It was only too true. It was difficult to say with whom the idea had first originated, but after much talking with Emma and Mr. Plunkett, Cousin Jane had announced that she could not take Murtagh with her unless he were ready to confess his guilt. Mr. Blair was annoyed, but there was no help for it. It was true that Murtagh had not been altogether proved innocent. He could not be till Pat was found, and till he was, everybody had, of course, a right to their own opinion.

The children were bitterly indignant, but Murtagh still said nothing. The injustice seemed to him at first too impossible to be true; and when he realized that it was true, the feelings it roused against Mr. Plunkett were such he would have found it difficult to express. A sort of astonished contempt filled his mind. He had not thought before that Mr. Plunkett could be so bad as that, and if at times the thought of his disappointment roused in him hot indignation, this new feeling of sheer disgust made him shrink from even thinking much of Mr. Plunkett.

Frankie's disappointment was beyond expression. For perhaps the first time in his life he behaved like the spoilt child he was. He would not go to the sea at all, he said, or if he did, he wouldn't take a bit of trouble to get well. He had set his heart on having his cousin with him, and his mother vainly proposed instead companion after companion. He didn't care for any of them, he said, and all the pleasure of his winter was gone.

Cousin Jane had intended to punish Murtagh, not Frankie, and it had seemed to her quite simple to take Bobbo in Murtagh's place. But Bobbo and Winnie declared at once that they would not go anywhere with people who said Murtagh told stories, and when Cousin Jane appealed to Mr. Blair, he replied that he thought they had a right to decide for themselves.

In despair at her son's trouble, Cousin Jane would have been glad to change her mind and say that Murtagh might come, but Mr. Plunkett and Emma both urged her to be firm. Mr. Plunkett alone would not perhaps have had sufficient influence, but she was accustomed to be ruled by Emma, and Emma was very determined.

Frankie locked himself into his room and would not see anybody. His poor bewildered mother made herself wretched with thinking how ill he would be after such excitement, and finally retired, almost in tears, to her own room, declaring that she had never met such children, and that she wished she had never come to Castle Blair to be mixed up in all this trouble. Every one felt dreary and uncomfortable, and the children wandered disconsolately about the house, muttering their opinions of Mr. Plunkett, and wishing aloud that it wasn't Sunday, till Nessa suggested that they should go and pay their weekly visit to Mrs. Daly.

Nessa and Mrs. Donegan had been concocting certain plans for the benefit of Mrs. Daly and one or two other people in the village, and Nessa communicated them to the children. Falling readily into their notion of being bound up into a tribe, she suggested how nice it would be if the tribe could be of real use in the village, and the children, delighted to see a grown-up person entering seriously into a project which they had tried hard to persuade themselves was serious, were hearty in their acceptance of her proposals.

Wild, fierce little things as they seemed, they were something like lambs in lion's clothing. They were up in arms directly, and stormed like stanch little Home Rulers, as they were, at anything they considered unjust, but the slightest appeal to their sympathy was enough to make them forget all about themselves.

The walk was quite pleasant, and it was delightful to find Mrs. Daly sitting up, looking already much better for the wholesome dinner with which Nessa and Donnie provided her every day. After that, they went to see Mrs. O'Toole. The poor woman was in bitter grief, and she could not be comforted. An inadvertent mention of Mr. Plunkett's name suddenly roused a storm of rage that made Nessa turn pale and tremble, but the passionate abandonment of grief that followed would have moved to tears a harder heart than hers. Her sweet words of comfort were of little use. When the children spoke hopefully of Pat being found and coming back, the poor mother cried out with a despairing wail, "An' that'll be the worst of all; oh, my heart's broken! my heart's broken!"

They had forgotten for the moment that if he came back, it would be to go to prison. So they had to leave her in her desolation, and very sadly, very wearily the children went back to the house. How much of it all was their fault?

But Nessa had promised Mrs. Plunkett to go to the Red House that afternoon to see little Marion, so she left them to pay her visit.

She was not the only visitor. Cousin Jane was there, and for no less a purpose than to see with Mr. Plunkett whether after all she could not take Murtagh with her.

