The time fixed for our departure was drawing all too near; for the summer had been a delightful one, with much of fine weather and almost constant sunshine—rare in that land where Nature's tear is always very near her smile. I had visited the Devil's Glen, with its wondrous falls, its turbulent streams, its mountain heights, reached by a path of tangled bloom. I had seen the "sweet Vale of Avoca" and Avonmore, and Glendalough, with its seven ruined churches; and St. Kevin's Bed, and all the other delights of Wicklow, the garden of Ireland.
On most of these expeditions I had been accompanied by Winifred, with Barney and Moira. If we were driving, Barney acted as driver and guide at once; if we were on foot, he carried the luncheon basket. Very often we set out when the dew was still on the grass and the morning-star had scarcely faded from the sky.
But there was one more spot to be visited, and this time Barney and Moira were not to be of the party. Winifred had persuaded Niall to take us to the Phoul-a-Phooka, and show us there a mysterious cavern in which he kept hidden his treasures. I looked forward to this visit with a curious blending of fear and curiosity. Niall was so variable in his moods, and Father Owen agreed with me in thinking that at times his mind was unsettled and his temper dangerous. Still, I determined to take the risk.
One warm day in July Winifred and I set out in company with Niall—not, indeed, that he gave us much of his society. When we were in the car he drove in gloomy silence; when we were afoot he walked on ahead, wrapped in his cloak, with an air of gloomy preoccupation, his sugar-loaf hat serving as a sign-post which we were to follow.
When we came up at last to this celebrated spot, my breath was fairly taken away by its wild and mournful grandeur. Waterfall after waterfall came down from a height of two hundred feet, over great, rocky precipices, being spanned by a single arched bridge of Gothic design. On one side of the falls are tasteful grounds, with shaded walks and seats for the convenience of visitors; on the other, all is wild and barren—rock rising above rock, crag above crag, in a morose solitude.
It was toward this solitude that Niall led us, the noise of the waterfalls completely drowning our voices. We strode on by devious paths, turning more and more away from the water and upward by a steep ascent, till we found ourselves in surroundings shunned by the common folk, and wild, gloomy and forbidding enough to justify all that popular superstition said of this region. Once we paused to take breath, and I looked down from an eminence on the waters rushing madly to the tranquil glen below; and then I turned my gaze from the Gothic bridge, the work of man, to the mountain crag, the work of the Creator.
Suddenly Niall turned an abrupt angle, Winifred and I creeping after him. I was full of fear; but Winifred was fearless and smiling, holding my hand and encouraging me as though I had been a child. We stopped before a tangled mass of vines and brushwood. Niall pushed them aside, disclosing a small, dark entrance in the rocks, through which hepassed, signing for us to follow him. This we did, Winifred whispering:
"It's the cavern. I was here once before—that time I told you I was going to the Phoul-a-Phooka."
We bent our heads as we saw Niall do, for the entrance was very low; and we advanced some paces along a kind of passageway cut in the rock either by the hand of Nature or by some long-forgotten outlaw of the hills. A surprise awaited us, such as is common enough in underground places; for we emerged all at once from the dark into a large and tolerably well-lighted apartment. The rugged walls of rock, moss-covered in places, were dry; the floor was neatly boarded over, and a fire was ready for lighting in a corner. Above it, a cranny in the wall permitted the smoke to escape. In a little alcove apart from the principal cave were a bed, a few chairs, and a table.
"Niall lives here for weeks at a time," explained Winifred.
Niall had set a match to the fire; for, warm as the weather was outside, there was a chilliness within as of a vault. Presently the sods blazed up, the flames leaping and glowing about the stooping figure of the old man, who seemed like some strange magician. We seated ourselves on the rough, deal chairs, near a table of similar material that occupied the middle of the cave; and Niall opened a curiously contrived cupboard and brought forth some plates and cups and saucers. Winifred, opening our luncheon basket, took out and spread upon the table its simple contents—cold meat, home-made bread, a pat of fresh butter, and a jar of apple jelly, which the landlord had specially recommended.
Niall then abruptly left the cavern, and returned in a few minutes with a pitcher of goat's milk; but how or where he had obtained it he did not explain.
"I think he keeps some goats out there on the rocks," said Winifred in a low voice to me, "so that he can drink the milk when he is living here."
Our walk had given us an appetite; the coolness of the place, despite the fire, was refreshing. Winifred was in high spirits, making a jest of everything and thoroughly enjoying the simple repast. I, forgetting my late fears, was also disposed to be merry. Niall alone maintained a moody silence, eating but little, and drinking only sparingly of the goat's milk. When the meal was over, Winifred fetched some water from a mountain spring, and we washed the dishes in a rude earthen vessel and restored them to their places in the cupboard built against the rock. When this was done, Niall said abruptly:
"I will show you now what you have come here to see—the treasure which the earth has yielded up to me. Some of these things are from the tombs of kings or warriors; some buried at the time, perhaps, of the Danish invasion. They are all, I believe, of value, greater or less."
When he had thus spoken he began to creep around the cavern with a furtive, stealthy movement, examining every chink and cranny, as though unseen eyes were watching him. At last he approached a certain corner, withdrawing again, and looking all around him with eager, troubled eyes. Then he touched what seemed to be a secret spring, and before us was another dark passage.
This dark passage had been made by some former occupant of the cave, who stood, perhaps, in danger of his life. We entered, and at the end of it was a second and much smaller cavern, the darkness of which was relieved by the gleam of shining metal. I stood still and drew my breath hard. Was I dreaming, or had I gone back to the world ofthe Arabian Nights? This could not be Ireland, and Niall a prosaic, end-of-the-century Irishman! He must surely be a magician of old—one of the genii sprung from Aladdin's lamp; and the child beside him, in her delicate, aerial loveliness, some fairy showing the treasures of the earth to mortal eyes.
Niall, putting aside his gloom, suddenly brightened into enthusiasm, which lighted up his face as with the fire of genius. He told us of the old warriors, chiefs and kings, or of the beautiful ladies in shining satin robes, who had worn these costly ornaments—the fibulæ or brooches, the breastplates of thin burnished gold, the crowns, the bracelets, the collars, some studded with precious gems. And there were shining heaps of gold besides, fresh from the mint. These Niall had obtained in exchange for the ore which he had dug up from the bed of streams and also for gold still in the lump.
The time seemed to pass as in a dream. We were never tired listening, Niall of dwelling upon the glories of his treasure-house. The old man had spent hours and days polishing those articles with chemicals, with whose use he was well acquainted, and some of which gave out a strange, pungent odor; for it had been no small labor to clean away the rust perhaps of ages.
