CHAPTER IX 



THE MEET OF THE HOUNDS 



It was November, and it had been raining for a 

 week. 



The sun had vanished, the hills had vanished, 

 the land had all but vanished; nothing remained 

 but the wind and the rain, the rain and the wind, 



Effie's short lessons only consumed a couple of 

 hours of each rain-soaked, wind-blown day. No 

 one ever came to Drumgool except, maybe, a 

 farmer now and then to see Mr French, and the 

 long-drawn " hoo-hoo " of the wind through the 

 Devil's Keyhole, the rattling of windows fighting 

 with the wind, and the tune of waste-pipes 

 emptying into over-full water-butts were begin- 

 ning to prey upon Miss Grimshaw's nerves. 



Even Mr Giveen would have been a distraction 

 these times; but Mr Giveen was now at open 

 enmity with his kinsman, and spoiling with all 

 the bitterness of his petty nature to do him an 

 injury. 



And Giveen was not French's only enemy just 

 now. The United Irish Patriots were against him. 

 He had let farms on the eleven months' system, 

 and he had let farms for grazing, two high offences 

 in the eyes of the Patriots. 



99 



