.
Brigid's anemones, the poet's narcissus, tulips, jonquils, and
hyacinths bloomed here almost as early as in the Scilly Isles, and made
patches of fragrant brightness under the sitting-room windows; while in
the crannies of the walls might be seen delicate maidenhair and other
ferns, too tender generally to stand a winter in the open.

Born and bred in this far-away corner of the world, Honor had grown up
almost a child of nature. Her whole life had been spent as much as
possible out-of-doors, boating, fishing, or swimming in the creek;
driving in a low-backed car over the rough Kerry roads; galloping her
shaggy little pony on the moors; following the otter hounds up the
river, and sharing in any sport that her father considered suitable for
her age and sex. She was the only girl among five brothers, and in her
mother's opinion was by far the most difficult to manage of the whole
flock. All the wild Irish blood of the family seemed to have settled in
her; the high spirits, the fire, the pride, the quick temper, the
impatience of control, the happy-go-lucky, idle, irresponsible ways of
a long line of hot-headed ancestors had skipped a generation or two,
and, as if they had been bottling themselves up during the interval,
had reappeared with renewed force in this particular specimen of the
Fitzgerald race.

"She's more trouble than the five boys put together," her mother often
declared, and her friends cordially agreed with her. Mrs. Fitzgerald
herself was a mild, quiet, nervous, delicate lady, as much astonished
at her lively, tempestuous daughter as a meek little hedge-sparrow
would be, that had hatched a young cuckoo. Frankly, she did not
understand Honor, whose strong, uncontrolled character differed so
entirely from her own gentle, clinging, dependent disposition; and
whose storms of grief or anger, wild fits of waywardness and equally
passionate repentance, and self-willed disobedience, alternating with
sudden bursts of reformation, were a constant source of worry and
anxiety, and the direct opposite of her ideal of girlhood. Poor Mrs.
Fitzgerald would have liked a docile, tractable daughter, who would
have been content to sit beside her sofa doing fancy work, instead of
riding to hounds; and who would have had more consideration for her
weak state of health. She appreciated Honor's warm-hearted affection to
the full, but at the same time wished she could make her realize that
rough hugs, boisterous kisses, and l