"Every year I part with some of them," Niall said mournfully, rather as one who spoke to himself than to us. "And it is hard, hard; but I add a little each time to the pile of coin. When the day comes I shall sell them all—all!"
He motioned us to go out again into the first cavern; and, touching the spring, he closed away the treasures and sank once more into a listless mood, seated at the table, his head buried in his hands. Winifred, who had listened withopen-mouthed delight to Niall's tales of the past, and had been as much interested in seeing the treasures as though she saw them for the first time, now sat thoughtfully beside me, gazing into the fire. Presently she grew tired of inaction, and, springing to her feet, began to dance about the cavern—a graceful, charming figure in that rocky setting. And as she danced she chanted a weird song in the Irish tongue, which Niall had taught her.
Gradually Niall raised his head. The air or the words of the song seemed to have a strange effect upon him—to rouse him, as it were, from his lethargy. He fixed his eyes upon Winifred, watching her every movement with a fierce eagerness. Then his eyes turned upon me, and there was the fire almost of insanity lighting them. As he gazed he rose from his chair, coming toward me with a slow, gliding step, while I sat paralyzed with terror.
"Why should I not kill you," he said, in a deep, low tone, like the growling of some mountain torrent, "and bury you here in the hills? You have brought the curse upon me. Like the carrion bird, your coming has heralded evil. My heart is burning within me because of the sorrow that consumes it. You have charmed the child from me to take her away to the unknown land."
"But remember," I managed to say, "that it is with your consent, and that I have promised to bring her back again when you will."
"Promised!" he repeated fiercely. "As if you could control events—govern the wilful mind of a child and force her to remember!"
There was a deadly calmness in his voice, more fearful than the wildest outburst of anger; and I trembled so violently that I could almost hear my teeth chattering.
"Ha!" he cried, "you are afraid of me. I can see you tremble. And you may well; for Niall, in his wrath, is terrible as the mountain torrent in its course."
I fixed my eyes upon him as upon a wild beast whose fury I was striving to tame. Every moment I feared that he might spring upon me, when the voice of Winifred suddenly broke the spell. It was evident she had not at first perceived what was going on.
"Niall!" she said imperiously. "What are you saying to the lady? Why are you trying to frighten her?"
She interposed her slender figure between us as she spoke.
Niall's eyes sought the ground in a crestfallen manner, and he muttered:
"Forgive me, my little lady!"
"I won't forgive you if you act like that any more, Niall!" she declared. "You know how the old chieftains and kings you are always talking about treated their guests. And isn't the lady your guest here in your own cavern, Niall?"
Niall murmured:
"I forgot, I forgot! 'Tis all my poor head. At times I can think only of one thing—that she is taking you away."
"And 'tis you who want me to go for my own good," Winifred said gravely.
Niall turned away with a groan.
"I am willing to go," Winifred went on, "because Father Owen said I should. He knows what is best. He told me it was God sent the lady here."
Niall broke into an uncontrollable fury, which caused even Winifred to step back.
"What care I for Father Owen or the lady?" he exclaimed.
Her face was pale; I think it was the first time she hadever been afraid of Niall. But she faced the old man bravely; though his face, working with passion, his streaming hair and huge frame made him look like a veritable Cyclops.
"Be still, Niall," she cried, "or the lady and I will go away out of your cave this minute, and be very sorry that we came here."
She put her small hand on his arm, and the touch seemed to calm him.
"Forgive me!" he murmured once more, in the helpless, bewildered tone of a little child; and, sinking again into one of the chairs near the table, he buried his face in his hands and so remained for some moments. We did not disturb him by so much as a word; but I, relieved somewhat from my late suspense, though dreading a new access of fury, and eager to be gone, let my eyes rove round that singular place. The rugged face of the rock above our heads and all around was lit by the crackling flames of the turf which burned so brightly. I was startled from my thoughts by the voice of Niall; but this time it was soft and low as that of Winifred herself. Suddenly rising from his chair, he made me a low bow and offered a humble apology for his late rudeness. After that he was the same amiable and courteous gentleman he so often appeared, and as pleasant as possible, talking a great deal and telling us many interesting things.
"In this cave," he said, "during the penal times more than one priest took refuge. Mass was said here, and the people flocked from far and near to attend it. Here in the troubles of '98 it is said that the patriot O'Byrne took refuge. This may be the precise cavern in which he dwelt, or it may not; but it gives the place an interest—a sad interest."
He paused and looked around him for an instant.
"I shall love this cave better than ever now," saidWinifred; "and I shall often think of it when I am far away in the New World—"
Her voice broke a little.
"Think of it, my child!" cried Niall. "Oh,dothink of it when you are far beyond the ocean! Think of whatever will make you love Ireland and make you remember."
The tears coursed down his cheeks and there was anguish in his voice.
"Don't cry, Niall!" said Winifred. "I shall always remember you and your cave and dear old Granny and Wicklow and Ireland."
She said the words as solemnly as if they were a vow; and they had a weird sound there in that hole in the rocks which had sheltered many a noble and saintly soul.
"There spoke my own lady!" cried Niall, triumphantly.
"Nothing shall ever make me forget," added Winifred.
"I, for my part," I broke in, "shall do my best to help you to remember; and so I solemnly promise here on this holy ground, where Mass has been said and where martyrs have trod."
It was near evening when we left that wonderful spot, and, deafened once more by the noise of the Phoul-a-Phooka, retraced our steps in silence.
The August morning which was to see our departure dawned at last. The leave-taking with old Granny Meehan was very pathetic. The poor woman, with her deep resignation, her confidence in God's providence, was a striking illustration of the best virtues of her race. Calmly she bade us farewell, praying many a prayer, invoking many a blessing on the beloved head of her little charge. We left her sitting at her accustomed seat near the hearth, with Tabby purring against her and the pleasant sunshine flooding the apartment.
Winifred had been up early, as she said, to bid "good-by!" to every stick and stone. She called each fowl in the courtyard by name, as she had done on that other morning when I saw her feeding them; and her tears fell silently as she bent over them.
When the moment came to say the last farewell, Winifred seized Brown Peter, the cat, in her arms; and the animal blinked knowingly, and purred and rubbed its head against her soft cheek. Then Winifred threw her arms once more around Granny's neck, and that part of the leave-taking was over. Barney and Moira set up a howl and followed us down as far as the inn, where the jaunting-car with the luggage was waiting for us.
