Sheila Pat returned slowly to the Stronghold, her face weary with overmuch thought. Nell was surreptitiously studying a photograph of Acushla jumping a stone wall, with herself on her back. Denis had taken it with his Goetz camera. It had been a glorious morning in early spring. She remembered the vivid blue of the sky, the wonderful golden mist that had hung over the Ballymara hills, the feeling of utter fresh joy of life that had filled her and Acushla—
"Hulloa! How quiet we are!" Denis invaded the room with cheery breeziness. "Nell, rub noses! Mine's frozen. I say, the atmosphere's too exalted altogether for me."
"Perhaps we're doing penance," she laughed. "Denis," she broke off, "whatever have you got?"
He was swinging a large square hat box to and fro.
"Catch hold!"
He swung it across to her.
"It's for you, old girl."
"For me? Give me the scissors, Molly!"
Presently she pulled from a nest of tissue paper a great soft brown felt hat, with one long brown feather drooping on the brim.
"Denis! Oh, isn't it lovely!"