Mary lifted her hands in dismay.
CHAPTER III.
SIB ANTHONY TREVITHICK.
"Well, if the ould train isn't batin' herself for bein' up to time!" said Pat Sheehan, the porter at Lettergort Station. "She'll draw up at this platform twenty-five minits before she's due be the time-table, an' an hour an' twenty-five before her usual time."
"'Tis Timothy Dolan that's drivin' her," said the person addressed, a little old woman like a robin, with a soft little voice hardly bigger than a bird's twitter.
"The power of love is wonderful," she went on; "sure Tim's spakin' to Mrs. Doyle's little Katty, an' he's raced the thrain so that he can dart up an' see the little girl while the ould ingin' is pantin' the sides out of her like a dog after a gallop."
"More than punctual!" commented a young gentleman, who was standing in a first-class carriage, looking from the shining landscape to the face of his chronometer.
He was a good-looking fellow, with honest brown eyes and a face that told of constant living in the open air. He was lean as a hound, and almost as long; presumably he would fill out, but even now his long-legged youthfulness was not without its attractive side.
As the train drew up at the platform he pocketed his watch, and began to gather his belongings leisurely. They seemed to be a good many—gun-case, golf-sticks, fishing-tackle, hat-case, rugs and umbrellas, and all the rest of it. While he was thus engaged a good-natured face, belonging to the red-bearded and red-haired giant who was guard of the train, looked in at the window.