the winter an equal number of “stall-feds”; in the “haggard” to the rear were the innumerable golden stacks and hay-ricks which were, of all his possessions, those most valued by the Master of Monavoe.  No one in the country was so clever in selecting time and weather for cutting and carting; no one so cunning in ascertaining the most opportune moments for selling, or so far-seeing with regard to prices.  At this very moment Peter Rorke was gazing at an immense rick of “prime old hay” which he had had the prudence to keep back while all his neighbours were selling.  His wisdom now appeared; there had been an unexpected failure in the hay crop that season, the prices had gone up accordingly, and Peter looked forward to receiving more than double the sum that his produce was actually worth.

Rousing himself at length from what, to one of his temperament, had been a reverie of long duration, he turned round and called loudly to some one whom he supposed to be within:  “Rose, Rose!  Are ye there, girl?”

There was no answer, and after a moment’s pause he called again impatiently.  A very old woman with a white sun-bonnet tilted over her brow came slowly from the back premises.  “Where is my granddaughter, Judy?” he asked, with a frown.  Judy was no favourite of his.

“She isn’t here at all,” she observed; and then jerking her thumb over her shoulder in the direction of some outhouses, “she went acrass to the dairy a while ago.”

Peter Rorke grunted, and, without another glance at the old woman, began to walk at a rapid pace in the direction she had indicated.  As he drew near the partly open door of the dairy, the sound of a girl’s voice could be heard merrily lilting a tune; and when Peter entered the owner of the voice turned round, abruptly ceasing her song and gazing at him with a startled look.  This was Roseen, a tall and comely lassie of seventeen, in whose pretty, saucy face, however, and clear blue eyes, there still remained much of the child.  Her mother had died when she was about fifteen, and, to the astonishment of every one who knew him, Peter Rorke had announced his intention of adopting his grandchild.  He had never had any objections to the girl herself, he declared loftily; she was well enough in every way, and his own son’s child; he could never put up with the mother, it was true—­a common little servant girl that his son had no right to have been speaking to, much less to be goin’ an’ gettin’ married to.  Peter would never bring himself to recognise him at all after he had demeaned himself that way, and as long as the wife lived he couldn’t be expected to take any notice of the child; but now that she was dead an’ gone to her own place, wherever that might be, he wasn’t goin’ to let his granddaughter go out to sarvice.  She was Miss Rorke, and her place was at Monavoe, where all the Rorkes had lived and died for more generations than any one cared to count.