At eight o'clock next morning, Murtagh and Rosie set off together from the schoolroom to fetch their guest, both of them anxious for the glory of introducing her to their uncle.

Adrienne had already left her room, and was standing in the strip of sunlight that streamed through her open door, looking doubtfully down the corridor. She wore a rough gray woolen dress, fastened at the throat with a knot of bright blue ribbon, and in her belt she had put two or three red leaves from the Virginia creeper that clustered round her window. The sunlight, shining full upon her golden hair, made of the whole a picture that was extremely satisfactory to Murtagh's eye.

"I say, Rosie!" he exclaimed, standing still in the dark end of the corridor, "doesn't she look jolly like that?"

"Yes, isn't she pretty? I expect she's had all her clothes made in Paris, too," Rosie replied in an enthusiastic whisper.

"Paris!" retorted Murtagh, contemptuously. But at that moment Adrienne perceived them, and came forward with a bright "Good morning."

"I guessed that the bell meant breakfast," she continued, "and I was wondering how I should find my way to the dining-room."

"That's why we came," said Rosie; "and then there's Uncle Blair, you know, you haven't seen him yet."

"No," said Adrienne. "And the others," she continued after a little pause, "where are they? Are they in the dining-room?"

"Oh, Bobbo's in bed, I think," replied Rosie, "but he'll be down in a minute or two; and Winnie's—out," she added, letting her voice drop mysteriously at the last word.

"Then she did go?" asked Murtagh, eagerly.

"Yes, quite early, while it was dark, about three o'clock, I think; the stable clock struck, but I was so sleepy I couldn't count."

"Is it a secret?" asked Adrienne.

"Well, it's not exactly—at least it's a sort of a secret," replied Rose, doubtfully.

"I think you might know," she continued. "She's gone to the Liss of Voura to see if she can see the—Fairies." The last word came out with a vivid blush.

"They say they dance there every morning when the sun rises. But I daresay it's not true," she added.

"Why shouldn't it be true, I should like to know?" asked Murtagh. But they had reached the dining-room, and Rosie gladly avoided the necessity for answering by throwing open the door and ushering Adrienne into the presence of Mr. Blair.

He had been sitting reading the newspaper, but as they entered he rose and stretched out both hands to Adrienne, saying in a warm, gentle voice, "My dear child, you are very welcome."

As Adrienne advanced, to lay her hands in his, he gazed at her with something of surprised tenderness in his face, and murmured, "RÉnÉe!" Then he added aloud: "What is your name, my dear?"

"Adrienne," she answered.

"Ah, yes, yes. That was her name, too," he said dreamily to himself. Then drawing out a chair from the table he continued, "Sit down and make the tea; I shan't have to do it for myself any more now."

She sat down as she was bid. Her uncle stood beside her some little time in silence, watching her movements.

"Why didn't they tell me you were so like your mother?" he asked presently.

"My mother!" exclaimed Adrienne. "Am I like her? She died so long ago I don't remember her at all," she added sadly.

"Yes, yes; only two years after she married him. It's a long time ago now. How old are you, my dear?"

"I was eighteen my last birthday," replied Adrienne; but her uncle did not seem to hear. He walked away to his place at the bottom of the table, and his next remark was to ask Rosie where the other children were. Rosie answered sedately that she thought they were coming presently, all except Winnie; and breakfast proceeded in silence till Bobbo came tumbling into the room with little Ellie following upon his heels.

He did not speak to any one, and would have taken his place at once at the breakfast table; but as Adrienne naturally held out her hand and said "Good morning," he came around and shook hands with her, asking with a hearty look out of his frank blue eyes, whether she had rested well. Then, though the children kept up a half-whispered conversation between themselves at their end of the table, they did not speak either to their uncle or to Adrienne. Mr. Blair maintained complete silence, and Adrienne devoted herself to Ellie, whose high chair was placed beside her.

The little thing was too shy to speak much, but she looked her surprise and delight at the nicely cut fingers of bread and butter which Adrienne built up into castles on her blue plate, and watched with almost solemn interest the important, and, to her, altogether novel operation of sifting sugary snow upon the roofs of them. Then, as she grew bolder, a little rosy finger was put out, and when some of the snow fell upon it there came such a merry peal of baby laughter that Adrienne laughed too, and Mr. Blair looked up in benign astonishment.

