wn father's son!" cried the
quick-witted Irishman. "And if, bad luck, he's a Protestant, I'll never
believe he's one of them through-and-through d----d black Protestants
that you and I mean! Glory be to God, it's not in the Sullivans to be
one of them!"

The Colonel laughed as he shook the old servant's hand; and Uncle Ulick
joined in the laugh. "You're a clever rogue, Darby," he said. "Your
neck'll never be in a rope, but your fingers will untie the knot! And
now, where'll you put him?"

Flavia tapped her foot on the floor; foreseeing, perhaps, what was
coming.

"Put his honour?" Darby repeated, rubbing his bald head. "Ay, sure,
where'll we put him? May it be long before the heavens is his bed!
There's the old master's room, a grand chamber fit for a lord, but
there's a small matter of the floor that is sunk and lets in the
rats--bad cess to the dogs for an idle, useless pack. And there's the
Count's room would do finely, but the vagabonds have never mended the
thatch that was burned the last drinking, and though 'twas no more than
the width of a flea's leap, the devil of a big bowl of water has it let
in! The young master's friends are in the South, but the small room
beyond that has the camp truckle that Sir Michael brought from the ould
wars: that's dry and snug! And for the one window that's airy, sure,
'tis no drawback at this sayson."

"It will do very well for me, Darby," the Colonel said, smiling.

"Well," Darby answered, rubbing his head, "the Cross be between us and
harm, I'm not so sure where's another. The young masther----"

"That will do, Darby!" the girl cried impatiently. And then, "I am
sorry, Colonel Sullivan," she continued stiffly, "that you should be so
poorly lodged--who are the master of all. But doubtless," with an
irrepressible resentment in her voice, "you will be able presently to
put matters on a better footing."

With a formal curtsey she left them then, and retreated up the stairs,
which at the rear of the hall ascended to a gallery that ran right and
left to the rooms on the first floor.

Colonel Sullivan turned with Uncle Ulick to the nearest window and
looked out on the untidy forecourt. "You know, I suppose," he said, in
a tone which the men beside the fire, who were regarding him curiously,
could not hear, "the gist of Sir Michael's letters to me?"

Uncle Ulick drummed with his fingers on the window-sill. "Faith, the
most of it," he said.

"Was he right in believing that