Castle; some day she would be a great lady on her own account.  Now Kathleen’s ideas of what a great lady should be were in themselves very sensible and noble.  A great lady should do her utmost to make others happy.  She should dispense largesse in the true sense of the word.  She should make as many people as possible happy.  Her retainers should feel certain that they dwelt in her heart.  She should love the soil of her native land with a passion which nothing could undermine or weaken.  The sons of the soil should be her brothers, her kinsmen; the daughters of the soil should be her sisters in the best sense of the word.  But not only should the great lady of Carrigrohane love her Irish friends, but men and women, both youths and children, but she should love others who needed her help.  There never was a more affectionate, more generous-hearted girl than Kathleen; but of self-control she had little or no knowledge, and those who crossed her will had yet to find that Kathleen would not obey, for she was fearless, defiant, resolute—­in short, a rebel born and bred.

Ruth sat silent, perplexed, and anxious in the midst of the gay feast.  Kathleen and Aunt Katie O’Flynn laughed and almost shouted in their mirth.  Occasionally people turned to glance at the trio—­the grave, refined, extremely pretty, but shabbily dressed girl; the radiant child, and the vivacious little lady who might be her mother but who scarcely looked as if she was.  It was a curious party for such a room and for such surroundings.

“I think—­” said Ruth suddenly.  “Forgive me, Kathleen, but I think we ought to be looking out a train to go back by.”

“Indeed, and that you won’t,” said Miss O’Flynn.  “You are going to stay with me to-night.  Why, do you think I’d let this precious darling child back again in the middle of the night?  And you must stay here too—­what is your name?  Oh, Ruth.  I can get you a room here, and you shall have a fire and every comfort.”

“I at least must go home,” said Ruth.  “My grandfather and grandmother will be sitting up for me.”

“Oh, nonsense, child!” said Miss O’Flynn.  “I can send a commissionaire down to tell your grandfather that I am keeping you for the night.”

“Of course, Ruth,” said Kathleen.  “Don’t be silly; it is absurd for you to go on like that.  And for my part I should love to stay.”

“I am sorry, Kathleen,” said Ruth, “but I must go home.  Perhaps one of the porters can tell me when there is a train to Merrifield.  I must go back, for grandfather would be terrified if I didn’t go home.  You, of course, must please yourself.”

“My dear child, leave it to me,” said Miss O’Flynn.  “You can’t possibly go back—­neither you nor my sweet pet Kathleen.  Oh, I’ll arrange it, dear; don’t you be frightened.  You couldn’t go so late by yourself; it wouldn’t be right.”

Miss O’Flynn, however, had not come in contact with a character like Ruth’s before.  She could be as obstinate as a mule.  It was in that light Miss O’Flynn chose to consider her conduct.