With a spirit chastened but not resigned, Dearest George got a cheque to return the money, and then looked bitterly at the array of new machinery in its shed.
The same post had brought a letter to Gheena, which simply said: "I managed it, my dear—that particular whistle which brought him down in a moment."
Tony Brownlow wrote again from England, telling his brother-in-law that as he—Tony—had just got George out of a nice difficulty, he didn't mind asking a favour. He wanted a home for his sister's child. She had lived with him. Now he was moving about, the girl was on the coast of Kent and he was nervous; besides, he would like her to be friends with that splendid monkey, Gheena.
The sum offered for her board and for keeping a horse for her was completely adequate. Her name was Mona, and she was commonly called Psyche, the sprite.
Mona Delorme arrived almost immediately afterwards. She was a fragile little person, reminding the imaginative of a moonbeam—pale, with silvery yellow hair and grey-green shadowy eyes, with slender feet and hands, and light quick movements.
Sturdy Gheena adored her fervently from the hour of meeting her at the station, and was calling her Psyche before they reached Castle Freyne.
Mona cried out at the homely beauty of the hills, at the wild sea caught in the long harbour, and the white spray at the point where it sprang up free in its might.
Her father had been Irish. She took the country to her heart with its grey lights and shadows, its kindly people, its carelessness and consequent happiness.
"The flour is not after coming from Cortra, Miss, nor the box of groceries from the stores," said Dillon at the station; "an' the Master axin' for sardines these two days past—an' Anne out of flour."
"We'll borrow some from Mrs. Brady, Dillon; I daresay the mistress forgot to write. How many of your boxes have you got, Mona? They generally lose a few. Only one gone, Pat? Wonderful!"