Niall I did not see at all. He had taken leave of Winifred the evening before, and then, with a wild gesture of despair, had fled to the hills. He left for me a letter of instructions,recalling all my promises and the conditions upon which he had allowed the child to go. With the letter was a sum of money to be used for Winifred's education. Could I have seen him I would have begged him to take back this latter; for when I had proposed taking the girl with me to America and putting her in a convent, it was, of course, to be at my own expense. I mentally resolved not to spend a penny of the amount, but to put it at interest for Winifred.
At the inn we found Father Owen in conversation with the landlord. He came forward at once to greet us, crying out cheerfully to the child:
"So there you are, my pet, setting out upon your travels to seek your fortune, like the people in the fairy books!"
Winifred's grief, which had been of a gentle and restrained character throughout, and unlike what might have been expected from her impetuous disposition, broke out again at sight of her beloved friend.
"Tut, tut, my child!" cried the priest. "This isn't April. Nature is smiling, and you must smile too. You're going away to a great, fine country; and when you've seen everything, you'll be coming back to tell us all about it."
Winifred wept silently, her tears falling down upon her gingham frock, so that she had to wipe them away. Father Owen turned to me, thinking it better, perhaps, to let the bitter, short-lived grief of childhood take its course.
"And so you're leaving Wicklow and Ireland, carrying with you, I hope, a good impression."
"That I am," I responded heartily; "and my most fervent wish is that I may come back again."
"To be sure you will, with Winifred here; and I hope, if it be God's will, we'll all be here to receive you."
"I hope so indeed," I answered.
"I had a letter a few days ago from Father Brady in New York," went on Father Owen. "I was in the seminary with him in France. He knows you well and is glad I made your acquaintance."
"I have known Father Brady for many years," I replied; "he is a great friend of mine."
The old priest nodded as if to express his satisfaction. I thought, perhaps, he had written to make assurance doubly sure as to my fitness for the care of the child. If so, I could only admire his wisdom.
"Niall is in a bad way," he whispered; "and will be, I don't doubt, for days to come. I met him raging and tearing through the woods like a maniac. That is his manner of expressing grief. It was useless to argue with him, so I just had to come away and leave him."
I told Father Owen how shocked I was to hear this, but he answered:
"Oh, he will get over the worst of it in a few days! How different, though, from Granny Meehan! I went in to see her yesterday. She's marked with grace, is that poor blind woman. 'It's God's will for the child to go,' she said; 'and if I never have her with me again here below, why, we'll meet above in glory, and we'll be the happier for this sorrow.' Wasn't that beautiful, my dear lady? didn't it make me ashamed of my own shortcomings!"
I assented heartily.
"Yes, Father: she has a fine nature and a beautiful faith."
Meanwhile Winifred dried her tears, and was trying to soothe her humble friends, who had accompanied us with lamentations all the way.
"I'll come back again," Winifred said to them; "I won'tbeverylong away, and I'll bring each of you something from America."
Her voice quivered as she made these promises, which caused Moira's face to brighten a little through her tears, and Barney to stammer out, brokenly:
"Och, then, Miss Winifred alanna, if you bring us back yourself, it's all we'll be wantin'!"
His red eyes and tear-stained cheeks gave force and sincerity to his words.
"Be a man now, Barney," said Father Owen, "and just tell Miss Winifred you wish her joy in the fine voyage she's going to take. Come, Moira my girl, dry your eyes and say good-by. Look how the sun is shining, and think how the goodness of God is over those that go and those that stay, just like yonder blue sky. Hear the thrush and the blackbird in the hedges giving glory to God whatever comes."
By this time we were seated in the car. I exchanged a few farewell words with my landlord, who showed real emotion at our departure.
"God be with you, ma'am!" he cried. "It's yourself has brightened us all up for weeks past. And God be with you too, Miss Winifred dear! Sure we'll be missin' your very pranks. Do you mind the day that you led me astray in the hills above, makin' b'lieve you were a Will-o'-the-wisp?"
And the landlord forced a laugh, which was not very genuine. I think he would have continued his reminiscences longer had not Father Owen judged it best to put an end to the parting scene.
"Don't be keeping them any longer," he said; "let them get away before the heat of the day. And now I'll give you my last blessing, Winifred my dear, and your kind friend too."
Winifred knelt at the old priest's feet in the morning sunshine. I, being already seated in the car, bent my head. Father Owen solemnly raised his hand—the consecrated hand of God's minister,—looking upward, while his white hair framed his face like an aureola. Fervently he invoked the blessing of Heaven upon me and upon the child, upon our voyage and our arrival. His voice broke as he came to the last words, and he attempted to say no more; while I made a sign to the driver, who drove quickly from the door, followed by a parting howl from Barney and Moira.
I stole a last glance at the lovely Glen of the Dargle, the waterfall in the distance, and the natural bridge spanning the ravine, on which I had first seen Winifred. The thought flashed into my mind that I had come into the paradise of her youth, disturbing its idyllic peace; whether for better or worse was yet to be seen. I consoled myself with the assurance that, in any event, I had acted for the best.
We took the Enniskerry road to Dublin, and the drive was delightful. At one point in the journey we passed between the rude granite sides of that cleft in the mountains known as "The Scalp." As I looked up at them in their stern grandeur I had an uneasy feeling that some of the huge masses of rock, which appeared to be quite loose, might tumble upon our heads. Winifred, who was becoming, if not more cheerful, at least more composed, was greatly interested in "The Scalp," and told me the legend of the place.
"The devil," she said, "was once driving sheep to Dublin, and when he reached this mountain he couldn't get through it. So he gave a great kick with his foot and made the passage for himself and his flocks. And that, 'tis said, is why it is so wild and strange. But of course it isn't true," Winifred concluded, eying the great rocks aboveus with her wistful eyes. "Still, it is different from other mountains."
"It has an uncouth shape," I agreed; "and I suppose that's what put it into the people's heads that the devil must have had a hand in its formation."
We arrived in Dublin somewhat tired after our drive, which was not, however, so very long; and found ourselves comfortably lodged by night in a hotel on Sackville Street, whence we were to set forth again on our travels in a few days. For I had purposely arranged that we might spend a little time in the capital of Ireland, so that Winifred might get at least a bird's-eye view of it. I could not guess what was passing in her mind as we went out, after resting a while, to stroll about in the lighted streets. She had never been in a city before, and must have been interested in so much that was novel. But she said little: she had not yet recovered her natural buoyancy.
