"Nothing, nothing now that you have come; but let me tell you my story first."

"Your story first--why, of course, Kit."

"They are there; speak to them; tell them you will see them afterward.

We are staying at the Sign of the Red Doe; tell them that you will see me first and then you will see them."

"Introduce me to them, Kitty, and calm yourself. Come, Kitty, come."

"Yes, father, yes; it is all right."

Kitty's terrible excitement subsided; leaning on her father's arm, she approached the platform where Miss Sherrard and Miss Worrick, both looking rather confused, were standing.

"This is my father, Miss Sherrard," said Kitty, introducing Dennis Malone, who took off his hat with a grand sweep.

"I am relieved to see you," began Miss Sherrard.

"Pardon me one moment, madam," said Malone; "but Kitty here would like to tell me her story first. You are her school-mistress, the lady with whom I have had the pleasure of corresponding?"

"I am, and I have a very, very painful tale to tell you."

"You shall tell me your story afterward."

Here the owner of Castle Malone caught sight of Miss Worrick, and gave her a bow even more deferential than he had bestowed upon the head-mistress.

"I am sorry to put you off even for a few moments, ladies," he said; "but you see this little girl, she--she must come first. However badly she has behaved, she--she is my only girl, you understand, and I--I must hear her story first. Will you meet us both within an hour at the Sign of the Red Doe? Then everything can be explained."

"I wonder if that dreadful girl is to go unpunished in the end," said Miss Worrick to Miss Sherrard, as they both slowly went to the nearest hotel to wait until the time arranged to meet Kitty and her father at the Sign of the Red Doe."

"It seems like it," said Miss Sherrard. "But what a splendid old man!

Perhaps after all it may be the best thing for Kitty Malone not to punish her, Miss Worrick."

"Oh, Miss Sherrard! I cannot approve of your very lax opinions. Surely punishment for such terrible wrong-doing--"

"Yes, she behaved badly, but not so badly as Elma, I think we must wait to hear the whole story explained; at present we are more or less in the dark."

"And now, Kit, what is it?" said the squire, when he and his daughter were ensconced in the little sitting-room at the Sign of the Red Doe.

"Do you mind if I give you one of my real big hugs first?" said Kitty.

"To be sure not, alanna--oh, acushla macree! it is like flowers in May to see you again."

"There! I am better now," said Kitty, after she had bestowed one of her most violent hugs upon her father. "Let me sit on your knee and I will tell you everything."

At the best it was a sad story, a story full of wrong-doing, full of impulse, full of pa.s.sion; and although Kitty tried hard to make Elma's part of it as light as possible, the squire's eyes blazed and a thundering note came into his voice as he listened.

"That's a bad girl, Kitty," he cried; "and you ought to have nothing to do with her."

"But that's exactly it, father--that's what I am coming to. If you won't let me have anything to do with Elma, why--why, you must punish me terribly. I want you to let me--to let me make Elma my real friend."

"That sort of girl your friend? Not if I know it," said the squire.

"But, please, father, do let me plead for her. I have done her injury, and she--she has never had advantages like the rest of us."

Then Kitty began to coax, and few, very few people could coax like this Irish girl. Not only with her voice, but with her eyes, with a smile here and a frown there, she set herself to bring old Squire Malone to her way of thinking. And as always from the time she was a tiny child she had been able to twist this old lion round her little finger, so she twisted him now.

"You have got to do it, father," she said at last. "You have got to forgive Laurie, and you have got to forgive Elma, and----"

"Bless the boy, it was just like his recklessness, Why didn't he come and tell me? He wasn't afraid of his old father, was he?"

"Well, father, you know you are very fierce when you like."

"Tut! tut! Kitty, don't you begin to scold."

"No; I won't--not if you yield to me. Full and free forgiveness for the whole three of us; for your Kit----"

"Bless you, child, I have forgiven you already."

"Ay, didn't I know it--didn't I say he was a dear old thing? Now, Laurie--you won't say a word to him?"

"I'll give him a right good scolding."

"Why, then, dad, your scolding never did anybody any harm; your bark is worse than your bite, you know; but there will be no school in England for him, that's what I mean."

"Well, it doesn't seem to have succeeded with you, asth.o.r.e."

"No more it did. Why, it was breaking the heart in me entirely."

"So you want to come back with me again?"

"That I do, and never, never be a polished lady with manners to the longest day of my life."

"You want to be Wild Kitty still?"

"Wild, wild, the wildest of Kittys to the end of the chapter."

"And what will your aunts say?"

"Never mind; what you say is the important thing."

"It shall be as you please, Kit. I am sure I have missed you sore, very sore."

"And now, what about Elma?"

"Yes; what do you want me to do for her?"

"I want her to come back with me to Castle Malone for the rest of the summer."

"Oh, heart alive! child; but I don't think I could take to that sort of girl."