Her mind was so divided between two opinions that she could not remain firm in either. Accustomed for years to use Emma as her brain, she was in the habit of taking for granted that Emma's opinion was right, and with a simplicity and abnegation of self that would have been touching had they not been so fraught with mischief, she did always what Emma told her.

But though she was devoted to both her children, Frankie was the darling of her heart. She was almost ashamed sometimes of loving him so much.

Her love for Frankie had never before led her to contradict Emma, and she really dared not. She would rather contradict Frankie himself, for she was not afraid of him. He would love her all the same, and after a time would understand and forgive her. But for all that she could not bear to think of Frankie's winter being spoilt, and with a great effort she had resolved that if Mr. Plunkett would support her, she would for once oppose Emma and let Frankie have Murtagh.

This resolve had cost her four or five hours' fighting with herself in the solitude of her own room. Nothing but the remembrance of Frankie's locked door, and the dread that he might get ill and yet not let her in to nurse him, would finally have prevailed; but at last, as picture after picture passed before her mind of the terrible things he might do if he were ill, and she not sitting by his bedside, she could bear it no longer, and with sudden determination had started up and gone to consult Mr. Plunkett.

She reached the Red House without adventure, and finding herself thus far so brave, her hopes were raised quite high. But the little effervescing spirit of courage died quickly away under the influence of Mr. Plunkett's cold tones and grave looks.

In answer to her half-nervous, half-vehement suggestions he urged, with a calm propriety of just determination, the necessity for Murtagh's sake of some punishment being inflicted.

Still, though the arguments did not in the slightest degree change her wish to take Murtagh with her, they had their effect in this way. She felt that they ought to have changed it; that every one would expect them to change it. They were unanswerable, and when Emma used them she would have nothing to urge against them. All the reason was against her. Her little bit of courage vanished. She could not possibly face Emma unless some one would help her, and she dolefully resigned herself and Frankie to the will of the stronger powers.

The matter was not quite settled when Nessa entered. Quickly gathering the subject of the conversation, she ranged herself at once on Cousin Jane's side. But that, by some strange contradiction, had more effect than all Mr. Plunkett's arguments. Cousin Jane had been a little offended by seeing Nessa installed as mistress at Castle Blair. And directly Nessa advocated Murtagh's departure, Cousin Jane began to understand the truth of all Mr. Plunkett urged against it.

She was scarcely conscious of what worked the change in her mind. It was just an effect which people she did not like always had upon her; and while Nessa was pleading Murtagh's cause with Mr. Plunkett, she found herself growing almost reconciled to leaving him behind.

At length she stood up to go, saying to Mr. Plunkett:

"Well, I shall tell them it is your doing. I'm sure I would never have the heart to do it by myself."

Mr. Plunkett was rather pleased that the children should know the punishment came through him, and he assented willingly. It was a great relief to Cousin Jane to find any one upon whom she could lay her responsibility, and on her return she took refuge in saying that she could not help it. Mr. Plunkett was determined they should not go. She had been down to him to ask him again, and she could not do any more.

Of all the children Frankie seemed to feel most keenly the slight put upon Murtagh, though after the first indignant outburst he avoided with a kind of shrinking pain any allusion to his departure. Unable to remain outside the heart of any one he loved, he understood and forgave his mother, and by his redoubled tenderness to Murtagh, and the wistful, yearning looks with which he followed him about, he seemed to ask Murtagh to forgive her, too.

Greatly distressed by Frankie's trouble, Murtagh tried to console him, showing himself perfectly cordial with Cousin Jane, and pretending that he did not care so very much for the disappointment. Winnie, too, did her very best, but Frankie was not to be comforted. He seemed to have some secret reason for his depression, and though he followed their footsteps like a shadow, he paid no heed to their attempts at consolation.

The natural result of his trouble was that he became ill, and his mother in despair was twenty times on the point of changing her mind. But Emma told her that that was nonsense; as for Frankie's health, the best thing she could do was to get him away to the sea at once.

So Cousin Jane, notwithstanding many tears and protestations of affection to Frankie, held to her resolution, and the day of their departure drew near.