Mr. Blair had finished his breakfast, and apparently was absorbed again in the reading of his newspaper, so Adrienne quietly prepared to follow the children. But as she moved across the room her uncle looked up.

"You have had a sorry welcome, I am afraid, my dear," he said; "but I hope you will be able soon to feel that, for all that, we are none the less glad to have you amongst us." He rose, as he spoke, and walked towards the fireplace where Adrienne stood. "You understand, of course," he continued, "that so long as you live with me you are mistress here. Donegan is very anxious to make you comfortable, but I daresay she may not know everything you require. So you must order anything you want. May I trust you to do this?"

"You are very kind," Adrienne replied gratefully. Then as she looked up at the kind, dreamy face that was turned towards her she was encouraged to add, "But I had a very kind welcome; the children were watching for me, and they took charge of me."

"Ah, yes, the children," replied her uncle. "You must try and put up with them as well as you can. Mr. Plunkett tells me that they are very unruly; but they are the children of my brother Launcelot, and till he sends for them they will remain here. Who knows," he added in the tone of one struck by a sudden idea, "perhaps you will not mind having them; they may serve as a sort of companion for you, my poor child. I am afraid you will be very lonely here."

"Do you mean," said Adrienne, puzzled, "you thought I would not like to have the children? Oh, but I am so glad!" And there was no questioning the sudden lighting up of her face. "I love children very much."

"They are very lucky," said her uncle, with a glance of admiration at the pretty figure that stood before him on the hearth-rug.

"I did not mean—" she began.

"My dear child," he interrupted, "you did not mean anything but what was perfectly natural,—that you dreaded the dullness of living alone with a worn-out old man. And I am right glad to find that the children are likely to be a pleasure to you instead of a worry; indeed, I wonder I did not think of that before, for there is only just enough difference of age between you," he added, smiling, "to make you delightful to me; while the others!—" An expression of comic despair finished the sentence.

"But now," he continued, "you will be a Godsend to all of us. Since you care about children, you will look after them a little for me. And now, my dear, I will not keep you any longer."

He bent forward, as he spoke, and touched her forehead with his lips. Then with a kindly pressure of the hand he walked to the door, and held it open while she passed out. Adrienne, after crossing the hall and wandering about a little among smaller passages, was guided by the sound of voices to a door which she recognized at once, thanks to a crooked brass handle and the letters "L. B." cut with a penknife in the brown wood above the lock.

She opened it, and found herself straightway in the presence of all the children. The large window at the end of the room was open wide, and Winnie seated side-ways on the window-sill, with her head resting against the gray stone framework, was eating a large hunch of bread. A flock of pigeons and white ducks clamored for scraps on the terrace outside; curled up in her lap lay four small kittens, and the big mother cat sat sunning herself upon the window-sill; but Winnie seemed to be paying only a mechanical attention to her pets. She was white from want of food, and there was a general air of preoccupation and disappointment in her attitude,—disappointment which seemed to have communicated itself in a measure to the other children, who stood grouped around her.

"No," she was saying as Adrienne entered; "it's just Peggy's rubbish, and there's an end of it."

"Well, but," said Murtagh, doubtfully, "they might be there another day and not be there to-day."

"No," returned Winnie, decidedly; "I don't believe they're ever there. It was quite dark when I got up on the Liss, and I hid under a bush and watched with my eyes wide open till it was blazing light all over everywhere, and I didn't see a single thing, and there—there's an end of it." She flung a piece of crust out on the grass as she spoke, so that the poor ill-used ducks had to turn round and waddle quite a journey before they got it. But perhaps even ducks can look reproachful, for she broke almost immediately another bit from her hunch of bread, and threw it to a fat laggard, with a compassionate—"There, poor old Senior, that's for you." And then, turning more gently to Murtagh, she said, "Never mind, Myrrh, you know it wasn't any use believing it if it wasn't true."

Murtagh did not answer. But suddenly an idea crossed Bobbo's mind, and he exclaimed, half-doubtfully, "Win, do you think—they might have known you were coming, and perhaps they didn't choose you to see them?"

The notion seemed to find some favor with the other children. Winnie glanced at Murtagh to see what he thought; but Murtagh, who had been aware of Adrienne's entrance, was looking to her, so Winnie's eyes followed his.

