"Except in the famine times," said Winifred. "Oh, if you heard Niall tell about the famine in Ireland, and how some bad men and women went round trying to get the people who were starving to give up their religion, and they wouldn't!"
The child's eyes shone and her whole face was aglow as she cried:
"Rather than give up their religion they died by the road eating grass. That was just splendid of them."
"Always keep that fine enthusiasm and that tender heart, dear child," said a voice.
We both turned quickly. I had little need to do so, for I knew the voice. It was Roderick O'Byrne's. Winifred looked into his face for a moment, then she held out her hand.
"I don't often speak to strangers," she declared, with her princess-like air, "but I like you."
Roderick O'Byrne's handsome face flushed, his lips parted eagerly as if to speak; but he restrained himself by a visible effort, and said after a pause:
"I hope some day you will like me better." Then he turned to me, still holding Winifred's hand in his own strong brown one. "Do not be afraid: I am not going to steal the little one away, and I am going to be patient and wait. But I was walking behind you and I heard the sweet voice—the voice so like one I loved very dearly in other days—and it was too hard to resist: I had to speak."
His voice took on that tone, half boyish, half pleading; and I felt compelled to say:
"If you are not patient, I will have to spirit my little one away from New York."