His outlook upon Ireland, like his outlook upon life, was untinged by humour. He had seen no ground for amusement in the fact that he had been the only passenger to alight from the train at the Muskeere terminus, and consequently no ground for loneliness in the sight of the solitary vehicle, dimly silhouetted against the murky sky, that had awaited his coming. The ludicrous points of the scene: the primitive railway station with its insufficient flickering lights, its little knot of inquisitive idlers, its one porter--slovenly, amiable, incorrigibly lazy--all contributing the unconscious background to his own neat, conventional, totally alien personality, had left him untouched. The only individual to whom the picture had made its appeal had been the solitary porter. As he relieved Milbanke of his valise and rug on the step of the first-class carriage, an undeniable twinkle had gleamed in his eyes. "Fine, soft night, sir," he had volunteered. "Tim Burke is outside for you." For a second Milbanke had stared at him in a mixture of doubt and displeasure. A month's pilgrimage to the ancient Celtic landmarks had left him, as it has left many a Saxon before him, unlearned in that most interesting and most inscrutable of all survivals--the Celt himself. He had surveyed the face of the porter cautiously and half distrustfully; then he had made a guarded reply. "I am certainly expecting a--a conveyance," he had admitted. "But I have never heard of Tim Burke." "Why, thin Tim has heard of _you_!" the other had replied with unruffled suavity. "Isn't it the English gintlemen that's goin' to stop wid Mr. Asshlin over at Orristown that you are? Sure, Tim told me all about you; an' I knew you the minute I sat eyes on you--let alone there was no wan else in the train." Without more ado he had hoisted Milbanke's belongings to his shoulder, and lounged out of the station. "Here you are, Tim, man!" he had exclaimed as he deposited the articles one after another under the seat of the trap with a lofty disregard of their owner. "'Tis a soft night an' a long road you have before you! Is it cold the mare is?" He had paused to eye the impatient young animal before him, with the Irishman's unfailing appreciation of horse-flesh. Here Milbanke, feeling that some veiled reproof had been suggested, had broken in upon the monologue. "I hope I haven't injured the horse by the delay," he had said hastily. "The train was exactly twenty-two minutes behind its time." Then for the first time the old coachman had bent down from his lofty position. "An', sure, what harm if it was, sir?" he had exclaimed, voicing the hospitality due to his master's guest. "What hurry is there at all--so long as it brought you safe?" "True for you, Tim!" the porter had interjected softly; and seizing Milbanke's arm, he had swung him into the trap, precisely as he had swung the luggage a few seconds previously.