"No, I do not think that exactly," said Adrienne. She seated herself on the window-sill, opposite Winnie, and began to stroke the old cat. Then she continued in the same slow, thoughtful tone: "Once I used to believe in fairies, as you do, and I used to want to see them, but I never did. I used to think I did sometimes, but I never did. Then I began to think they could not be true, and that made me very unhappy, for I loved them so. Everything that happened to me I used to think the fairies were there; I was all alone, and hadn't anybody but the fairies. When it was fine I thought the fairies were in the sun; when it rained I thought they were in the rain. I thought they were in the flowers, in the moon,—everywhere, in everything. But still I began to be afraid they could not be true.

"I do not know how long that lasted, but I remember the day when it was all finished—the very last day when I ever believed in them.

"It was when I was eight years old. I had been alone nearly all day, and I had been standing a long time by the window watching the rain beat down upon the pavement. It was growing dark, but still I did not go away; for I always used to think the little splashes were water-fairies dancing, and I liked to watch them. I was thinking about them, and half-dreaming, I think, when suddenly I seemed to know that they were not fairies at all—nothing but water-splashes. I felt almost frightened, and I went away from the window and sat down on the hearth-rug in front of the fire. But then the sight of the fire reminded me that there were no fire-fairies either; no fairies anywhere all over the world. It seemed such a dreadful thing to know; and I couldn't help it,—I just hid my face in the hearth-rug, and cried like a little baby."

The children had fixed their eyes with interest and sympathy on Adrienne, but her attention was apparently concentrated on stroking old Griffin, who purred in the sunshine.

"I never shall forget that afternoon," she continued, "I was so very unhappy; and it wasn't only that afternoon; for months afterwards I couldn't bear to think of a fairy. But the reason I tell you about it," she added, raising her eyes and looking towards the children, "is because afterwards it went away. One of my uncles came to live with us, and he told me about the true fairies; I mean the angels; and I have believed in them ever since. And so you need not be disappointed because the fairies do not really dance where Winnie went to look, because the angels are better, and they are true. Some people don't think the angels are all round us everywhere as the fairies were, but I do. I think it is so beautiful to believe that they are everywhere, in everything; sent down from heaven to make the flowers sweet, and the fruit ripe, and to put good into us."

She looked out, as she finished speaking, to the sunny park, where the great trees stood in all their autumn glory. The children looked out too and were silent. Just for the moment they were all feeling, as it were, the presence of angels.

But suddenly Bobbo was struck by another idea. "Why, you're talking English!" he exclaimed. "But you know you're French! I'd forgotten all about it!" He seemed quite excited by his discovery, and Adrienne began to laugh.

"Oh, yes!" cried Winnie, "of course you are, and Murtagh and I had got some things ready to say. Hadn't we, Murtagh? 'Comment-vous portez-vous,' and 'Parlez-vous Anglais.'"

"I am very well, thank you," said Adrienne, with a little mock bow. "And I speak English just as easily as I do French. We lived for years in England, you know, and then I always had English governesses. Grand'mÈre knew, of course, that I was coming here, so she paid particular attention to my English."

"Oh!" said all the children in chorus; and then Rosie, coloring violently, asked a question which it had evidently been agreed beforehand that she should ask.

"What did you say your name was? Murtagh says it's Adrenne; but that isn't a name exactly at all, is it?"

"Yes," said Adrienne, smiling. "He is quite right; Adrienne Marie VÉronique Erstein Blair!"

"Oh!" exclaimed Bobbo, doubling himself up as though the very sound gave him a pain. "Do you expect us to say all that every time we want the door shut?"

The faces of the other children were so full of genuine dismay that Adrienne laughed outright.

"Grand'mÈre used to call me Reine," she said, "that's a little shorter, isn't it?"

"Yes, but," said Murtagh, doubtfully, "'Rain!' It's not pretty, or anything. You're not a bit rainy-looking."

"Pitter, patter! Drip, drop, dropsy!" exclaimed Bobbo, his blue eyes lighting up impudently.

"Hush, Bobbo, be quiet; you're behaving very rudely," said Rosie, with a little anxious glance at Adrienne. "We can't call you by any of those names," she added in her pleasantest voice; "they are not pretty enough."

"Would you mind saying your name again, please," said Murtagh, looking puzzled; "the first one, I mean, that we'll have to call you by."

Adrienne repeated it slowly once or twice, and the children said it after her. But they didn't seem satisfied with their own pronunciation.

