dews, and has been
empty, as its owner, Anthony Cardew, has been away from it many years.
The sun was going down in a great glory, and window after window in the
long house-front took fire and flamed like a torch.

"You would think," said I, "that they were lighting fires over there
against Captain Cardew's return."

Maureen rose from her place and peered curiously in the direction of my
gaze.

"I wonder he doesn't be selling it," she said, "and not be letting it go
to rack and ruin and him never comin' home. 'Tis an unlucky country so
it is where the houses of the gentry must be all stannin' empty or
tumblin' to ruins, or bein' turned into asylums or the like."

"I should like to see the inside of Brosna," I said. "Is it as fine as
they say?"

"It is the finest house in this country, Miss Bawn--finer even than the
Abbey. But all goin' to rack and ruin for want of an owner to look after
it. But as for seein' it, I wouldn't be talkin' about such a thing. It
is a long time since his Lordship and her Ladyship could bear to hear
the name of Cardew."

"I have heard you say, Maureen," I went on, "that Anthony Cardew was the
handsomest young man ever seen in this country, that he had a leg and
foot as elegant even as Uncle Luke's, and that to see him dance was the
finest sight you could wish for, and that all the ladies were in love
with him."

"I never put him before Master Luke. No, no, Miss Bawn, I never put him
before my own boy. There, don't be talkin' about the Cardews, child.
What are they to you?"

I got up and went out; and while my thoughts were busy with my visit to
Dublin there would flash through them like warp and woof the thought of
Anthony Cardew, who had gone away before I was born and of whom so many
romantic stories were told. I felt that I must hear some of them, even
though the name of Cardew was not to be mentioned in our hearing.

CHAPTER VII

OLD, UNHAPPY, FAR-OFF THINGS

I found my godmother watering her rose trees on the eastward side of the
house from which the sun had now departed. The grassy terraces before
the house smelt deliciously, for a water-sprinkler in the grass sent out
fine spray like a fountain. It was very hot weather, and I had walked
across; it had been cool enough in the shelter of the wood but the roads
had been blinding hot.

"Sit down, Bawn," she said, coming towards me, having left her hose to
run at the foot of a rose tree. "See how busy I am! Of course,