The following morning, however, we set out specially for sight-seeing. We went for a walk in the Phœnix Park, and from a vantage-point near the magazine looked down on the entire city, with its splendid bridges, its domes and spires. We saw the Nelson Pillar and the Wellington Monument, and we roamed at will along the verdant banks of the beautiful Liffey. We saw the Viceregal Lodge and the Corinthian Pillar and the Royal Hospital of Kilmainham. Then, of course, we had to see the churches. It would be tedious indeed to set down here all that we did see.
We were walking along Westmoreland Street one afternoon, just as the sun was setting. There had been a heavy shower, which had relieved the sultriness of an August day, and the ground was damp; but the trees were a brighter green and sent forth a sweeter fragrance for the rain. Winifred said suddenly:
"I remember this place very well—Dublin, I mean. I was here long ago, when I was little."
"Yes? I suppose one's memory does go back very far," I observed thoughtfully. "But can you recall, for instance, where you lived?"
She shook her head.
"It was in a big house," she answered, "with a good many stairs in it and a lot of people. Some of them may have been servants. And I remember a lady in a yellow dress. Perhaps she was my mother."
She stopped abruptly, as though the subject were painful; then resumed:
"Since I came to this place, I remember a good many things. The lady in the yellow dress was standing one evening in a great big room, and she had a flower in her hair. Oh, she was very beautiful! A gentleman came in. He was tall and dark."
"With very bright eyes?" I put in eagerly.
"Yes, they were bright," she assented; "at least I think so. I remember the lady better than the gentleman. They were talking, and I couldn't understand much of what they said; but I am almost sure the gentleman was angry, for his face got very red. Then the lady laughed, and the gentleman went away quickly and shut the door hard. The lady laughed again and said to me: 'I hope you haven't your father's temper, child. Poor Roderick! he does flare up so quick. He is just raving now because I don't want to go to some outlandish place in the hills.'"
The child stopped, but the little drama of the past which she had evoked told me a great deal. Niall had blamed Roderick for not bringing his wife to the castle; but the wife—a somewhat hard and cold beauty, as old GrannyMeehan had once described her—would not come. Roderick had not cared to throw the blame upon her, and so had quarrelled with his kinsman. Winifred seemed to ponder upon what she had just told me.
"I wonder where he wanted her to go?" she said slowly.
I did not answer; for I knew it would pain her to hear her dear old castle described as an "outlandish place."
"And I wonder how he could be angry with her," the child continued, "she was so pretty and had on such a lovely dress!"
"Beauty is not the only thing, and fine dress still less," I urged.
Winifred turned on me with flashing eyes, as though I had cast some reflection upon the phantom evoked from her youth by the presence of familiar scenes.
"But that was my mother!" she cried, as if that silenced every objection. Then she added, more gently: "I am sorry my father was angry with her."
"Yet your father has a noble heart," I declared.
She smiled as if pleased.
"Some day I may seehim," she said; "but my mother is dead."
There was great pathos in that simple remark; and after that Winifred, in her usual fashion, turned away altogether from the subject. Just then we came to a point whence we had a distant view of the Wicklow Hills. I called Winifred's attention to them. She gazed at them with tear-dimmed eyes, and I think after that took very little interest in the rest of the landscape.
"My own hills!" she said. "Oh, I wonder if Niall is abroad on them now, and if Barney and Moira are leading poor Cusha to the pasture? And Granny, I suppose, is sittingalone—all alone. She can not go out on the hills nor see their beauty."
I tried to divert her thoughts, but for the time being it was useless. That was our last day in Dublin. Early on the morrow we were to set out for Liverpool, whence we were to sail for the Land of the Free.
Our voyage to America was a very pleasant one. The weather was excellent. The warm glow of midsummer was over everything, and the cool ocean breezes were most grateful as we sat at evening on the deck and watched the stars burn above our heads in the sky, which always seems so vast when one is on the face of the water. After the first two or three days, neither of us was seasick, and Winifred took to the sea at once. She loved the salt air, the cool spray blowing in her face as she stood upon the deck, her hair flying about her and her face aglow. Often she spoke of the dear land she had left and of her dear ones, while her eyes filled with tears and her voice trembled with emotion.
One afternoon, as we watched the sun glinting on the waves, Winifred said:
"Just now that same sun is lighting all the hills! That was what made people call them, in the Irish tongue, the hills of 'the gilt spurs.'"
"That is a pretty name," I observed; "and well describes how they look at this hour of a fine evening."
"I wish I could see them now," said Winifred; and then she fell silent, as if in thought.
She was very shy of the strangers on board the steamer, and rarely exchanged a word with any of them except at table; though many of them noticed her and spoke with admiration of her charming face and her graceful ways.
It was a lovely, calm morning when we steamed into New York Bay. We both were up early and on deck; and I pointed out to Winifred Staten Island, lying green and garden-like on the water's breast; and Governor's Island, with its forts; and Bedloe's Island, with its huge Liberty statue, the goddess standing with colossal torch at the entrance to the New World. At last there was New York itself, the Empire City, the great metropolis; and over it rested a haze, whence emerged the steeple of Old Trinity, the Custom House, and the tops of various high buildings, which filled Winifred with wonder; she had never seen anything like these "sky-scrapers," as they are called. She talked of them even after we had landed, and as we drove up Broadway to the hotel were I had my quarters. This great thoroughfare seemed to bewilder her altogether.
"The people!" she cried—"all the people! Why, they are thicker together than trees in a wood," and she simply stopped her ears against the noise. "It seems as if there was a thunderstorm going on all the time!" she exclaimed.
She was much amused also at the swift, gliding motion of the cable-cars, unlike anything she had yet seen.
"Isn't it all wonderful!" she would cry. "Oh, if Niall could see this!"
"He has seen just as wonderful sights and far more so," I reminded her. "You know how much he has travelled."
"Well, if Barney and Moira and the other people from home could see this place, they'd think they were dreaming. I'm not quite sure that I won't wake up—only," she added, with one of her droll looks, "I couldn't be asleep in such a noise."
We had reached the corner of Twenty-third Street, and I saw Madison Square and the Fifth Avenue Hotel arising onmy vision. There was even an unusual traffic just then. Cars, express wagons, private carriages, vehicles of all sorts, were crowding and jostling one another to the imminent risk of those within them, as well as those who attempted to cross on foot. The carriage in which we sat had to stop for an instant, and in that instant I saw standing at the corner of the street Roderick O'Byrne. His face was clouded by care or anxiety of some sort, which wholly changed its ordinary bright character. He was looking thoughtfully before him, while he waited a favorable opportunity to make the crossing.
