“Go back to the house, Molly. I’ll go down and speak to him.”
“Wouldn’t you let me follow you, Miss, to be near in case of anything?”
“No, Molly. I’m not a coward; and I know, besides, that no man who meant harm to me would ever come ever here to attempt it.”
“At any rate, he’d never go back again!” said the woman, fiercely. “Don’t be long, Miss, or I’ll be uneasy.”
Kate now turned aside, and hastened down a little steep path which led to the Holy Well. The well itself was a sort of shrine built over a little spring, and shaded by a clump of dwindled oak-trees—almost the only ones in the island. As Kate drew nigh, she saw a man walking up and down beneath the trees, with the quick short step that implied impatience. It was her gift never to forget a face, and in one glance she recognised one she had not seen for years—O’Rorke of Vinegar Hill.
“I thought you’d never come;” cried he, as she descended the steps that led down to the well. “I have been waiting here about an hour!”
He held out his hand to shake hands with her, but she drew back, and crossing her shawl in front of her, showed that she declined this greeting.
“Are you too proud to shake hands with me?” asked he, insolently.