"Kathleen! Kathleen!" cried the landlady.
"Call for everything you can think of one after another," whispered Kathleen, leaving the room.
"I cannot make the peat burn," said she to the landlady, after she had quitted the little room; "and the gentleman wants some whisky."
"Go out then, and get some from the middle of the stack, Kathleen, and be quick; we have others to attend besides the tithe proctor. There's the O'Tooles all come in, and your own Corny is with them."
"My Corny, indeed!" replied Kathleen; "he's not quite so sure of that."
In a short time Kathleen returned, and brought some dry peat and a measure of whisky. "If what you say is true," said Kathleen, "and sure enough you're no Irish, and very young for a tithe proctor, who must grow old before he can be such a villain, you are in no very pleasant way. The O'Tooles are here, and I've an idea they mean no good; for they sit with all their heads together, whispering to each other, and all their shillelaghs by their sides."
"Tell me, Kathleen, was the daughter of Sir William a fair-haired, blue-eyed girl?"
"To be sure she was," replied Kathleen, "and like a little mountain fairy."
"Now, Kathleen, tell me if you recollect if the little girl or her mother ever wore a necklace of red beads mixed with gold."
"Yes, that my lady did; and it was on the child's neck when it was lost, and when the body was found, it was not with it. Well I recollect that, for my mother said the child must have been drowned or murdered for the sake of the gold beads."