That evening Cousin Jane's proposal to take Winnie and Murtagh with her to the south of England was discussed, and of course accepted. She intended to spend a few days at Castle Blair, and to start on the first of November.

Frankie was in a state of exceeding delight at the prospect, and was eager to talk over the plan with his little cousins. But the bright red spots upon his cheeks and the feverish brilliancy of his eyes drew many anxious glances from his mother, and she coaxed him not to wait up for them. "Every one was tired with traveling," she said; so the drawing-room party dispersed at an early hour.

Nessa was glad to be free. She went at once to the schoolroom and found that the children had had their tea. Rosie and Bobbo were lolling by the fire discussing the events of the day. Royal was lying curled up on the hearth-rug, and Winnie had made a pillow of his body, but she was silent. Murtagh was at the piano composing a battle piece.

He ceased as Nessa entered, and threw himself near her chair.

"Have you seen Mr. Plunkett?" she asked.

"Yes," said Murtagh, in a tone that meant he was not going to say any more.

"And he was just as impudent as usual," added Winnie. "But he got the worst of it this time, thanks to Royal."

"Oh, Winnie, what have you done?" asked Nessa.

"Well, we were only amusing ourselves and not hurting anybody, and he came up and began worrying," returned Winnie, somewhat defiantly. "And besides, he had no business to talk like that before all the followers."

Murtagh's face softened a little as he looked at Nessa's. "Tell her just what we did if she wants to know," he said.

"Oh, dear!" sighed Winnie. "What is the good of going all over it again?"

"Well, but it served him right," said Bobbo; "I only just wish Royal had given him a good bite." And beginning at the beginning Winnie told the whole story. Murtagh watched Nessa's face to see what she thought of it. She did not look at him, and she listened in perfect silence till Winnie ended her recital.

"Oh, I am so sorry," she said; "so very, very sorry. How could you do it?"

"Why shouldn't we do it?" asked Winnie. "He had no business to talk to us like that."

"You will only make him more and more angry with you now," said Nessa, regretfully. "And then," she added, "it is very wrong; you must not be angry with me for telling you so, for it is only true, and makes me so sorry."

The children were silent for a moment, and then Murtagh said:

"But I can't help it. He puts me in such a rage."

"Yes," said Nessa; "but I think you ought not to let yourself be put so easily in a rage. It is not worthy of you. When we were on the mountain you promised to try to be gentle and kind. You promised all together. And the chief ought to watch over his followers, oughtn't he? He ought to see that they keep their promises, and he ought to try to keep them out of trouble. But you did not do that; you came down from the mountain where you promised, and you broke the promise yourself, and you made all the others break it, too. Now Mr. Plunkett will be angry with them, and Pat O'Toole will be in trouble."

The defiant look faded out of Winnie's face, and Murtagh looked abashed as for the first time he remembered the promise he had made.

"I quite forgot," he murmured.

"I did not think you would have forgotten so soon," said Nessa.

The quiet reproach was more bitter to Murtagh than any scolding.

"I did mean to remember it always—always," he said. "But he makes me forget everything. Oh, how I hate him!"

"I don't think that's having 'Peace and goodwill,'" remarked Rosie.

"I can't help it," said Murtagh, in despair, looking up at Nessa; "that's just how it always comes. But I will do anything you tell me. I will—beg his pardon, if you like, because I was in earnest. I did mean to remember."

"Oh, Myrrh!" remonstrated Winnie, who thought that his repentance was really carrying him beyond all reasonable bounds.

Nessa looked at him compassionately. She felt as if she loved Murtagh very much just then in spite of all his faults.

"Poor Murtagh!" she said. "Perhaps it will not always be so difficult."

Murtagh looked at her with a sad, wistful expression, then he dropped back again into the dark corner beside her chair.

No one spoke for a minute or two. Then Winnie returned to the subject that seemed to have disturbed her. "But you don't want Murtagh to beg his pardon?" she said. "Because you know he couldn't really."

"Yes, I can," came in a low, resolute voice from Murtagh's corner.

"Can you really?" asked Nessa. To tell the truth she would not have liked to do it herself.

Bobbo and Rosie looked with eager curiosity towards Murtagh. But Winnie burst out again: "Myrrh, you don't know what you're saying. That old scurmudgeon who has always worried us from the very first day we came here!"

