Mrs. O'Brien returned to the house. She was in a very bad humour; in fact, in a shocking humour; and the first person she met was Maureen.

"Ha—ho, come here, charity child!"

Maureen, who was dusting the drawing-room assiduously, did not move a muscle, but went on with her work.

"Do you hear me, Maureen? I have spoken to you."

"No, you haven't," said Maureen. "You spoke to somebody you called a charity child—I'm not that. Do you want me for anything special, step-auntie?"

"Yes. I want to put a spoke in your wheel. Charity child or not at the present moment, you will be one soon."

"Step-auntie, why are you so unkind to me?" The sweet brown eyes became slightly moist and the lovely rosy lips trembled.

"Affected little piece," said Mrs. O'Brien. "Now, you listen to me. Whatever you call yourself now, you will be a charity child soon, but I wish to give you a message. Tell that ridiculous old uncle of yours that as he chose to appropriate my phaeton and horse and my coachman to drive to Kingsala, I have made arrangements to go on most vital business to see Colonel Herbert at Rathclaren."

"Rathclaren!" cried Maureen; "but that's a long way off. You will never walk the nine miles, step-auntie."

"You hold your chatter. I know what I'm about. Jacobs has gone to fetch Farmer Barrett's young colt and dogcart. I'm going to drive there."

Maureen clasped her hands, and her pretty soft face turned white.

"Oh, step-auntie, don't—don't, I beg of you. The only colt that Farmer Barrett has got is The O'Shee, and he's not half nor quarter broken in yet. Oh, please, auntie, let me go for you. I will take any message you like. I'll bring Colonel Herbert to see you. Please, please, don't trust yourself to that high dogcart and Jacobs, who can hardly drive anything, and The O'Shee. I don't mind a bit walking nine miles, and I'll do it for you. Please let me."

But Mrs. O'Brien was too angry to be prudent.

"Charity child," she said, "go on with your dusting, and leave me alone. When your uncle returns, you will be able to tell him where I am. Now, I'm off to put on my finery. If you like to make yourself useful, which you never do like, you can come up with me to my bedroom and fasten my boots."

Maureen obeyed. Mrs. O'Brien's room was dainty, and fashionable-looking, and there were all sorts of silver brushes and boxes and trays on the table, and different condiments for improving the complexion and making the fiery blue eyes look more fiery than ever.

Little Maureen, bending down in her shabby frock, with her soft brown hair falling about her shoulders, made a strange contrast to the haughty dame. Several times she tried to speak again, to urge, to beg, to implore, but Mrs. O'Brien was now absorbed in her toilet. She wanted to make herself look very effective when she visited Colonel Herbert. At last she was dressed in a style which seemed to please her. She wore a silk dress of soft pink and a toque to match with that horrible osprey, which Maureen so hated, for she knew, she had learnt the terrible cruelty that takes place in obtaining the osprey. Although she was supposed to be uneducated, she was the sort of little girl who was always picking up odds and ends of knowledge. At last there came the clatter of wheels, the shout of Jacobs' voice, and the sound of a horse's hoofs as he trod the avenue.

"Oh, auntie, if you only wouldn't," said the beseeching little Maureen.

"Child, I will. There is no saying what may happen if I don't go."

"May—may—I mean, would you like me to come with you?"

"You—you little brat—no. Get out of my way!"

Maureen said no more. Mrs. O'Brien with considerable difficulty found herself mounted on the tall dogcart, and soon The O'Shee, the lady, and the groom were out of sight. They went like a gust of wind, as Maureen said afterwards. Her heart was beating wildly. She was full of untold terror. She had no one to confide in, however, so she went, in her accustomed, steadfast sort of way, to prepare the best dinner she could think of for Uncle Pat. Pegeen always loved to have her in the kitchen, and soon she was very busy shelling peas and removing the stalks from enormous strawberries and whipping up a great bowl of cream. She hoped that step-auntie would stay a very long time with Colonel Herbert, and that her darling Uncle Pat would come back tired, weary, no doubt, but with no one to worry him, when he sat down to his excellent dinner.