"It will never be the same as yours," exclaimed Bobbo, after two ineffectual attempts. "I'll call you Topsy; it's much easier!"

"I'll tell you what," said Winnie, who had been silently finishing her piece of bread. "Suppose we call her Nessa, after poor Nessa that died." They hesitated, and a grave silence fell for a moment on the little group. Adrienne regretted that she had been the means of saddening them.

"Who was Nessa?" she asked at length, gently.

"She was so pretty," said Winnie, "with long soft brown hair and beautiful big eyes."

"I think she was a little bit like you," said Murtagh; "only her hair was browner than yours."

"Oh, Murtagh!" exclaimed Rosie.

"Was she as old as I am?" asked Adrienne.

"Oh, no," said Murtagh, "she was quite young; but she did bark so beautifully."

"She did what?" exclaimed Adrienne.

"Bark! bark at all the strangers that came near the place."

"Oh!" said Adrienne, completely taken aback. "Then—then—she must have been a dog!"

"Yes," said Rosie, hurriedly. "It's ridiculous Murtagh saying she was like you; she was only a little dog that we found in the road."

"Why, what else did you suppose she was?" asked Murtagh, in surprise.

"I—I thought," said Adrienne, blushing, and then brimming over with laughter,—"I thought she was your elder sister."

The children greeted her speech with such peals of laughter that the sadness connected with Nessa was effectually dispersed, and no further hesitation was entertained as to Adrienne's name. Nothing could she be now but "Nessa";—"Our elder sister Nessa," as Murtagh half-impudently, half-admiringly called her.

"And it's perfect nonsense, Rosie," said Murtagh, "to say that the other Nessa wasn't like her. Her hair was darker, and so were her eyes; but there was a sort of likeness about them all the same,—a sort of golden look in their faces; wasn't there, Winnie?"

"How silly you are, Murtagh!" replied Rosie, contemptuously, "just as if a dog could be like a real grown-up person."

"Yes, they can," replied Murtagh; "and I heard papa saying one day to a gentleman at one of the big dinner-parties, that everybody has a sort of a likeness to some animal. There!"

"Then if they have, you're like a little black monkey," replied Rosie, hotly and inconsequently; "but it's nonsense all the same, silly nonsense, to say that a little brown dog out on the road is like this Nessa!"

"But it isn't nonsense, Rosie, when I see—" began Murtagh.

Rosie contemptuously turned her back upon him, and Winnie remarked quietly:

"It's no use arguing with Rosie, you know, Myrrh."

Murtagh paid no attention, but followed Rosie, exclaiming eagerly: "Can't you understand if I see a likeness—" Rosie never listened to what her opponent said. She pushed him away so violently that he lost his balance and fell over little Ellie, who was sitting upon the floor. The child began to scream; Adrienne sprang forward to pick her up; in the midst of the confusion the door opened, and Peggy's voice made itself heard, saying, "Whisht, Miss Ellie; get up, Mr. Murtagh, dear; here's Mr. Plunkett."

"Hang Mr. Plunkett!" muttered Murtagh, getting up slowly, and pulling his jacket straight. Adrienne had already picked up Ellie, and carried her in her arms back to the window-sill, but the child had been hurt; and, nothing abashed by the sight of the correct-looking person who appeared in the doorway, she continued to roar with all her might, her little red face puckered up, and bright salt tears dropping on Adrienne's shoulder.

Mr. Plunkett stood in the doorway surveying the scene.

"Is this the best specimen, sir, that you can give Miss Blair of your behavior?" he inquired sternly, addressing Murtagh.

Murtagh made no answer.

"And you are not content," continued Mr. Plunkett, looking at Rosie's hot, angry face, "with displaying such unruliness yourself, but you draw all your brothers and sisters after you."

Murtagh walked over to the piano and began to arrange the music humming, "There was an old woman who lived in a shoe."

"Incorrigible boy!" said Mr. Plunkett, in an undertone. Then turning to Adrienne he saluted her with a bow and a respectfully polite, "Miss Blair, I presume."

Adrienne, engaged in soothing Ellie, replied to his remarks with a certain gracious gentleness peculiar to her. Presently the child forgot her grief in a sudden curiosity as to the method of buttoning and unbuttoning Adrienne's dress, and with the tears still glistening on her cheeks she began to smile with pleasure as she poked her little fingers through the button-holes. Then Adrienne wiped away the tears, and the conversation with Mr. Plunkett grew into a more animated discussion of the beauties of the surrounding country.