But Frankie grew more and more ill, and the sight of his grief rendered his little cousins more determinedly and bitterly indignant against Mr. Plunkett. There was no reason why they should not express as openly as they pleased their opinions of his conduct, and they railed against him in turn, as with each day their angry resentment of the injustice grew stronger.

Nessa was so troubled by their state of mind that she asked Mr. Blair to interfere so far at least as to establish a clear understanding that Cousin Jane might take the children if she chose. But he was tired of children and their concerns, and he only laughed at her a little, and told her that when people are in Ireland they must do as the Irish do—leave things to take care of themselves. It would all come right as soon as Cousin Jane was gone.

Royal was the only refuge. He was always good-humored, always ready to entice the children to play. He seemed to understand quite well that they were in trouble, and to want to comfort them. When they were talking angrily he would stand looking up into their faces with a sort of half-puzzled, half-coaxing expression, that seemed to say: "I can't understand a single word. What is the good of it all? Come and play with me," and his invitation was almost always successful. Winnie seldom could resist him long.

The moment he saw signs of relaxing in her face he would wag his tail and bound away, looking back to see if she were coming. Then, if she did not come at once, he would stop suddenly and stand with his forepaws spread wide apart, his head down and his tail up, saying as plainly as action could say it, "You can't catch me; now just try if you can."

That invitation was always irresistible; the children would rush after him in a body, and generally dog and children were in another moment rolling over together in a heap. Then Royal would shake himself free, and bound off again to have the same rolling repeated further on, till the children forgot their troubles in a sheer romp.

The day before Cousin Jane's departure especially his success was unbounded. Nessa was sitting in the schoolroom window watching the children on the lawn, and she saw him try his process of consolation.

The children were talking together apparently about Frankie's going, for they looked exceedingly gloomy. Royal gamboled round the group trying to coax first one and then another to play with him. Winnie at last knelt down, and throwing one arm round his neck seemed to be telling him their troubles. He stood quite still for a moment looking into her face. Then he sprang away, and stood wagging his tail and looking back so roguishly that Winnie was proof against him no longer.

She bounded after him, and in another minute was lying on the ground with Royal standing over her, playfully hitting him with her little brown fists, while he rolled her from side to side with his muzzle. The others rushed forward, and Royal in his turn was rolled over on the grass. He was up in a minute, and ready to revenge himself. The children's grievance was forgotten, and with merry peals of laughter they raced from side to side of the lawn, over the empty flower-beds, up to the house, down to the river's edge,—one minute attacking, the next running away from the dog.

But suddenly in the midst of the laughter there came a great splash in the river, and a sharp cry arose from three or four of the children:

"Fetch her, Royal; fetch her!"

Nessa knew that the river was not very deep; but the children were excited, and in one of the pools, if they lost their heads—In an instant she was on the bank. Quick as she was, Royal was quicker. By the time she reached the children Winnie was standing dripping upon the grass—laughing, panting, sputtering the water out of her mouth, and rubbing it out of her eyes, while the others crowded round Royal with many exclamations of delight.

Nessa's anxious face was received with peals of laughter. She asked Winnie if she were hurt, but at that Winnie only laughed the more, till at last Rosie explained:

"She didn't tumble in; she did it on purpose. We wanted to see whether Royal would fetch her out."

"And then he did!"

"Isn't he a beauty! Did you ever know such a perfect dog?"

"It's just the same as if he had saved her life, because he thought she'd tumbled in by accident!"

"Murtagh said Newfoundland dogs would! Oh, Winnie, you are lucky to have him for your own."

"There, now, Miss Rosie; who was right, you or Murtagh?"

"Did he bite, Winnie?"

All the children were speaking at once, pouring out a volley of cross-questions and remarks, interspersed with laughter and caresses of Royal. But they managed to hear Nessa, as trying to forget fright she replied laughingly:

"You are a set of reckless monkeys; come in and do penance now by changing your clothes."

It was, however, only a transient gleam of brightness. They went out again after tea while Frankie was at dinner, but they found the merry fit was over. The gloom of Frankie's approaching departure surrounded them. Their attempt at a game was a failure, and they soon wandered in again to watch for him as he came out of the dining-room.

