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."