Squire O'Hara was the first of the family to put in an appearance the next morning at the breakfast table. He looked round him somewhat impatiently. He did not count Miss Macnamara, nor old Captain Shand, nor one or two more of the visitors, as anybody. When they came in he simply nodded to them, but his impatient eyes looked eagerly at the vacant places which his own family ought to occupy.

What was the matter with the world?

Where was his sister-in-law Kathleen? She was up too early as a rule—fidgeting, fussing, talking, and clattering. Where were those imps, Pat and Gerry? Where were the two nice little English girls?—and, above all, where was his Colleen, his darling, the apple of his eye?

"Shall I pour out your tea for you, squire?" asked Miss Macnamara in a timid voice.

"No, I thank you," he replied; "I'll wait for my family. Help yourself; help yourself, I beg. Captain Shand, pray tackle the beef; Mr. Jones, try that kippered salmon. Nobody need wait breakfast who doesn't wish to; but I'm not hungry. I'll just step out on the terrace for a minute or two until some of my family choose to put in an appearance."

The squire opened the window as he spoke, and, stepping over the sill, was just about to call to the dogs to accompany him in his walk when a little, shabby, gray-haired woman started up almost at his feet, and raised two blazing black eyes to his face.

"Is that you, Norah?" said the squire. "And may I ask what you are doing here crouching down among the rose-bushes?"

"Nothing, yer honor; sure as I live I'm doing nothing!" said Norah. "I was only waiting to catch a sight of Miss Biddy, bless her."

"You surely did not lie in ambush in this absurd fashion to see Miss Bridget. She does not want people skulking after her like that. There, my good woman, don't look at me as if I were going to eat you. Go round to the kitchen and have some breakfast, and you shall see Miss Biddy afterward."

The squire heard fresh sounds of arrival in the breakfast room at this moment. In consequence, his voice grew more cordial.

He passed in again through the open window, and Norah quickly disappeared round by the shrubbery.

"Is that you, Biddy?" he said. "How are you, my love? Oh! and Kathleen, you have put in an appearance at last; and here the boys, and Miss Sophy. Come, that's right, that's right. Now let us sit down and enjoy ourselves. I have been out since six o'clock, and I'm quite disposed to do justice to my tea and fresh eggs. Here, Biddy, you shall pour me out a cup with your own fair hands, alanna."

The squire drew up to the table, making a considerable amount of bluster and noise. Bruin crouched in his usual place by Bridget's side; Sophy sat near Lady Kathleen; the boys began hungrily to attack a huge bowl of porridge each, and the meal proceeded.

"You are all very silent," said the squire. "Have none of you anything to say for yourselves? Not a laugh do I hear—not a whisper. Half an hour late for breakfast, and everyone coming in as mum as if we were all a house of the dead! Come, Biddy, come, haven't you a joke to crack with anyone?"

"Oh, squire," said Lady Kathleen, from the other end of the long board, "we just want you to drink off your tea first. Oh, oh, oh! Sophy, poor child, poor child, restrain yourself. There, she can't, the creature, she can't. Put your arms round my neck, pet, and cry here then; poor little dear, poor little dear!"

"What in the name of fortune does this mean?" exclaimed Dennis O'Hara. "Biddy, can you explain it? Why, your face is like a sheet, child. What can be wrong?"

"I will tell you, Dennis," said Lady Kathleen. "Poor little Janet is lost. If you hadn't been so taken up with all the singing and the dancing last night you'd have missed her from our family circle, for she wasn't there then, and she isn't here now; and what's more, she hasn't been in her bed the whole of the blessed night, and there's Sophy fit to break her heart, and no wonder, poor thing, no wonder, for if there was a nice devoted little sister it was Janet. I am fearing that the poor child has fallen from a precipice, or gone too far into one of the bogs. I always told you, squire, that you didn't half drain those bogs. Now, what is it? Oh, mercy me, what awful thing are you going to say?"

"I'm going to request you to hold your tongue," said the squire. "We none of us can hear ourselves speak with you, Kathleen. And a fine, queer tale you have to tell! Miss Janet May hasn't been in the house all night! Is that true, Miss Sophy?"

"She wasn't in her room last night," said Sophy, a fresh sob breaking her voice.

"But this must be looked into at once," continued the squire. "One of my visitors has been absent from my roof all night, and I am only told of it now—now—and it past eight o'clock in the morning! This is a scandalous shame! Why, there isn't a man or boy in the place who shouldn't have been searching round for the bit of a colleen four hours past. But, of course, I'm always kept in the dark. Although I am Squire O'Hara of Castle Mahun, I'm just nobody, I suppose? Now, what is it, Bridget—what are you going to say? I won't take interference from anyone when I am roused like this."

The squire was in one of his rare, but terrible passions: his lips trembled, his eyes blazed, his great hand shook.

"I have got something to tell you," began Bridget.

"Oh, you have, have you? You can throw light on this scandal then? Speak out, speak out this minute."

"Will you come with me into your study? I'd rather tell you alone."