"I hope," said Mr. Plunkett at length, "that you will be kind enough to let me know if there is anything you desire. It is Mr. Blair's wish that I should do everything in my power to make you comfortable. As for the children, when they trouble you, pray have no hesitation in applying to me for assistance. And I hope," he added, raising his voice a little, and addressing the children without looking at them, "that common hospitality will induce you to inflict as little as possible of your wildness upon your cousin."

Adrienne thanked him, but looking across at the children, she said, "I think we are going to be friends; aren't we?"

The children's faces, more or less expressive, showed their acceptance of the treaty. Mr. Plunkett looked as though he felt somehow vaguely disapprobatory; and then, turning round to Murtagh, he changed the subject by saying severely:

"I hear, sir, that you have been at your old tricks again, stealing fruit from the garden."

"You heard wrong, then," returned Murtagh, his brow lowering.

"Don't add untruth to your other misdeeds; you were seen by one of the policemen. It is useless to deny it."

"Gentlemen don't tell lies," returned Murtagh, with a sneering accentuation of the words that made them nothing less than insulting. Adrienne was shocked and astonished at the scene. From where she sat on the window-sill behind Mr. Plunkett, she looked across at Murtagh, while Mr. Plunkett answered angrily:

"What do you mean by speaking to me in such a manner?"

Murtagh's eyes met Adrienne's, and perhaps the expression that he found there made some impression on him. His features relaxed a little, and he remained silent.

Mr. Plunkett continued: "I am tired of speaking of this robbing of the garden. I see nothing but strong measures are of any use, and I give you fair warning that the next time any of you are caught in the garden you shall be severely punished." Mr. Plunkett evidently intended his words to end the conversation, but Murtagh looked blacker than ever, and some answer as bitter as the last trembled on his lips. Before he had time to speak, however, Adrienne exclaimed innocently:

"Why, how the time is going! Don't let me keep you all indoors. I must unpack a little, and write a letter; but if you will go out now, I will join you as soon as I am ready."

Murtagh looked perversely inclined to stay where he was, but an appealing glance from Adrienne persuaded him to follow the others, who rushed at once into the passage.

"Those children are running perfectly wild," said Mr. Plunkett; "they make their own laws, and are the annoyance of every one in the place. It is little short of madness to keep them here under the present conditions; but Winnie and Murtagh suffered severely from fever in India, and Mr. Launcelot Blair refuses to send them to school. It is mistaken treatment. The discipline of school would be far better for them than the riotous life they lead. But it is, of course, for their parents to decide."

"Do they do no lessons at all?" asked Adrienne.

"They do nothing useful, Miss Blair," said Mr. Plunkett, severely. Then changing the subject, he returned to his former measured courteous manner; and after a little further conversation, he wished Adrienne "Good morning," and left her to write her letters.

Whatever Mr. Plunkett might think of the children, they had, as has been seen, no high opinion of him. On this occasion they were no sooner well outside the schoolroom than Bobbo relieved his feelings by exclaiming:

"Oh, that brute Plunkett! wouldn't I like to punch his head!"

"It's no good thinking about him, Myrrh," said Winnie, seeing that the black look had not faded from Murtagh's face. "Let's do something. Shall we go and steal some more apples? I am awfully hungry."

"Oh, no!" said Rosie, "don't let us do that; but I'll tell you what'll be fun. Let's get some brown cake from Donnie, and go and boil potatoes on one of the islands."

Winnie agreeing, the little girls ran off to the kitchen, and Bobbo, left alone with Murtagh, returned to his subject.

"I say, Murtagh," he continued, "we must just do something to that old Plunkett. He's getting worse and worse."

"I think I'll kill him some day!" burst out Murtagh, with such concentrated passion in his voice that Bobbo looked at him quite startled, and paused for a minute before he answered:

"I don't vote for killing, exactly. But I'd like to dip him in the river, or do something or other that would just take him down a peg."

But Murtagh did not seem disposed to talk any more about it at that moment. He thrust his hands deep into his pockets and slowly followed the others to the kitchen, where Mrs. Donegan was buttering slices of brown cake, and at the same time declaring that "she wasn't going to be getting them into bad habits of eating between their meals."