No words can convey the opprobrium that Winnie contrived to throw into her pronunciation of curmudgeon; the one letter she added to it expressed more than a whole volume of epithets. After a moment's silence he said steadily, "Yes, I am almost sure I can."

"If you can," said Nessa, "it's the very best thing you could do. Because," she continued, "it is not only for you; it is for your friend Pat. Uncle Blair has told me such dreadful things of the people about here. And perhaps it is very foolish of me, but Pat is a big boy, and if he does not forgive Mr. Plunkett, he might really try to be revenged, and then if—if anything dreadful happened, it would be your fault, too."

"If Murtagh does it, I'll do it too," said Winnie, reflectively. "I'm not going to let him do it alone. But I don't think we can, all the same."

The next morning, however, just as Nessa had finished dressing, there came a knock at her door, and Murtagh and Winnie entered.

"We've come to tell you," said Murtagh, "that we will do what we said."

"Oh! I am so glad!" she cried joyfully. Then as she kissed them she added, "Good morning; I think it is very good of you."

"Then after, I'll go and find Pat and make him apologize too," said Murtagh.

"Yes, do," said Nessa, greatly relieved, for her night's reflection had not in the least diminished her nervous fears. At that moment the breakfast bell ringing loudly summoned them to the dining-room, and in the corridor they were met by Cousin Jane. Her arms were full of presents, and while she was displaying them Frankie came out of his room. He began eagerly to tell of the seaside plan; the children were perfectly delighted at the prospect, Cousin Jane was pleased with their pleasure, and they were all entering the dining-room in a merry mood, when Brown, with a solemn face, informed Murtagh that Mr. Blair desired he would step into the study.

"What's up? What's the matter?" cried Murtagh and Frankie together, and Cousin Jane also asked, "Has anything happened, Brown?"

"Yes, Madam," returned Brown, who evidently desired nothing better than to tell the news. "The Red House was set fire to last night, and one of the children nearly killed. The flames were put out quickly. But it was no accident, Ma'am. It began in the hay-yard, and when the flames burst out Mrs. Plunkett jumped out of bed to see what it was, and there was a boy,"—here Brown hesitated a little and glanced at Murtagh,—"about as big as Master Murtagh, standing in the road, but the minute she came to the window he turned and ran."

A smothered exclamation from Murtagh caused them all to glance at him. He and Winnie were looking at each other in dismay; the same thought was in both their minds. "Had Pat already taken his revenge? If he had, it was all their fault." Murtagh tried to recover himself; Winnie slipped her hand into his, and endeavored also to look unconcerned. But Mr. Plunkett could not have chosen a worse moment to make his appearance.

Before any one else could speak his voice was heard, strangely hollow, and yet more stern than usual, saying, "Be so kind as to come this way at once, sir."

Winnie did not let go Murtagh's hand. Cousin Jane's curiosity was aroused, and she made no scruple of pressing in with Frankie, so Nessa entered with the rest.

Mrs. Plunkett was there. Mr. Blair was sitting by the writing-table, looking graver than Nessa had ever seen him. He seemed not to see any one but Murtagh and Winnie. As they approached his chair he fixed his eyes upon Murtagh, and said:

"Tell me, Murtagh, all that you know about the burning of the Red House."

Murtagh was still very white, but he answered straight-forwardly:

"I do not know anything at all except what Brown has just told us."

"What did he tell you?" inquired Mr. Blair.

"That Mr. Plunkett's hay-barn was burnt, and the fire spread to the house, and one of the children was hurt, and—" But here Murtagh's voice faltered and he stopped.

Cousin Jane began to have an inkling of what was the matter.

"Tell the truth, Murtagh," she exclaimed. "What else did he tell you?"

Murtagh glanced at Mr. Blair in hopes that he was satisfied, but his face wore an expression of stern expectancy that compelled Murtagh to continue. "And," he said, "that when Mrs. Plunkett looked out of the window, she saw a boy standing in the road."

"And did he tell you nothing else?" inquired Mr. Blair.

"No," said Murtagh, beginning to feel really puzzled at his uncle's strange manner.

"He did not tell you who that boy was," continued Mr. Blair.

"No," exclaimed Murtagh, with eager interest.

"Murtagh, it is useless to keep up this deception any longer. Mrs. Plunkett says you are the boy she saw."

