As the carriage drew up at the hall door it was opened by a stout elderly man, who came forward with such empressement that for a moment I thought it was my uncle. Before, however, I had time to speak, he said with much excitement—
“Your honour’s welcome, Miss Sarsfield!”
Willy checked further remark on his part by shovelling our many parcels into his arms; but as soon as we had got into the hall, he let them all go, and caught hold of my hand and kissed it.
“Glory be to God that I should have lived to see this day! I never thought I’d be bringing Masther Owen’s child into this house. Thank God! thank God!”
“Come, Roche, that will do for a start,” said Willy, laughing. “Keep the rest for another day. Here’s the master.”
Roche hastily let go my hand, as a tall bowed figure came across the hall to meet me.
“Well, my dear Theodora, so you have found your way at last to these western wilds,” said my uncle, and kissed me on the forehead, taking both my hands in his as he did so.
His manner was an extreme contrast to Willy’s affable familiarity, and I was struck by the absence of Irish accent in his voice, which had a mellifluous propriety of intonation.
He led me into the room he had just left, a small library, and placed a chair for me in front of the fireplace.