Suddenly his eyes fell full upon Winifred, who was looking out of the window with eager interest. He started as if he had been stung. Yet he could not possibly have recognized the child, who was, happily, unconscious of his regard. It must have been some resemblance he discovered in her. Fortunately, he was so absorbed in his study of her face that he did not perceive me. I shrank back as far as possible in my corner of the vehicle and waited breathlessly, till next moment the carriage swept onward, and those two, so closely bound by the tenderest ties of kindred, were parted in the great vortex.
I felt a sense of relief that Roderick had not glanced in my direction. Had he done so, he would inevitably have recognized me, and I should have been confronted at our next meeting with all manner of awkward inquiries. For I could not tell him that his daughter was in my keeping and then refuse to let him see or communicate with her.
The hotel seemed a most magnificent place to Winifred; for though we had been in very comfortable quarters in Dublin, the luxury of a New York hotel seems quite a different affair. The service in the dining-room, the table appointments, the variety of the bill of fare, the orchestrawhich played sweet strains during all the meal, were dreamlike, almost, to this child of the hills. The elevator seemed to her as something very amusing. She would like to have gone up and down in it several times. She had a charming little room adjoining mine, all done in gray and pink, and an outlook upon the gay street.
She could scarcely tear herself away from the window in the few days that elapsed before I had decided upon a school for her and made some simple preparations. Indeed, I found it rather difficult to decide upon a school for the child, not because there were no good ones, but for the opposite reason that there were so many. But to one thing I made up my mind: she must be out of town. The presence of her father in New York made that a necessity. Yet, on the other hand, I could not send her too far away, as I wanted to see her often, mark her progress and the effect of austere school-life on one who had been accustomed to a free, wild existence on the beautiful Wicklow hills. It was this circumstance which finally determined my choice. I must be in easy distance of the child, so great was my responsibility.
I took her to her new home one evening just as the shadows were deepening and New York lay like a great map traced out in lights. They gleamed and glowed through the gathering darkness, and through the smoke clouds which arose from the countless factories. I felt a curious sense of desolation, and I was certain that Winifred would suffer from this when she found herself enclosed in an unfamiliar building, to become a mere atom, as it were, in a multitude.
The child was grave and quiet, but did not seem to shrink at all from school-life. In fact, she had rather entered into the prospect of going there with the enthusiasm of her age, and had begun to plan out the details of her new existence.She told me after that she had experienced an awful sense of loneliness when going to bed in a strange dormitory, with its rows of curtained beds, amongst so many whom she had never seen before. During the night prayers and the final hymn she had cried all the time.
These sensations are common enough to all who go into new scenes for the first time; but for some weeks after Winifred's arrival at the convent she reminded me of nothing so much as a bird in a cage. I am sure the ordinary little restraints of school-life must have been intolerable to one brought up, as she had been, unrestrained upon the hills. In the austere convent parlor, with her black dress, and her curls fastened back from her face with a ribbon, she was like a spirit of her former self. She told me, in her quaint speech, that she only lived from one visit of mine to another. Usually she was pale, sad and listless. The spirit of mischief seemed to have gone out of her, and the Religious who presided in the parlor told me that she was docile to her teachers and very diligent in her studies.
"If I study very hard perhaps I will get home sooner," Winifred explained to me as we sat hand in hand in the corner of the parlor. "My heart aches to see Ireland again, and the Dargle and the hills and Granny and Niall and Father Owen, and every one."
"It will not be very long till you see them all again," I observed soothingly. "Time passes very quickly."
She heaved a deep sigh, as if to signify that time did not pass so very quickly for her.
When I rose to go that day I told her that I was going to get permission, if possible, for her to come down and spend a day with me.
"To spend a day with you in the big city down there!"she cried. "Oh, it will be lovely! We can see so many things and we can talk about home."
That seemed to be indeed her greatest pleasure. The permission was granted, with even better terms than I had expected; for she was to come down on the following Tuesday morning and remain with me till the day after.
"It is a privilege we do not often grant," the nun said, smiling. "But in this child's case we think it is really essential. The change from a widely different life was so very sudden."
"So you are to come on Tuesday, and this is Sunday," I told Winifred.
Her eyes fairly sparkled with delight, as she danced along by my side with something of her old gaiety. "There is only one day between. To-morrow I shall study very hard, and say all my lessons and practise for my singing lesson on Thursday, and do everything well."
I smiled.
"Father Owen would say you should do that every day," I reminded her. "You remember how he pointed out that the robin did his work in storm or sunshine."
"Oh, but 'tis much easier to work in sunshine!" Winifred cried out.
"I suppose it is," laughed I; "but that is no reason why you shouldn't try to do what is harder."
"I do try," Winifred said earnestly. "I get up the moment the bell rings in the morning—though I don't find that as hard as some of the girls do, for I was often out on the hills at sunrise. Then I'm one of the first in the chapel; and in class I study my lessons and I hardly ever talk. At recreation I don't feel much like playing yet, but perhaps I shall after a while—when I know some of the girls better."
"Yes, I am sure you will. How do you like your companions?" I asked.
"I think a good many of them are nice. But it takes me a long time to know strangers, I suppose because I scarcely ever saw any."
"And your teachers?" I inquired.
"Oh, they are all very kind, especially to me, because I come from so far away and have no mother! I like my music teacher best, though. I wish you knew her."
"I must make her acquaintance some time," I remarked; "I want to know all your friends."
"The French teacher is the crossest. She isn't a nun, though, and doesn't wear a nun's dress. She scolds me if I don't know the verbs or if I make mistakes in spelling. I told her the other day that I didn't want a stranger to speak so to me. The girls all laughed, but she didn't understand what I was saying."
"Just as well in that case." And I laughed, picturing to myself the little girl addressing the Frenchwoman with her princess air.
We were standing all this time in the hall, which was not altogether according to rule, as I well knew; for farewells are usually made in the parlor. But I had not the heart to send Winifred away, and the presiding Religious did not appear to notice. I fancy the nuns often strained the rule a little in her regard, taking the circumstances into consideration.
"Good-by till Tuesday!" Winifred called after me, as I stepped out into the porch; "and thank you for all the nice things you have brought me!"
For indeed I never went empty-handed to see the child, remembering my own school-days. I had visited Maillard's that afternoon before taking the cars, and had chosen fromthe dainty confections which so temptingly fill the glass cases and adorn the plate-glass windows. I was told that she always distributed my gifts amongst her companions with a royal generosity, often keeping but little for herself. While I was still in the porch I heard her telling a companion:
"I am going to town on Tuesday. Isn't that splendid!"
"Oh, you lucky girl!" said the other. "I wish I had come from Ireland or some other place: then I might get out oftener."