Meanwhile the lady on the dogcart had a somewhat adventurous drive, for The O'Shee, worthy of his name, bolted and jibbed and shied at every single thing he met. Jacobs had not the slightest idea how to drive, so Mrs. O'Brien, who had, whatever her faults, plenty of courage, took the reins into her own hands, relegated the groom to the back seat, and by dint of wild exertion and desperate efforts got The O'Shee to the gates of Colonel Herbert's place, Rathclaren.

Now the dogcart was exceedingly shabby and the half-broken-in colt was not a pretty object, as he stood quivering and shaking, nor was Jacobs anything to boast of, for the only decent livery was worn by the servant who had taken the Rector and his son to Kingsala. Mrs. O'Brien therefore made up her mind to leave Jacobs and the colt and dogcart in a remote shady lane, while she herself walked gracefully up the avenue to Colonel Herbert's mansion.

Colonel Herbert was an old bachelor, one of the most noted hunters in the neighbourhood, and exceedingly particular about his dress and appearance. He had never liked Mrs. O'Brien, but he put up with her for the sake of that good man, the Rector. He certainly disliked Mrs. O'Brien's style of dress, which he considered most unsuitable for any lady. He was, however, a gentleman—every inch of him—and when Mrs. O'Brien explained that she had left her restless horse somewhere at the gates, and would like to have a talk with him over a matter of extreme privacy, he took her into his study, a luxuriously-appointed room, very different from the poor Rector's, and inquired anxiously how his dear friend the said Rector was.

"But poorly," said Mrs. O'Brien. "He may, however, revive; there is no saying. He has had the best medical advice, and I suppose will soon be himself again."

"I trust so, indeed," said Colonel Herbert. "Your husband, madam, is one of the saints of God."

"I will be honest with you," said Mrs. O'Brien. "I dislike saints."

The Colonel was a little puzzled to know how to reply, and on such an occasion he was invariably silent.

"What can I do for you?" he said, after a very long pause.

"Well, Colonel, I'm a lonely woman, and I've really no one with whom I can talk matters over. You may possibly have heard that I personally am well off."

The Colonel nodded very gravely.

"I have two dear, sweet daughters by my first husband. Their name is Mostyn. When I married my husband, I don't mind confessing to you that I was desperately in love with him."

"Quite so—quite so," said the Colonel, who hated the subject of love more than anything in the wide world. "Mrs. O'Brien," he continued, "you had a right to give your heart to so noble a fellow. There isn't Patrick O'Brien's equal in the whole county."

"Ah, well," said Mrs. O'Brien, "you haven't lived with him day in and day out. Anyhow, I was madly in love with him then, and I made a will that in case of the extreme improbability of my dying before him, my money, which amounts to fifty thousand pounds, should be divided equally between the Rector, his children, a little girl called Maureen, and of course my own two dear lovely girls. It was a noble thing to do, don't you think so, Colonel Herbert?"

"I certainly agree with you, madam, and it must be a great relief to O'Brien, dear fellow. I could guess that he was always a bit upset about his dear little niece Maureen—for poor Maurice died so suddenly he had not a penny to leave the child—and she motherless, and his only one. I never saw a finer pair of fellows than Pat and Maurice. Of course you have let the Rector know all about your fine determination, Mrs. O'Brien?"

"Indeed, then, I have done nothing so silly," said Mrs. O'Brien. "I must have been a bit mad when I made so ludicrous a will; but what will not love aspire to? There is not much in it after all, for it can only take effect if by a remote chance my poor weak husband survives me. If I survive him, the will is so much waste paper; but to make all things sure—for we never can tell what may happen to us in this uncertain world—I want either to have the will changed or to make a new one. To be plain with you, Colonel, my feelings are not what they were——"

"Dear, dear," said the Colonel; "what can possibly have changed them?"

"Oh! a thousand things, Colonel Herbert; but principally that child—or rather that imp Maureen—I need not go into particulars; but you as a gentleman must understand how a lady is placed. I have come here to consult you. I want your sage advice on the subject of my new will."

"How do you want it altered?" asked Colonel Herbert.

