But as they reached terra firma the first bell rang for dinner, reminding them that it would be useless to go yet to the Red House. Mr. Plunkett would not be down-stairs till the afternoon.

They had nothing to give Theresa to eat, so Winnie and Bobbo went off to the garden to get her some apples, while Murtagh and Rosie returned to the schoolroom. There they found Nessa waiting anxiously for news.

During their absence the wildest reports had come up from the village. The child's disappearance had naturally caused a great sensation in the little place. It had been the topic of all conversation for several days. In many minds it had been vaguely connected with the attempt upon Mr. Plunkett's life, and if some of the inhabitants of the village were better informed as to the latter event, there was a very general impression that "there were terrible things going about."

Cabins were left unswept, dinners uncooked, pigs unfed. The whole population of the little village turned out into the street, and wondered, and conjectured, and shook their heads, and had a little drink at the shop at the corner just to keep up their spirits; till from one cause or another they had worked themselves into a state of mind in which accuracy was far from being one of the predominant qualities.

Rumors and conjectures spread like wild-fire. In vain Mrs. Donegan and Nessa tried to find out the truth. Some said one thing and some another, and poor old Donnie so implicitly believed always the worst account, that Nessa grew thoroughly confused, and felt half-terrified at the barbarism of a place where every one seemed to think it quite natural and probable that a little girl should be carried off and murdered in order to annoy her mother.

"Oh, I am so glad you have come back!" she exclaimed, as Murtagh and Rosie entered the schoolroom. "Tell me what is true about Mrs. Daly's little girl. Your countrymen talk so wildly I really cannot understand them."

"If you can't understand Irishmen you can't understand me," replied Murtagh, throwing himself into an arm-chair.

His tone was almost rude. Nessa flushed a little, and turning to Rosie she continued:

"They told us such dreadful stories. They said—they said—the floor of the hut was covered with blood; but one said one thing and one another till it was not possible to understand. It is not true, is it? It cannot be true."

It was too much; Rosie could not bear it. Her only answer was a burst of tears.

"Oh, Mon Dieu!" said Nessa. "Her poor mother! Is it so bad as that? Is she really dead?"

"No more dead than I am!" exclaimed Murtagh, springing from the chair and walking impatiently to the window.

Rosie sobbed on, and Nessa, now utterly bewildered, put her arms round her, and asked soothingly, "What is it that makes you cry?"

Rosie twisted herself out of Nessa's arms and made no answer. Nessa looked inquiringly towards Murtagh, but he was standing with his back turned to her, staring out of the window, and almost counting every sob of Rosie's.

At last he turned and said quietly, "Don't you think you had better go up-stairs, Rose?"

Without stopping her tears Rosie went slowly out of the room, and they heard her sobs growing fainter and fainter as she walked away down the long passage.

"What is it?" asked Nessa, half-timidly, as the sound of the last sob died away. "Is it something about the little girl, or have you—" She stopped, fearing to offend Murtagh by suggesting that they might have quarrelled.

Poor Murtagh was at his wit's end. In despair he turned round to his cousin with a mute pleading look that said more than words. There were no tears in his eyes. They were like the eyes of some dumb animal in pain; they did not ask for help—they seemed only to implore a little patience. Nessa had never seen a child look like that; she felt as though she were in the presence of a real trouble.

"Oh, I beg your pardon," she exclaimed almost involuntarily, and then remembering that Murtagh was only a little fellow she put her arms round his neck and kissed him.

"Don't be so sad," she said.

Murtagh's heart bounded at her kindness. It was nearly five years since any one had caressed him so. He kissed her warmly back again, tears that had not been there before springing to his eyes.

The luncheon-bell ringing loudly, they all moved away together to the dining-room.

Ellie was in high spirits, and Murtagh and Nessa devoted themselves to the little lady, till towards the middle of dinner Winnie and Bobbo came in from the garden.

"You are rather late," said Nessa.

