mile at another time.

"The sticks are very light," she said. "Supposing we share the burden?
Then we can talk as we go along. I suppose there never will be any
news of Mr. Florence O'Hart, who went to Australia and was lost sight
of?"

It was enough for Miss Brennan, who forgot even to protest when Lady
O'Gara took the big bundle of sticks and gave her a few light ones to
carry. She could always be set off chattering on the topic of the
O'Hart who _might_ have survived the family _debacle_ and _might_ come
home one day to restore the fallen splendours of the place. Lady
O'Gara walked as far as the lodge with the old woman, and laid the
sticks away in the corner by the fireplace. It was a very short
distance, though it counted as long to Miss Brennan.

As she went back along the road, the old woman, watching her disappear
through the arch of orange and scarlet and pale fluttering gold, for
the trees were not yet bare, talked to herself.

"There she goes!" she said, "an' she's proud to the proud an' humble to
the humble. 'Tis the great day for you, Lizzie Brennan, to have the
likes o' Lady O'Gara carryin' home your bits o' sticks. I hope I
wasn't wrong sayin' what I did to the little lady. It seemed to get on
her mind, for she wasn't listenin' to what I was sayin' for all she
kep' her head towards me. Still an' all little Missie couldn't be
without knowin' the light in a mother's eyes whin she seen it."

CHAPTER XVIII

THE DAUGHTER

Lady O'Gara went away quickly from the rusty gate overhung by ivy, not
looking back to see how Miss Brennan watched her out of sight. She had
not indeed heard one word of what the old woman had been saying about
the O'Harts. She was dreadfully perturbed. The fair placidity of her
face was broken up. In either cheek two spots of vivid colour pulsed.
Seeing them one would have said she was in pain.

She hastened back along the tree-overhung road, over the dead leaves
where the fine silver veining of last night's frost was yielding to a
sodden dampness, to the gate of Waterfall Cottage.

She had half-expected to find it locked, but it was open. There was a
thick carpet of dead leaves on the gravel sweep. Between the boughs
sparsely clothed with leaves and the slender tree-trunks she caught a
glimpse of the bronze and amber river running over its stones, or
winding about the big dripping boulders that were in the bed of the
stream. A damp, rheumatic place, she sai