The evening passed sadly. Frankie was tired and depressed; Cousin Jane reproaching herself for having waited till so late in the season to take Frankie to Torquay, and unable to conceal her anxiety at the prospect of the approaching voyage; the children were gloomily indignant.

By reason of the inconvenient hours of the trains the traveling party was obliged to start at an early hour in the morning, and at six o'clock the children were up to see it off.

The hall fire had not yet been made up for the day: yesterday's gray embers smoldered in the hearth; and in the dreary light of the one lamp Brown had put in the hall, they stood and watched the boxes being brought down.

The door was open, outside it was still dark, and a fine rain was falling which made the raw morning air damp and unpleasantly cold.

The children shivered as they waited, but Cousin Jane did not keep them long. She came down first with Frankie to let him say good-by to his cousins while Emma was occupied with last preparations. Poor Cousin Jane's natural good nature triumphed at the last moment. She seemed to have provided herself with half-crowns innumerable, and as she kissed all the children she insisted on shoveling big silver pieces into their hands. She said she hoped at all events to bring Frankie back for a long visit in the spring, and as she bade Murtagh good-by, she added warmly:

"I am very sorry you're not coming with us, Murtagh, and I'm sure Frankie's as sorry as you are. Well, it's not my fault; I'd a great deal rather have taken you than have you all disappointed."

The last words were perhaps more true than judicious, but at the moment Emma came down, and Cousin Jane went to arrange the carriage for Frankie.

It turned out to be a long process, and while the others gathered round the carriage Frankie stood with Murtagh and Winnie in the deep window recess, silently looking out at the wet steps and the dark figures faintly illuminated by the yellow light of the carriage lamps.

The three little hearts were very full, but not a word was spoken till at last Cousin Jane called, "Come now, sonnie! we're nearly ready."

At the sound of her voice Frankie turned slowly away from the window; then, throwing his arms round Murtagh's neck, he kissed him passionately three or four times. "Good-by," he whispered, "good-by!" But there seemed to be something else he wanted to say. His deep brown eyes were fixed upon Murtagh's face with a wistful, yearning earnestness that made Murtagh, with one of his sudden impulses of tenderness, pass his arm round Frankie's neck and whisper, "Never mind, you'll soon come back!"

Winnie, who had been watching the preparations with a half-angry feeling, suddenly felt a choking lump rise in her throat. She took one of Frankie's hands, but Frankie seemed scarcely to notice her, and, drawing a long breath, he continued in a rapid whisper:

"Myrrh, I must tell you now, because perhaps this is the last. I think I'm dying; and I'm very glad, because you'll be much richer. They told me about it when they wanted me to get well. And if I die before I come back, you're to have my pony, and Winnie has Royal. And—and you won't forget all about me, because I do love you so!" His voice faltered, and neither Winnie nor Murtagh could speak. "I will always remember you there," he added in a still lower whisper; "being dead can't make me forget."

One last silent kiss from both the children, and he went slowly towards the carriage trying to hide his emotion from his mother and sister. Murtagh and Winnie forgot that any one was there, and tears trickled unheeded over their cheeks as they stood together on the threshold watching the little wasted figure descend the steps.

Royal was standing by the carriage. He understood the meaning of the boxes, and looked wistfully from his little master to Winnie as if uncertain which to forsake. Frankie stooped and kissed him. "Good-by, Royal," he said; "you are hers now; mind you take good care of her. Winnie," with a faint attempt to smile as he turned again to his cousins, "I know you'll take good care of him."

The carriages drove away, and Brown not noticing the two children, shut the hall door. They stood on the wet steps looking through the darkness at the swiftly disappearing lights. They were too shocked and, as it were, stunned by Frankie's words to be able to realize all at once what they meant; but slowly, slowly, the full meaning dawned upon them. They were never to see little Frankie again. They had said their last good-by.

"Win, it can't be true! it can't be true!" exclaimed Murtagh.

"Oh, Myrrh, isn't it dreadful being children?" cried Winnie. "We can't go with him. Oh, I do hate Mr. Plunkett. I do hate him, so I do!" And Winnie, who seldom cried, threw herself down on the steps in a passion of tears.