"Yes," replied Winnie; "we were getting apples, and Bland nearly caught us, so we had to run round the long way. He did catch me, but I wriggled away from him. We brought the apples all safe," she added, turning to Murtagh.

"All right," said Murtagh, shortly.

Winnie glanced quickly from him to Nessa, and then subsided into silence.

"I thought you ought not to take the apples," said Nessa.

"No," replied Bobbo, "but we had to; we wanted them."

The children were bad actors. Nessa wondered what was the matter, and wondered why none of them made the slightest allusion to the event which had apparently been so deeply interesting to them in the morning.

After luncheon she was standing before the drawing-room fire, when the door opened and Murtagh ran in. To her surprise he threw his arms round her and kissed her. Then, blushing a little at what he had done, he said earnestly:

"You're awfully kind. I'll tell you about everything this evening," and without waiting for her to answer he ran away again.

Rosie was with them, and having completely recovered from her fit of crying she was very anxious now to regain her place in Winnie's and Murtagh's esteem.

All the time that the others had been at dinner she had spent in thinking. She felt really sorry for having broken down and cried before Nessa. If Murtagh and Winnie had been angry with her for that, she could have understood them much better. That did deserve their contempt. "It was very hard, too," she thought, "just at the end, when they were going to get the rent and have all the happy part of taking Theresa home, that she should be separated from them, as it were, and lose her share in the pleasure." Above all, she could not bear to be thought cowardly and stupid. She liked people to be fond of her. The result of her thinking was that she determined to do her best to coax Mr. Plunkett to give them the rent. "For if I get the rent for them," she thought, "then they can't say I didn't do as much for Theresa as any one."

Consequently she was in one of her very pleasantest humors as she walked across the park, and Winnie and Murtagh wondered at her as she talked brightly about what she was going to say to Mr. Plunkett, sketched little scenes of Mrs. Daly's delight when Theresa was given back to her, and dwelt pleasantly upon how "jolly" they would all feel afterwards for having saved Theresa.

But though they wondered, they were certainly cheered, and felt far bolder when they arrived at the Red House than they had done for some time past.

"We want to see Mr. Plunkett, please, Biddy," said Rose to the servant, who was hanging out clothes to dry.

"Faix it's roses at Christmas-time we'll be havin' soon," returned Biddy, with a good-natured laugh. But the children were in no mood for joking, so they walked soberly up to the door, while Rose asked what room he was in.

"Ye're joking, Miss Rose," replied Biddy. "You wouldn't be goin' in to him in rale earnest. Why, it's like a mad bull in a china shop he is to-day, with the polis comin' in an' out, and one thing an' another."

"But we must go in," said Murtagh. "We have some business that we must speak to him about."

"Sure, Mr. Murtagh, honey, is it going to be married ye are, and come for him to draw out the dockiments?" answered Biddy, laughing outright.

"Stop being a donkey, Biddy," said Winnie, decidedly, "and tell us where he is."

"Where is he? By St. Patrick, if he was where I'd like him to be, it's the fardest end o' the pole from Biddy Connolly."

"Shut up your tomfoolery," said Bobbo, impatiently, while Winnie exclaimed:

"Come along; let us go in without her."

But at that Biddy dropped the wet clothes she held into the basket, and ran to the doorway.

"Is it mad ye are, Miss Rose? Ye can't go in there. The missus'd be out upon me in a minnit if I let yez in."

"Do let us in," said Rose, coaxingly. "We've got business."

"I can't, Miss Rose. 'Deed I cannot. You don't know the bother he'd kick up!"

"Oh, nonsense!" exclaimed Winnie, pushing past; "we can't help it; perhaps it'll bother him well again."

And so with a little more insistence, and more expostulations from Biddy, they made their way to the parlor and knocked at the door.

"Come in," called Mr. Plunkett.

"If ye will, ye will, an' I can't help yez," remarked Biddy, shaking her head compassionately as the children went into the room.

