Standing on the steps—where, indeed, he spent most of his time—and indulging in the luxury of an old church-warden pipe, was Squire Murphy. He raised a shout when he saw Nora, and ran down the steps as fast as he could.
“Why, my bit of a girl, it's good to see you!” he cried. “And who is this young lady?”
“This is my cousin, Molly Hartrick. Molly, may I introduce you to Squire Murphy?”
“Have a grip of the paw, miss,” said Squire Murphy, holding out his great hand and clasping Molly's.
“And now, what can I do for you, Nora alannah? 'Tis I that am glad to see you. There's Biddy in the house, and the wife; they'll give you a hearty welcome, and no mistake. You come along right in, the pair of yez; come right in.”
“But I cannot,” said Nora. “I want to speak to you alone and at once. Can you get one of the boys to hold the horse?”
“To be sure. Dan, you spalpeen! come forward this minute. Now then, hold Black Bess, and look alive, lad. Well, Nora, what is it?”
Molly stood on the gravel sweep, Nora and the Squire walked a few paces away.
“It's this,” said Nora; “you haven't asked yet how father is.”
“But he is doing fine, they tell me. I see I'm not wanted at O'Shanaghgan; and I'm the last man in the world to go there when the cold shoulder is shown to me.”