"Well, I'm particularly anxious to settle all my money on my girls by the first marriage. Can you assist me? Can you help a lonely woman to put a wrong right?"

"My dear Mrs. O'Brien"—the Colonel rose impatiently from his seat—"it is absolutely impossible for me to help you. I am a retired Army man, not a lawyer. Go to a lawyer and he will draw you up any sort of will you desire. Now I greatly fear I am due at the County Sessions. Will you excuse me, madam? There are good lawyers in Cork and in Kingsala. But may I ask you one question? I know a little about Mr. O'Brien's affairs, and I am aware of the fact that he is especially interested in his dear little niece Maureen, the daughter of one of the best fellows that ever breathed. I suppose in readjusting your will or making a new one, you will not forget that sweet child who is loved by everyone in the place."

"Sweet child!" exclaimed Mrs. O'Brien. "Little you know her, Colonel. I tell you she can put on those manners, but she's a nasty little witch, and I hate her. Leave her a penny of my money—not I!"

"Then may God forgive you, madam. Now I'm afraid I must say good-morning."

It so happened that Mrs. O'Brien left Colonel Herbert's house in a towering rage. She had certainly got no comfort from that gentleman. Had he seen the shabby dogcart, the wild, half-broken-in race-horse, and poor Jacobs doing his best with him, matters might have turned out differently, but he was absorbed in his own thoughts and made up his mind to go and see the Reverend Patrick on the morrow.

"What possessed him to marry that woman?" was his thought.

By the time Mrs. O'Brien reached the dogcart, The O'Shee was in a wild temper. He was stamping and pawing the ground and jumping from one side of the road to the other.

"It's frighted to death I be of him, m'm," said Jacobs.

"You're a fool," said Mrs. O'Brien. "Here, hold his head while I mount."

But The O'Shee did not wish to have his head held, and the lady in the pale pink silk dress had considerable difficulty in mounting into the shabby dogcart.

"I'll give it to him, little beast," said Mrs. O'Brien, as she took the whip from its place.

"For the Lord's sake, ma'am, don't lay that on him. He's niver had a sthroke on him in his life. He'll go mad entirely, ma'am. Oh, Mrs. O'Brien, ma'am, you'll be kilt entirely."

But Mrs. O'Brien's only reply was to touch Jacobs himself with the end of the whip, and then, before he could get to his place at the back of the dogcart, she laid the said instrument across The O'Shee's back. The O'Shee stood still for a minute, quivering from head to foot in unbounded amazement.

Jacobs tried to mount, but before he could do so, the lady and the horse were away. They went like a whirlwind; they went, as Jacobs described it afterwards, like a streak of lightning. In vain the angry woman tried to pull in The O'Shee; in vain she laid the whip across his shoulders. He was off—he was away. This was truly going—this was like flying. For the first time a sensation of fear come over the woman. She did not dare to look back, but she knew she was alone. She also knew one thing, that she was not going in the direction of Templemore. The horse had it his own way this time, and he was making straight as an arrow from a bow to one of those celebrated Irish bogs, which devour man and beast so that they are never heard of again. Once in the bog, you never get out; you never can. Mrs. O'Brien knew it. She knew there was only one way of helping herself. She must spring from the dogcart before the horse reached the bog, the great bog of Anniskail.

Suddenly she flung the reins down; suddenly she made a leap from the high dogcart on to a heap of stones on the soft narrow road. She gave one terrible, piteous scream, and then lay still. Her head was doubled under her very queerly, so that it did not seem to belong to her body. An Irish peasant coming by presently came up to her, turned her round and looked at her.

"Broken neck—dead on the spot," he said to himself; and then he thought he would begin to spread the news, until suddenly he saw in the midst of his anxiety and his great desire to be the first with such a piece of information, the well-known head of Farmer Barrett's O'Shee looking at him out of the bog. He was up to his neck and shoulders, and all the fire had gone out of him.

The peasant untied the lady's pale pink sash. Little he cared about her in comparison with the race-horse. Other peasants came to his relief, and together they dragged the shivering animal out of the black, black bog.