"They're waiting for you, Miss," she said mysteriously, "'idin' in the parlour." She opened the door, and I passed into that close-smelling _sanctum, sanctorum_, of an Irish farmhouse, the best parlour. I did not give a glance at its glories. It was like fifty others I knew--trellised wall-paper, stiff white muslin curtains, flowery carpet and horse-hair furniture, and a curious country smell of damp and closed windows. As I entered, Esther jumped up from the sofa and ran to meet me. She wore her out-of-door apparel, and was evidently making a vain effort to take some of Mrs. O'Flaherty's seed-cake and sherry. That comfortable woman herself sat (in her bonnet and with a great air of importance) about a yard from the table and her own portion of wine and cake. "Oh, Hilda darling, I'm so glad you've come!" said Esther, hugging me impulsively. "Now, Maggie, you'll be satisfied," she said, turning to Mrs. O'Flaherty. "You know I didn't want to cross you," said the latter, "and with one of the family to bear you out I've nothing to say." "But what is it all about?" I asked. Mrs. O'Flaherty adjusted her bonnet-strings, and was evidently about to answer me at great length when Esther interposed. "The long and the short of it is," she said, with an excited little laugh, "is--that we have discovered that Sir Rupert has Harry imprisoned in that horrible place, and we're going to kidnap him. There!" she said, lifting her finger, "you can tell Miss Hilda everything about it as we go along, Maggie. We had better start now while the day is young and the rain holds off." I heard everything as we trudged along in front of the donkey-cart, while the rear was brought up by Michael O'Flaherty and his big son Larry. It seemed that Mrs. O'Flaherty's youngest, Tim, had heard so much of Castle Angry in the days of his mother's sojourn there, that the place had acquired a fatal fascination for him. "Flyin' kites he'll be," said his mother, "agin' the walls o' that unlucky ould house, an' prospectin' for _pinkeens_ an' _dalgalukers_ (_i.e._ minnows and newts) in that stinkin' moat, till I'm expectin' him to come home to me in quarters. Shoutin' out at night he does be with the terror of the drames that does be on him, that Sir Rupert has him, or Yalla Gaskin, that's worse, or them brutes o' dogs,--though I wouldn't liken them that can't sin to wicked men. But 'tis the nature of boys that the very fear draws him. He owns up to it himself; 'Often,' he says, 'when I comes to the ould wood I do be diggin' me finger-nails in the threes to hould me, but I goes on all the same.' "'Yerra, my boy,' says I, 'maybe 'tis your father's belt will be houldin' ye.' But he minds that no more thin Sir Rupert or the dogs, an' 'tis a long time the same belt's promised him, for O'Flaherty's soft-hearted, an' never could bring himself to batin' the childher.