“The outside of this door doesn’t belong to you,” called David, “and if I like to whistle through the keyhole you can’t prevent me;” and he began “Garry Owen” again.

Kathleen rushed to the door and flung it open.  The tears were still wet on her cheeks.

“Can’t you guess what you are doing?” she said.  “You are stabbing me—­stabbing me.  Oh! oh! oh!” and she burst into violent sobs.  David took her hand.

“Come, little Irish colleen,” he said.  “Come along downstairs.  I am going to be chummy with you.  Don’t be so lonely.  Give Alice her room; one-half of it is hers, and she wants to dress to go out.”

“Let her take it all,” sobbed Kathleen.  “I am most miserable.  Oh, Garry Owen, Garry Owen!  Oh, Land of the Shamrock!  Oh, my broken heart!”

She laid her head on David’s shoulder and went on sobbing.  David felt quite bashful.  There was nothing for it but to take out his big and not too clean handkerchief and wipe her tears away.

“Whisper,” he said in her ear.  “There are stables at the back of the house; they are old, worn-out stables.  There is a loft over one, and I keep apples and nuts there.  It’s the jolliest place.  Will you and I go there for an hour or two after supper?”

“Do you mean it?” said Kathleen, her eyes filling with laughter, and the tears still wet on her cheeks.

“Yes, colleen, I mean it, for I want you to tell me all you can about your land of the shamrock.”

“Why, then, that I will,” she replied.  “Wisha, then, David, it’s a broth of a boy, you are!” and she kissed him on his forehead.  David took her hand and led her into the dining-room.  Alice was still there, looking more stormy than ever.

“It’s too late now,” she said; “the girls have come and gone.  I can’t go at all now.”

“But why, darling?” said Kathleen.  “Oh!  I wish I had let you in.—­She must go, David, the poor dear.  It would be cruel to disappoint her.—­What dress will you wear?” said Kathleen.

“Let me alone,” said Alice.

She rushed upstairs, but Kathleen was even quicker.

“I’m not going to be nasty to you any more,” she said.  “I have found a friend, and I shall have more friends to-morrow.  Kathleen O’Hara would have died long ago but for her friends.  I shall be happy when I have got a creelful of them here.  Now then, let me help you.  No, that isn’t the shoe you want; here it is.  And gloves—­here’s a pair, and they’re neatly mended.  Which hat did you say—­the one with the blue scarf round it?  Isn’t it a pretty one?  You put that on.  Aunt Katie O’Flynn is going to send me a box of clothes from Dublin, and I will give you some of them.  You mustn’t say no; I will give you some if you are nice.  I am ever so sorry that I kept you out of your part of the room; I won’t do it any more.  Now you are dressed; that’s fine.  You won’t hate me forever, will you?”

Alice growled something in reply.  She had not Kathleen’s passionate, quick, impulsive nature—­furious with rage one minute, sweet and gentle and affectionate the next.  She hated Kathleen for having humiliated and annoyed her; and she went off to Cassandra’s house knowing that she would be late, and determined not to say one good word for Kathleen.