Mr. Plunkett was sitting in an arm-chair next the window, with his back turned to the door. There was no one else in the room, and having entered, the children stood hesitating for a moment near the door where he could not see them. Now that they were actually in his room their courage seemed all to have vanished. Their hearts were beating fast, they had a queer sensation in their throats, and not one of them could have spoken a word just then.

"Is that you, Marion?" inquired Mr. Plunkett, in a voice so gentle that the children could scarcely believe it was Mr. Plunkett who was speaking.

"No," faltered Rosie. Then plucking up courage she advanced towards his chair, and said in her most winning manner: "I hope you're feeling better now. It was so unlucky, wasn't it, that you fell under poor Black Shandy?"

"Thank you; I am somewhat recovered," replied Mr. Plunkett in his usual severe voice, and the children no longer doubted their ears.

"Did it hurt you very much?" inquired Rosie.

"I suffered considerably."

"I'm so sorry," said Rosie. "I do hate being hurt so." After a little pause she continued, the color mounting to her cheeks, "We have come to ask you a favor, and we do hope you'll grant it." Murtagh, Winnie, and Bobbo came slowly into view, and Mr. Plunkett's face on seeing them did not look as though he were going to grant a favor.

"By what door did you come in?" he inquired sharply.

"We came in together by the back door," answered Winnie.

"I should like to know where Bridget was. These Irish servants are all alike, careless and gossiping. I suppose her mind is too much taken up by the village mystery to allow her to pay any attention to work."

"I'd rather have one Irish than—" began Murtagh, indignantly, his temper rising as usual in Mr. Plunkett's presence, but Winnie trod on his foot and reduced him to silence.

"We all know, sir, that you would rather anything which gives you an opportunity for contradiction," returned Mr. Plunkett, severely. "Perhaps if you had had as much trouble as I have had about the disappearance of this girl, you would prefer not to have the additional one of seeing your servants abandon their work and leave your house open to whoever chooses to enter."

Winnie nudged Murtagh again as a hint to remain silent, but a sense of justice to Biddy made him answer:

"Biddy didn't run away from her work. She didn't want us to come in."

"And I suppose you thought my house was like your uncle's garden, to be broken into at pleasure when you want something out of it. Bland has just been with me, and he tells me you have been taking apples again. If it were not for this unfortunate accident, I can assure you you should be punished as you deserve."

Murtagh made no answer. After a short silence Mr. Plunkett turned to Rosie and said, "Well, and what is the favor I am expected to grant?"

Poor Rosie felt that it was almost impossible now to ask it. She blushed and stammered, "I—I—at least—we—I mean—"

"Be so kind as to speak plainly. I do not understand what you are asking," said Mr. Plunkett.

Rosie looked as if she were going to cry, but Winnie in her clear voice said:

"We want you, please, to let Mrs. Daly off paying the two sovereigns she owes for her rent."

Now that it was out the children all breathed more freely. Rose recovered herself, and they stood waiting anxiously for Mr. Plunkett's reply.

He was surprised. He had expected them to ask something for themselves, and he was fully prepared to refuse, but this request astonished him so much that he paused. Though a hard man he was not at heart so disagreeable as the children imagined. To them he could not speak kindly, for he honestly believed them to be bad, but he spoke kindly to his own well-brought-up children, and he had in his way felt sorry for poor Mrs. Daly in her trouble.

For a moment he felt almost inclined to say yes. But then he considered that there would be no necessity for the interference of the children, and he felt in no way disposed to give them a gratification.

The children stood like little statues while he thought. It seemed a good sign that he should take so long about it. At last the answer came:

"The paying of rent is a business transaction which does not in any way concern you. You may be quite sure that as your uncle's representative I will do whatever is right in the matter. And now, will you allow me to beg that at another time you will not force your way into my house when my servants tell you that it is contrary to my orders for any one to be admitted." And Mr. Plunkett taking up a newspaper began to read.