"I'll do nothing of the kind. You speak out here. It's a nice state of things when the master of the house is kept in the dark! That girl should have been searched for last night when she didn't come in. And of course she would have been searched for if I had been told of it; but the rest of you must hugger-mugger together and keep me in the dark. I call this state of things disgraceful. Now what is it you have got to say, Bridget? Are you a coward too, afraid to tell your own father? A nice state of things the world is coming to! Speak! are you afraid of me?"

"I am a coward, and I am afraid of you," said Bridget.

Her words were so absolutely unexpected that every single individual seated round the breakfast table started back with an astonished exclamation.

Bridget's own face was white as death. She stepped a little away from the table; Bruin got up and stood by her side. She was unconscious of the fact that her hand rested on his great head.

"Speak up," thundered the squire, "I'll have no more shuffling. You look as if you were ashamed of something. I see it in your eye. You are my only child—the last of the race, and you are ashamed! Good God, that I should live to see this day. But come, no more shuffling—out with the truth!"

"I know something about Janet, and so also do Pat and Gerry," continued Bridget. "I'd rather tell you by yourself, father; I wish you'd let me."

"No, that I won't; if you have done anything wrong you have got to confess it. A pretty pass we have come to when Bridget O'Hara has to confess her sins! But, never mind, though you were twenty times my child, you'll have to stand here and tell the truth before everyone. Now speak up, speak up this minute—Kathleen! if you don't stop blubbering you'll have to leave the room."

Dennis O'Hara's face was terrible.

He and Bridget were the only ones standing; all the rest remained glued to their chairs, without speaking or moving.

"Now go on," he said, "we are all waiting to hear this fine confession; did you spirit Janet May away?"

"No, I didn't. You make me cease to fear you, father, when you speak in that tone," said Bridget. "I have behaved badly, I—I thought it would break my heart to tell you; but when you look at me like that——"

"Like what? Go on, Biddy, or you'll drive me mad."

"Well, I know what has happened to Janet. She went over to the Witch's Island last night. She said there was no witch. Nothing would make her believe in a witch, and she would go; it was her own desire."

"And you took her there, I suppose?"

"No, I didn't; I had nothing to do with it."

"It was I who did that part, uncle," said Pat, suddenly springing to his feet. "I won't let Biddy be the only one scolded; I was in an awful funk when I found what had happened, but I can't stand here and hear a girl spoken to like this; and Biddy isn't a bit nor a morsel to blame. It's just Biddy all out to try and shield other people; but it was my fault, mine and Gerry's. What is it, uncle? what is it you are saying to me?"

"Come over here this minute," said the squire. "Shake hands with me; you are a fine lad, you are a very fine lad. Oh, thank Heaven! I thought the colleen had done something wrong. It isn't a bit of matter about anybody else. Speak out, Pat, speak out; and, oh! alanna, alanna, forgive me, forgive me. I thought bad of you, my jewel, my sweet! Come into my arms, my colleen asthore. What matter who is black, when you are white as a lily?"

Dennis O'Hara's burst of passion was over as quickly as it had arisen; he went up to Bridget and folded his great arms round her slight young figure.

"But I am not white," she said, bursting into sudden uncontrollable weeping; "oh, I am not white, and you'll never love me any more, and my heart will break. I can't tell you now, before everybody. I just can't, I can't. Pat knows all about Janet. Pat can tell that story, and you are not going to be too angry with him; but I must go away, for I can't speak of the other thing. There, father, don't kiss me, I cannot stand it."

She wrenched herself out of his arms and flew from the room.

It was a glorious summer's day; the sun was blazing down from the sky with a fierce heat. Bridget felt half blinded with misery and confusion of mind. She put up her hand to her head and glanced up at the sky.

"I must tell my father everything when I see him next," she said to herself. "Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?"

Footsteps sounded behind her. She felt impatient of anyone seeing her in her grief and distraction, and, turning to hide herself in the shrubbery, found that she was face to face with Norah.

"I seen you, me darling," said Norah; "I seen you when you ran out of the breakfast room all distraught like."

"You saw me? then you were listening, Norah," said Bridget, her tears drying rapidly in her sudden anger.

"And why not, alanna? and why shouldn't I listen when it was for the good of my own nursling? The squire says, 'Go and have some breakfast, Norah'; but what's breakfast to me when the light of my eyes, the child I helped to rear, is suffering. I listened, Miss Biddy, and when you run out of the room I followed you. You come with me, alanna. You trust poor Norah. Norah Malony and Pat Donovan 'ud spill their heart's blood for you, missie; you trust us both!"

"I thought as much," said Bridget. "Come back here into the shade of the shrubbery, Norah; I guessed last night that you were at the bottom of this. Don't you know that you have behaved disgracefully? Do you think my father will help you to marry Pat after such conduct as this? No, don't go down on your knees; I am not inclined to intercede for you at present. I am not inclined to take your part. You must go this instant to the place where you have hidden Janet May. There is not a moment to lose; go and bring her back at once!"

Norah began to cry feebly.

"You are hard on me," she sobbed, "and I done it for you—Pat and me, we done it for you. We meant no harm either. The young Englisher girl have come to no grief—leastways, nothing but a bit of a fright, and she'll do what we wants if you don't spoil everything, Miss Bridget."

"I don't understand you, Norah; I don't feel even inclined to listen to you. You must go this minute and release poor Janet."