Murtagh's nerves were already strained, and for one instant he was completely overcome by so unexpected an accusation. The color rushed to his cheeks, and his eyes filled with tears; but in a moment he was himself again, and raising his head proudly, he replied:

"Mrs. Plunkett is mistaken. I was not there, and I know nothing whatever about the fire."

Then he turned and would have left the room as was his fashion when offended with Mr. Plunkett. But his uncle said, "Stay, Murtagh, this is a very serious matter, and it is better for you to hear all the evidence against you." There was a kinder tone now, however, in Mr. Blair's voice, and the proud look died a little out of Murtagh's face as he again took up his place by the corner of his uncle's table.

Mr. Blair paused, and while the silence lasted Murtagh's eyes sought Nessa's. Such a look of trust and encouragement beamed upon him that for a moment he almost forgot his trouble in the pleasure of receiving it.

"Mrs. Plunkett," said Mr. Blair, "will you tell us exactly what you saw when the flames first wakened you?"

"I saw just what I told you," began Mrs. Plunkett; "the hay-barn all in flames, and on the road Murtagh was standing. You know you were, Murtagh. It's no use denying it; you had on that very gray jacket you have on now, and when you saw me, you turned and ran away as fast as you could. And then I woke Mr. Plunkett, and all the servants, and he went down to see what could be done, and out on the road he found this; but perhaps Murtagh will deny that this is his name." As she spoke she took up a dirty pocket-handkerchief which lay on the table beside Mr. Blair, and showed "Murtagh Blair" written in clear letters in one of its corners.

At Mrs. Plunkett's mention of the gray jacket Winnie and Murtagh mechanically turned their eyes to Murtagh's coat, and as they did so a remembrance suddenly flashed across them that yesterday Pat O'Toole had worn a gray jacket which was not at all unlike Murtagh's. Each looked at the other; the truth was becoming too clear to be doubted any longer; and the sight of the handkerchief only confirmed their fears. It had been used as a towel yesterday by the followers, and had probably remained in Pat's pocket. Murtagh saw that Winnie had no longer any doubt, and the knowledge of her conviction made his own only the more certain.

What was to be done? It was all his temper that had brought Pat into this scrape, and now every word he said in his own defense would be a means of preventing the boy from escaping the consequences. To shield Pat now was all that he could do. And yet he had to fight hard with the proud indignation stirred up in him by being falsely accused. It was not pleasant to let Mr. Plunkett triumph.

He stood in silence, struggling with his thoughts, till his uncle asked, "What have you to say in answer to Mrs. Plunkett?"

Then a rush of anger almost overwhelmed every other feeling, and though he squeezed Winnie's hand as a signal to her not to speak, he answered with sullen pride, "I said before I was not there."

His evident perplexity, his glances at Winnie, his anger, were all against him, and Mr. Blair replied coldly: "I shall be more glad than I can tell you if you can clear yourself from this charge. But if you cannot, at least make a manly confession; this flat denial is childish."

Murtagh remained silent. Winnie's cheeks flushed, and words trembled on her lips. She could not bear Murtagh to be treated in this manner. But again the warning hand squeezed hers. If only she had had nothing to do with exciting Pat, then she might have spoken. As it was, she felt that she had no more right than Murtagh to say a word, and though she could have cried with perplexity and vexation, she was forced to be silent.

Her uncle saw her half-movement, and said sadly, "Can you tell us anything of this matter, Winnie?"

Winnie bit her lips, and looked straight in front of her, but she only shook her head.

Cousin Jane's patience could bear no more.

"Really, John," she exclaimed, "I don't know how you can go on bearing with the sulkiness of those children. Make them tell what they know. It's plain that they are guilty, and if they have anything to say for themselves, let them say it."

An expression of annoyance passed quickly over Mr. Blair's countenance, but he replied very gently:

"You must let me manage this matter in my own way, Jane."

"Mr. Plunkett," he continued, as Cousin Jane relapsed into indignant silence, "tell us now, if you please, before Murtagh, what you have already told me of his behavior yesterday evening."

Mr. Plunkett gave a short, business-like account of what had happened in the barn-yard the evening before. It was perfectly accurate. He said that he regretted the blows which had been meant more for one of the ragamuffins than for Murtagh; and somehow even that, which every one felt Mr. Plunkett had no right to inflict, told against Murtagh, for it furnished an additional motive for his revenge. The dark red mark was plainly visible across his cheek, and it seemed, indeed, a blow which a high-spirited boy was not likely to have received quietly. Only one thing in the story was omitted. Mr. Plunkett had forgotten Pat O'Toole's threat.