I went homeward, musing on that happy time of life when a day out of school, a promised holiday, gives a keener delight than anything in after life.
"Why does youth ever pass away, with its glow and glory?" I thought. "And how dull its going leaves this prosaic earth!"
It was a curious coincidence that on the very Sunday evening after I had visited Winifred and arranged for her to spend Tuesday with me at the hotel, I should have gone to supper with a friend of mine who was also a great friend of Roderick O'Byrne. She was an exceptional woman, of rare gifts, of warm heart and of long purse. She had the social talent in its greatest perfection, and gathered at her house a most brilliant and entertaining circle. She lived in a part of the city which is rapidly becoming old-fashioned—in the once desirable Murray Hill region—and her house was what is known to New Yorkers as an English basement-house: that is to say, the dining-room is on a level with the street, while the drawing-room, or suite of drawing-rooms, is reached by mounting the first stairs. A very handsome suite of rooms had my friend, appointed with the utmost elegance, and containing innumerable souvenirs of travel, artistic trifles of all sorts, with exquisite pictures and priceless statuary, arranged to give the best possible effect.
I had a standing invitation for the Sunday evening suppers, which were an institution of the house, and where one was always sure of meeting very agreeable people. The conversation was usually of everything interesting under the sun. As the guests began to assemble that evening, I saw amongst them, with very mingled feelings, the familiar figure of Roderick O'Byrne. It was my first meeting with him since my return from Ireland, and his presence made me conscious of a curious sensation. I had heard so much of his pasthistory, the most hidden pages of his life, that it seemed strange to meet him there in an ordinary drawing-room. When I thought of Niall, of the old castle with its romance and mystery, it was hardly credible that this tall and slender gentleman in the well-fitting evening clothes should be the central figure in such a drama. And all the time I was withholding from him such a secret as the presence in America of his only child.
While Roderick stood exchanging a few words with his hostess, I thought all at once of that little scene which Winifred had recalled—when he parted in anger from the lady in the yellow dress, who must have been, of course, his wife. As soon as he saw me he came forward to shake hands, and dropped into a chair at my side. I found a change in him: he seemed more silent and preoccupied than I had ever seen him. However, he was never given to talking commonplaces, and I waited till his mood should change. He sat near me at supper, and on the other side of him was a young and very gushing lady. Roderick seemed amused at her efforts to interest him.
"I have just heard," she exclaimed, "that you are Irish, Mr. O'Byrne; and I am so glad! Our hostess has told me that you are not only from Ireland, but intensely Irish. Now, I think that everything that is intensely Irish is intensely nice."
"Thanks so much!" replied Roderick, carelessly. "I am glad you approve of my nationality; for I have to plead guilty to a very unfashionable love for my country."
"Oh, you needn't plead guilty at all!" cried the charmer. "It is so refreshing nowadays. And you Irish are so delightfully enthusiastic and impressionable, and all that."
Roderick raised his eyebrows ever so slightly.
"By the way," he observed, turning abruptly to me, "Iwonder if you will agree with the sentiment expressed by my neighbor—you who are so lately back from Ireland?"
"'That everything that is intensely Irish is intensely nice'?" I asked. "I am prepared to endorse that sentiment; for I am more Irish than the Irish themselves. I know I have borrowed somebody else's saying; but, really, I have fallen in love with the dear old land. Its hills and glens have got into my heart."
There was a softened look on the man's face and a moisture in his eyes; for he was deeply affected. Presently he said in a low tone:
"Do you know I am very homesick of late? I am pining for a sight of the beautiful hills of the Gilt Spurs and the glorious Dargle. Oh, what would I not give for one good look at the Dargle, glen and river both!"
"Why don't you take a trip to Ireland?" I asked.
"Oh, for many reasons!" he said hurriedly.
He did not go into detail and I could not ask.
"But you will go back some day?" I urged.
"Go back?" he repeated. "I used to think I should: indeed, at one time I longed for the day and hour of my return; and now—"
I wanted to ask the question which rose to my lips, out I dared not; and just then the conversation became general. Our hostess liked to strike sparks from all her guests, and especially from the brilliant Roderick O'Byrne. After we had all returned to the drawing-room he gradually drifted back again to his chair beside me. We had always been friendly, but I knew that my society had a special attraction for him just then, as a link between him and Ireland. He very soon, in fact, reverted to the subject of our previous talk, inquiring as to this or that place near his old home;though I observed that he never once mentioned any person or persons in the neighborhood. It was evident for some reason that he did not wish to bring Niall into the discourse, and I was just as anxious at the time to avoid that part of the subject.
Suddenly Roderick said:
"I was struck very much the other day by a face which I saw just for a moment."
My heart stood still. I knew what was coming, and I almost dreaded it. But, happily, he did not associate the incident with me.
"It was that of a child," he said, somewhat gravely. "It was a beautiful face, I suppose; but it was not that which specially attracted my attention. I only caught a glimpse—the merest glimpse—of it, but it brought back the past to me as in a flash."
"Strange!" I commented mechanically; for I scarce knew what to say.
"Yes, it was very strange," went on Roderick. "I was standing at the corner of Twenty-third Street, waiting to cross, and it must be owned that I was thinking of anything else than Ireland and my past life there. You know what a crowd there is at that particular place. Suddenly a carriage stood still an instant, delayed by the traffic; and out of it looked that exquisite child-face, full of wonder, of curiosity, and, I thought, of sadness."
I concealed my emotion by an effort; and had he not been so occupied with his subject he might have perceived at once that the story had an unusual interest for me.
"Would you believe," he said, "that New York faded from before me, and instead I saw the Dargle, the glen and the river, with all their lovely surroundings—yes, I saw themas distinctly as I see you now? The Dargle and—other places about there," he concluded, after a brief pause.
I wondered if he were thinking of the castle.
"By the way," he asked of a sudden, "were you in that part of Ireland at all—I mean Wicklow?"
"Oh, yes!" I said, trying to speak indifferently. "I saw most of the show places there."
"Did you meet any people thereabouts?" he inquired, speaking very slowly and playing with a paper-knife which he had taken up from a neighboring davenport.
It was my turn to hesitate a moment before I replied:
"I met the parish priest, Father Owen, as he is popularly called."
"Father Owen Farley!" exclaimed Roderick, apparently carried away by a sudden burst of enthusiasm; "the dearest, the best, the kindest of men!"
"You know him, then?" I asked.
The glow faded from his face almost at once.
"I was brought up in that part of the country," he said in a reserved way, as if anxious to drop the subject; "so that of course I knew him when I was a boy."
