"Oh, from America did you say?" exclaimed the man, in a hushed and trembling voice, bending low and looking about him with a terror and anxiety which were almost grotesque. "Don't say that word, Miss Winifred! Don't now, my beautiful white flower of the mountain!"
The incident reminded me that Granny Meehan at the castle had also shown, on the occasion of my visit, a certain alarm at the mention of America; and I wondered what mystery enveloped this singular child and those who were her guardians. Winifred had perceived the man's consternation; looking intently at her singular companion, she asked:
"Why, are you afraid of people from America?"
Standing thus before the old man, she put the question with the point-blank frankness of childhood.
"No, no, no!" came the answer, hurriedly and with the same tone of tremulous eagerness,—"at least, child, it is not the kind of fear you think."
"Why do you shiver, then, and look like that?"
"Because, O Winifred mavourneen, say it is not for you she's come!"
"For me!" echoed Winifred in astonishment; then she burst into one of her merriest peals of laughter, seizing a handful of leaves and throwing them at him. "Why do you think that, you dear, old Niall?"
"I suppose I'm getting old and full of fears," the man said. "The winter of life is like the winter of the years. It has its chills and frosts, its larger share of darkness. But what if one should come and take you away before we are ready—before the work we have to do is done?"
"No one shall take me away unless I like!" Winifred cried out, throwing back her small head proudly.