From one corner
rose a square tower, thirty feet or more in height, covered with wild
vines that twined in and out through the narrow, unglazed windows.
Within was a broad, low hall, from which opened four rooms of nearly
equal size. There was little evidence that the castle had been inhabited
during recent years, though there was an ancient woman care-taker who
opened the great door for us, and then took up the Irish peasant's wail
for the last of the O'Haras. She never ceased her crooning except when
she spoke to us, which was seldom; but she placed us at table in the
state dining room, and served us with stewed kid, potatoes, and goat's
milk. The walls of the dining room were covered with ancient pictures of
the O'Haras, but none so recent as a hundred years. We could well
believe Sir Tom's words, "the sod has known us for a thousand years,"
when we looked upon the score of pictures, each of which stood for at
least one generation.
The agent told us that our friend had never lived at the castle, but
that he had visited the place as a child, and again just before leaving
for America.
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