"Well, he certainly is all you say of him," I declared cordially; "he charmed me from the very first."
"Yes, he has an unusually attractive way with him," Roderick said—"or used to have long ago."
And then he dismissed the subject and began to talk of some matter of current interest. However, he very soon reverted to that one topic which seemed to be occupying his thoughts. Waking out of a reverie, he suddenly exclaimed:
"I wish I were a miniature painter, and I should try to put on ivory, just from memory, that exquisite child-face."
"Perhaps you will see her again," I ventured.
"I never expect to," he said decisively. "New York is not Ireland. People are swallowed up here as in a quicksand."
"Life has many surprises," I observed tentatively.
He looked at me keenly for an instant; then he resumed his indifferent air and continued to play with the paper-knife.
"You will think me altogether a dreamer," remarked Roderick, "to be so impressed by a passing face."
I do not know what impelled me to say then:
"Perhaps there was some special reason. Possibly she may have reminded you of some one whom you once knew."
He started; the paper-knife fell from his hands, and he was long in picking it up. But the flash of his dark eyes in that brief moment recalled Niall. The incident was not without its value. I saw my way clear before me. I should gradually try to revive his interest in the past: to forge a chain which should lead him inevitably back to the castle of his ancestors, to Winifred and to his eccentric but devoted kinsman. And at the same time I might chance to discover his motive for so long neglecting his only child.
When Roderick raised his head again, and replaced the paper-knife, with a hand which trembled somewhat, upon the davenport, he said, in a tone of studied carelessness:
"Don't let us talk of this any more. It does seem very absurd. I am half ashamed of having told you anything about it. And there is the professor going to the piano."
During the music Roderick lay back in his chair, and as he listened to the dreamy, soothing sound of the "Songs without Words," I knew that his mind was running on the sweet child-face which had so impressed him, and on the train of associations which that chance meeting had conjured up. I had no further conversation with him on thatoccasion, and very soon after I took my leave and went home to ponder over the situation, which I found most interesting. It seemed as if I were holding the thread of a tangled skein, which must sooner or later straighten itself out. I lay awake half the night, picturing to myself Roderick's delight when he should discover that the sweet child-face was that of his own Winifred; and his sorrow, and perhaps remorse, for the past, when he had neglected her. I wondered where and when the disclosure should take place and how it would be brought about. I also resolved to interest Winifred in her father. I could see that she clung much more to the memory of her mother, and seemed to remember Roderick only as the dark gentleman who had got angry with the beautiful lady and slammed the door.
I rose early next morning, for I wanted to go down town. I was going as far as Barclay Street to buy a small statue of the Sacred Heart, which I wished to give Winifred as a present. I was impatient for her coming; for, besides the fact that I was really attached to the child and took a sincere pleasure in her society, I felt a new interest in her since my late conversation with her father.
I looked out the window. There was a drizzling fog. The shops opposite looked dreary and uninviting, and the people who were hastening down Broadway had all the same miserable appearance, looking spectral in the fog. My heart sank. If it were the same kind of weather on the morrow there would be no chance of having Winifred with me. In the first place, she would not be allowed to come; and in the second, there would be very little pleasure in bringing her down from the convent just to spend a few hours shut up in my apartments at the hotel.
I dressed and went out. The streets were glazed overwith a thin coat of frost, which made the walking treacherous and unsafe. The snowfall of two or three days before had entirely disappeared. I picked my way along, making one more in the procession of spectres, till I reached the nearest elevated station, which was in the square at Thirty-third Street, near theHeraldbuilding. I was soon flying through the air, and in the twinkling of an eye was almost in the heart of the business portion of the great "down-town." Warehouses arose on all sides: from some came a fragrant odor telling of coffee and spices; from others flashed visions of delicate china, rich bronzes, and beautiful glassware. And finally I was set down within a block or so of my destination.
I picked my way carefully along the narrow lane-like street, and emerged just opposite old St. Peter's, the mother-church of New York. Its somber walls looked gray and dismal in that dreary fog; but within it was warm and cheerful, and imposing in a massive, old-fashioned way. I prayed earnestly for the success of all our scheming—that is, Niall's and mine; and, above all, for the happy reunion of father and daughter.
After that I went out again to purchase my statue. I was now in the region of the Catholic publishers, which is full of many memories of other days and the various phases of Catholic life in New York. There much has been done for the Catholic cause; much has been discussed, much has been attempted, and many attempts have failed. It is historic ground. I bought my statue and hurried home, glad to be housed on that chilly and disagreeable day. I had a few other preparations to make, on the chance that the weather would clear up; but I resolved to leave them till the morning, when they might be easily accomplished by the aid of the telephone.
The next morning I woke earlier than usual; and, getting up at once, looked out of the window. Every trace of the fog had vanished, and there was the sun leaping and dancing as merrily as if it were midsummer instead of December. I hurried off to Mass, and got back again, to take a hasty breakfast and sit down in my room to wait for Winifred. It was about ten o'clock when, with my eyes glued to the window, I saw her little face looking out of the carriage which I had sent for her. I ran down to the ladies' entrance to bring her in. She looked brighter and better than I had seen her since she left Ireland. She wore her black school costume, but her hair was no longer brushed painfully down to comparative smoothness: it broke out into the same saucy curls I knew of old. She darted out of the carriage and in at the open door, throwing herself into my arms.
"Here I am!" she cried. "And so glad to see you again!"
"I began to be afraid yesterday," I observed, "that we were both going to be disappointed."
"Oh, so was I!" said Winifred. "I went to the window the first thing, to be sure that the sun was shining and the fog gone away."
"So did I. But there couldn't have been much sun at the time you got up."
"Oh, it was there! And I saw there wasn't any fog and that it was going to be a fine day."
I brought her up to my room and installed her in a chair to rest while I got on my things.
"For of course we must go out as soon as we can," I declared. "It will never do to miss a moment of such a perfect day, and it will be all too short."
A shade seemed to pass over Winifred's sensitive face at the words. But I called her attention to the street below; for Broadway on a sunshiny morning is a very pleasant and cheerful sight, and to Winifred it was all new; so that it was certain the constant panorama of human beings, all jostling one another, eager, excited, apparently in a fearful hurry, would keep her fully occupied while I completed my toilet. Once the child called me to the window to see a Chinaman. She had never seen one before, and she went off into a peal of laughter at the odd sight. This particular John was dressed in a pale blue silk shirt over his baggy black trousers. His pigtail was long and luxuriant, denoting rank.
"What is he?" cried Winifred. "You have such funny people in America. I don't think there are any like him in all Ireland."