"But are you going to let her off paying?" inquired Winnie; "we want to know awfully badly."

"I shall do what I consider right after consulting with your uncle."

"Oh, I know Uncle Blair will say 'Give it to her,'" said Rosie; "and if you would say 'Yes' now, we would be so very much obliged. We have a most particular reason for wanting it."

"It will be quite time enough to consider such matters when something more certain is known of the fate of the poor woman's daughter," returned Mr. Plunkett.

"Oh, but," said Rose, not feeling quite sure how much to tell, "perhaps if it was quite certain about the money, then there would be some more known about Theresa. You know," she added coaxingly, "there are such wonderful little fairies in the world that know all about everything."

"What do you mean?" exclaimed Mr. Plunkett, sitting up straight in his chair. "You can't mean to say!—" But there his feelings seemed to become too strong for words, and he paused, looking at Murtagh.

"We mean to say," said Rose, in a pleasant voice, rapidly determining that whatever happened she would not go away without letting him know that they had Theresa, "that if you'll give us the rent for Mrs. Daly, perhaps we'll find Theresa and bring her back all safe and sound. Don't we, Murtagh?"

"But we mean to say, too," said Murtagh, grimly, looking at Rose, "that we can't possibly find out anything about her, nor say a single word more, unless we do get the rent."

"This is too much!" exclaimed Mr. Plunkett. "Do you mean to tell me, you graceless young scoundrel, that your pranks are at the bottom of all the trouble and worry we have had? Do you mean to say that for your own amusement you have given me all this trouble with the police, turned a whole village upside down for a week, and nearly killed a poor suffering woman with anxiety for her lost child! I have no language to express my opinion of you, sir."

"My dear James!" exclaimed Mrs. Plunkett, coming into the room at that moment. "What is the matter? Rosie! Bobbo! Winnie! and Murtagh!" she added in astonishment. "How in the world did you get into this room? Did you send for them, James? What have they been doing? You know, dear, the doctors said you were not to be excited."

"It is of little use for doctors or for any one to lay down rules while such children as these are allowed to run wild," replied Mr. Plunkett.

"Though you have confessed it yourselves," he continued, turning to Murtagh, "I can scarcely believe that you can have behaved in a manner so totally devoid of all Christian feeling. But it is the old story: mischief is your god. So long as you can have the excitement of a bit of mischief you care nothing at all for the feelings of others; and I have no doubt it seems to you an excellent joke to persuade a dying woman's child to run away, and to embitter the last days of a poor mother's life.

"I suppose that between you, you have lost, or perhaps spent, the money intrusted to the child, and now you think that to take it out of your uncle's pocket will be an easy way of paying it back. It does not surprise me in you, Murtagh; but was there not one among you," he added, looking at the other three, "who could have remembered that you hold the position of young ladies and gentlemen?"

"You see you set us such a good example of forgetting what a gentleman is like, that we really couldn't be expected to remember," replied Murtagh, coolly.

"When you come to my house I must beg that you will not be insolent, sir," replied Mr. Plunkett, angrily.

"Come along, Myrrh; don't be silly," said Winnie, moving towards the door. "How could he know why gentlemen do things?"

"Winnie," exclaimed Mrs. Plunkett, "how can you talk in such a way?"

"Mr. Plunkett shouldn't be so impertinent to Murtagh," returned Winnie, who had two hot red spots in her cheeks.

"I never saw such children in my life. I'm sure I pity that poor young girl who has to live amongst you," said Mrs. Plunkett, half crying. "To speak of my husband in such a manner!"

"Serves him right!" ejaculated Bobbo.

"You deserve, every one of you, to have your ears boxed," exclaimed Mrs. Plunkett.

"Catch us first," laughed Winnie. "Come along, Bobbo." She led the way down the passage as she spoke, and in another minute they were far on their way across the park, their cause hopelessly and irretrievably lost.