"Can you deny any of this?" asked Mr. Blair, as Mr. Plunkett ceased.

"No," replied Murtagh; "it is all quite true."

"But," said Winnie, eagerly, "it shows Murtagh couldn't have set fire to the place, because we were very sorry after, and Murtagh was to have told Mr. Plunkett so this morning."

"Were you, Murtagh?" said Mr. Blair.

"Yes," said Murtagh, shortly.

Mr. Blair looked towards Mr. Plunkett to see what he thought of that, and Mr. Plunkett replied drily:

"Murtagh has never done such a thing in his life. I must be excused if I do not believe him."

The angry black look that Nessa had so often seen spread over Murtagh's countenance. He made no answer, but Nessa said at once, "I know he was going to do that."

Her words seemed to strengthen a pleasant conviction that was growing in Mr. Blair's mind, the sound of her voice brought a quiet little smile to his lips which did not altogether die away again.

Mr. Plunkett replied in the same dry tones, "The main point of evidence against Murtagh is the fact that Mrs. Plunkett saw him at the time of the fire."

"You are quite sure that it was Murtagh?" asked Mr. Blair, turning to Mrs. Plunkett.

"I'm quite sure," she replied. "I saw his black hair and his gray jacket as plain as I do now."

"But not his face," suggested Mr. Blair. "If he turned and ran away so quickly, you could hardly in that uncertain light make sure of the face."

"If I was on my dying bed, I'd swear it was Murtagh," returned Mrs. Plunkett, almost in tears.

"And this handkerchief," said Mr. Plunkett, "how did it come in such a place?"

"Yes, Murtagh," said Mr. Blair. "How do you account for this?"

Again Winnie found the temptation to speak almost too strong for her, but Murtagh's hand was holding hers like a vice. Her own sense of right told her she must not, and she only looked more blankly than ever in front of her as Murtagh answered, "I don't know."

His uncle looked puzzled and displeased. Cousin Jane exclaimed: "I told you so; the truth's plain enough to any one who chooses to see it."

Mr. Plunkett felt quietly triumphant. But Nessa had guessed the truth from the beginning, and it was now her turn to speak.

"Uncle Blair," she said, "I am quite sure Murtagh has not done this. I think it is another person."

Her uncle looked towards her with surprise. An expression of impatience crossed Mr. Plunkett's countenance.

"Why, my child," said Mr. Blair, "what can you know about it?"

"Do you not remember," she said, turning to Mr. Plunkett, "at the end, before they went away, Pat O'Toole said he would be revenged, because you struck him?"

"Pat O'Toole!" exclaimed Mr. Blair. "Why, Plunkett, you forgot to mention this."

"I am sorry," replied Mr. Plunkett, feeling annoyed with himself for not having been strictly business-like. "I mentioned that I thrashed a boy, but I did not know his name, and I paid little attention to the threat."

"But," said Nessa, "this boy does not look much bigger than Murtagh; he has black hair, too, and I think he had a gray jacket yesterday. Mrs. Plunkett might easily have been mistaken. And, besides," she continued, "Murtagh could not have done it. Only one of those people would have done a thing so cowardly and so cruel."

"I think you are right, my dear," said her uncle, gravely. "Plunkett, this alters the affair," he said, turning to Mr. Plunkett. "I can do no more till I see this boy. Will you send for him? I should like to speak to him after breakfast. You may go now," he added, speaking to Murtagh. "I shall want you again. You are of my opinion, are you not, Plunkett?"

"No, sir," replied Mr. Plunkett, firmly. "My opinion is in no way altered."

Murtagh was in despair at the new turn affairs were taking.

"But Pat's four years older than me," he stammered, "and he's not a bit like me; is he, Winnie?"

Mr. Plunkett was looking at him coldly. "I quite agree with you," he said.

As they left the room Frankie hurried to seize Murtagh's arm, exclaiming, "I say, Myrrh, old fellow, what a shame!" But his mother contradicted him flatly.

"You don't know anything about the matter, Frankie," she said. "I'm sure if you were as naughty as your cousins, it would break my heart. But, indeed, it is no wonder," she continued, "considering the way that Mr. Blair treats them."

The remark was uttered on the threshold of the study, so Mr. Blair heard it; but he only looked at Nessa with one of his quaint smiles, and asked her to come to him after breakfast.