"Not in Wicklow, at any rate," I answered. "Indeed, I don't know what they would think of him there. He looks as if he had just stepped off a tea-caddy, straight from China."
"Oh, he is a Chinese, then! I never saw one before except in pictures."
The next thing that attracted her attention was one of the great vans, drawn by enormous dray-horses.
"Look at their big legs and feet!" laughed Winifred—"as big as a tree almost! Oh, I wish Barney and Moira could see them!"
The ladies' dresses, too, astonished her—especially of those who drove in the carriages; for she had never seen such costumes before.
At last I was ready, and we passed down the stairway, with its heavy piled moquette carpet, to the street without. Just across the way was a florist's, and I told Winifred we should make our first visit there. We had to wait a favorable moment for crossing Broadway. The child was naturally fearless, but she was somewhat afraid of the multitude of vehicles—cars, carts, and private carriages—which formed a dense mass between the two sidewalks.
"Yet crossing the street up here is nothing," I said. "Wait till you try it some day down on lower Broadway—at Wall Street, for instance, or near the City Hall Park."
"This is bad enough!" cried Winifred. "You feel as if some of the horses must step on you."
However, we got safely across, with the aid of a tall policeman, who piloted us through the crowd, putting up an authoritative hand to stop a horse here, or signing to a driver there to give place. We entered the florist's shop. It was like going from winter to a lovely spring day. The fragrance from the many flowers was exquisite but almost overpowering. Masses of roses, of carnations, of chrysanthemums were there in the rarest profusion; flowering plants, palms, costly exotics, made the place seem like some tropical garden under Southern skies. The sight of the violets brought the tears to Winifred's eyes: they reminded her of her home beyond the sea. But when she heard the price of them she was amazed.
"Why, we get them for nothing in the Dargle—as many as we want—coming on the spring," she whispered. "Don't give so much money for them."
She persisted so much in the idea that it would be fearfulto waste money on flowers which might be had at home for nothing, that I bought her roses instead. I made her select a bunch for herself from the mass. She was charmed with their variety of color, varying from the pale yellow of the tea-rose to the deepest crimson. We recrossed the street, and I made her go back to the hotel with the roses, so that they might keep fresh in water. When she came down again to where I was waiting on the sidewalk, I said:
"Now there is going to be a circus procession on Fifth Avenue. It is just about time for it; so we will go round the corner and see it."
"What is a circus procession?" she inquired gravely.
"You shall see for yourself in a few minutes," I answered briefly.
We went across Twenty-ninth Street to Fifth Avenue, and stationed ourselves on a high brownstone stoop, which, fortunately for us, was not yet crowded. All along the streets people were waiting in serried rows. Small boys were mounted on trees, calling out jeering exclamations to those below; fruit venders and venders of peanuts elbowed their way about, or stood on corners with furnaces aglow for the roasting of chestnuts. It was a busy, animated scene; while the cheerful laughter and the shrill, gleeful voices of the children added to the general mirth.
Presently the arrival of the procession was announced by the small boys and the blowing of a bugle by a man on horseback. The first to appear was a train of magnificent horses, some with Arab riders, some controlled by wonderfully dexterous women. Next in order was a beautiful lady, clad in a gorgeous, bespangled costume, seated in a gilt chariot and driving with the utmost skill six snow-white horses.
"A gold carriage!" whispered Winifred, awestricken. "Oh, if Barney and Moira could only see that!"
"All is not gold that glitters," I replied promptly. "But the white horses are certainly beautiful."
"Oh, what are these?" she asked.
I looked. It was the camels that had attracted the child's attention. Their appearance so astonished and amused her that she went off into peals of merry laughter, which caused many a responsive smile around us.
"What funny things you have in America!" she exclaimed. "Just see how these things walk and the queer men on their backs."
"The animals are called camels," I said; "and their drivers are supposed to be Arabs from the desert."
"Oh, I have studied about the camels and the deserts!" Winifred said, and she looked at them with new interest.
Her astonishment reached its climax when she saw the elephants.
"What are they at all?" she cried, gazing at their enormous bulk with startled eyes, as they slowly plodded on. Her glance wandered from their trunks to their great legs and huge sides. I told her what they were, and I think her studies had supplied her with some information about them and the ivory which is obtained from their tusks.
She was charmed with the monkeys.
"I'm sure they're little old men," she said—"just like those Niall used to tell about, who were shut up in the hills."
She was never tired of watching their antics, and only regretted when they were out of sight. Two or three of them were mounted on tiny ponies; and, to Winifred's great glee, one tumbled ignominiously off and had to be picked up out of the mud by an attendant.
"What's coming now?" she cried, as one of the vans containing a lion hove into sight. The great beast lay tranquil and unmoved, gazing at the passers-by with that air of nobility which always belongs to his species. His appearance seemed to fascinate my companion and she gazed at him very earnestly.
"That is a lion," I remarked.
"Oh, the king of the forest!" put in Winifred. "He looks like a king."
"A very fierce one at times," I replied. "But that next is a tiger—a far more cruel and treacherous beast."
"I don't like him," said Winifred, decisively; "although he is something like a big, big cat, only for the stripes on his back."
The leopards next passed by, fidgeting up and down the cage, with their spotted coats glittering in the sun. Hyenas, wolves, foxes, jackals, passed in quick succession, giving place at last to a giraffe. I pointed this animal out to Winifred.
"He has a long, long neck," she observed; "he looks as if he had stretched it out so far that he couldn't get it back again."
The doings of the clown, I think, puzzled more than they amused Winifred.
"Is he a man or another kind of animal?" she asked me gravely. She was not at all sure what kind of being he was, or why he should be so dressed up and act in such a manner. I told her that it was to amuse people.
"But he isn't half so funny as the monkeys," she declared, contemptuously. "Why, you never told me that there were such wonderful things in America!"
"I'm sure I never thought of it," I replied, laughing. "But I am glad you have seen the circus. It is quite aneducation in natural history. Now you will know an elephant from a giraffe, a lion from a tiger, a camel from a zebra, and a monkey from a fox. But, dear, we must hurry on and see what sight-seeing we can do. I declare it is almost noon already."
Presently, indeed, we heard the shrill sound of many whistles and the ringing of more than one bell.
Winifred put her hands to her ears.
"What a noise!" she cried; and she laughed merrily as she did so, her feet fairly dancing over the pavement in the pleasant sunlight of that winter day. And so we pursued our way up Fifth Avenue, with its rows of imposing brownstone houses, toward the cathedral, which was our destination.