"I agree with you," said the squire, giving her a quick, penetrating, half-pleased, half-puzzled glance. "I must apologize for not having bonfires lit in your and your sister's honor; but Lady Kathleen didn't tell me I was to have the pleasure of your company until a few minutes ago."
"I kept it as a joyful surprise," said Lady Kathleen; "but now, Dennis, let the two poor dear girls come in. They look fit to drop with fatigue. And so this is your little sister Sophy, Mayflower! I am right glad to see you, my dear. Welcome to Old Ireland, the pair of you; I will take you up myself to your room. Biddy, darling! Biddy!"
But, strange to say, Biddy was nowhere to be seen.
There was a little old deserted summerhouse far away in a distant part of the grounds, and there, a few minutes afterward, might have been heard some angry, choking, half-smothered sobs. They came from a girl in a pale green silk dress, who had thrown herself disconsolately by the side of a rustic table, and whose hot tears forced themselves through the fingers with which she covered her face.
"I can't bear it," she said to herself. "I can't be hospitable, and nice, and friendly, and yet I suppose I must. What would father say if one of the O'Haras were wanting in courtesy to a visitor? Oh, dear! how I hate that girl! I didn't think it was in me to hate anyone as I hate her! I hate her, and I—I fear her! There's a confession for Bridget O'Hara to make. She's afraid of someone! She's afraid of a wretched poor small specimen of humanity like that! But it is quite true; that girl has got a power over me. She has got me into her net. Oh, what induced Aunt Kathleen to ask her here? Why should the darling beloved Castle be haunted by her nasty little sneaking presence? Why should my holidays be spoiled by her? This is twenty times worse than having her with me at school, for we were at least on equal terms there, and we are not here. She's my visitor here, and I must be polite to her. I don't mind that abject looking sister of hers, who sat huddled up in the well of the car, one way or the other; but Janet is past enduring. Oh, Aunt Kathleen, what have you done to me?"
Bridget sobbed on stormily. The old sensation of having lowered herself, of being in disgrace with herself, was strongly over her. She hated herself for being angry at having Janet in the house, for so strong were her instincts of hospitality that even to think an uncourteous thought toward a visitor seemed to her to be like breaking the first rules of life.
She had rushed to the summerhouse to give herself the comfort of a safety valve. She must shed the tears which weighed against her eyes. She must speak aloud to the empty air some of the misery which filled her heart. She was quite alone. It was safe for her to storm here; she knew that if she spent her tears in this safe retreat she would be all the better able to bear her sorrows by and by.
As she sobbed, thinking herself quite alone, the little rustic door of the old summerhouse was slowly and cautiously pushed open, and a dog's affectionate, melting eyes looked in.
The whole of a big shaggy head protruded itself next into view, four big soft feet pattered across the floor, and a magnificent thoroughbred Irish greyhound laid his head on the girl's knee.