was Aileen. "But they call me Ailee," she added, promptly; "everybody calls me Ailee." "Everybody? Who?" "Oh, everybody," she answered, with a true child's emphasis. "Your mother?" She shook her head. "Your--your--perhaps--your--" She shook her head more vigorously. "I know what you're going to say, but I've got none," she said. "Got none?" he repeated. The little maiden's face took suddenly a wondrous solemnity, and she said, "My father died a long, long, long time ago--when I was only a little baby." His lips quivered, and his eyes fell from her face. "_Such_ a long, long while ago--you wouldn't think. And auntie says I can't even remember him." "Auntie?" "But shall I tell you what Kerry said it was that made him die?--shall I?--only I must whisper--and you won't tell auntie, will you?--because auntie doesn't know--shall I tell you?" His quivering lips whitened, and with trembling hands he drew aside the little maiden's head that her innocent eyes might not gaze into his face. "How old are you, Ailee ven?" he asked, in a brave voice. "Oh, I'm seven--and auntie, she's seven too; auntie and I are twins." "And you can sing, can you not? Will you sing for me?" "What shall I sing?" "Anything, sweetheart--what you sang a little while since." "For grandpa?" "Grandpa?" "Kerry says no, it's uncle, not grandpa. But that's wrong," with a look of outraged honor; "and besides, how should Kerry know? It's not _her_ grandpa, is it? Do _you_ know Kerry?" Then the little face saddened all at once. "Oh, I forgot--_poor_ Kerry." "Poor Kerry?" "I used to go and see her. You go up the road, and then on and on and on until you come to some children, and then on and on and on until you get to a little boy--and then you're there." "Won't you sing, sweetheart?" "I'll sing grandpa's song." "Grandpa's?" "Yes, the one he likes." Then the little maiden's dimpled face smoothened out, and her simple eyes turned gravely upward as she began to sing: "O, Myle Charaine, where got you your gold? Lone, lone, you have left me here. O, not in the curragh, deep under the mold, Lone, lone, and void of cheer."