He recovered consciousness to find himself on the drawing-room sofa, with Nessa and Mrs. Donegan anxiously applying restoratives, while Mr. Blair and the children stood round. The moment the wound in his arm had been perceived, Mr. Plunkett had himself saddled a horse and gone to fetch a doctor.

"Go away, please, all of you," said Murtagh, as soon as he could speak. "I want to speak to Uncle Blair. Nessa may stay."

Mr. Blair turned them all out except Winnie. She was sitting curled up on a footstool by the head of the sofa, and she did not stir.

"Murtagh and me's the same," she said. "I know what he's going to say." And as Murtagh put out his hand to keep her, Uncle Blair shut the door.

"Please promise first," said Murtagh, "that you won't tell anybody else."

"If it's about the man who made this attempt to-night, Murtagh, I'm afraid I can't promise," replied Mr. Blair. "He must be prosecuted; you yourself will, I fear, be obliged to answer questions in a court of justice."

"But you must promise," said Murtagh, a feverish flush spreading over his cheek. "Make him promise, Nessa. I know I have no right, but it's the only way. It can't possibly be put right if he doesn't."

"Do promise him," said Nessa, looking entreatingly at her uncle, and then glancing anxiously at Murtagh. "Surely you can manage somehow." And most unconstitutionally Mr. Blair did manage.

"It was more my fault than his, because he couldn't have done it if I hadn't got him the gun yesterday," began Murtagh. But he suddenly closed his eyes, unable to proceed. Nessa put a spoonful of brandy between his lips and he revived a little.

"Don't say anything more, my boy," said his uncle, astonishment at Murtagh's statement entirely swallowed up in anxiety; "I understand you don't want him punished."

"I can't tell you now," continued Murtagh, "I feel so funny; but you must help him soon, or he'll do it again. He doesn't understand. He's hiding now. His mother—I—I can't remember; Winnie'll know."

He looked anxiously at Winnie, and his eyes closed again, but he was not unconscious; and Nessa, while she attended to him, said almost impatiently:

"Tell us what it is, Winnie. This excitement is very bad for him."

"I don't quite know," said Winnie, taking hold of Murtagh's hand and looking up at her uncle; "but I think what he means is he wants you to help Pat O'Toole. He's been in hiding ever since the fire, you know, and I suppose—" here Winnie hesitated a little—"I suppose he has tried to do this, and that's why Murtagh doesn't want the others to know; and his mother knows where he is. And I expect Murtagh means if you could help him regularly, get him some work or something, and make him come back."

"Yes," said Murtagh, opening his eyes suddenly, and looking feverish and excited again; "only quick, quick, or he'll do it again. He doesn't understand, he doesn't understand, and it's all my fault. Nessa said it was; didn't she, Winnie?" His voice was loud, and he evidently did not quite know what he was saying.

"Hush, hush, my boy," said his uncle. "It shall be all right; I promise you I will go myself to Mrs. O'Toole to-morrow." Murtagh seemed to hear what his uncle said, for he looked content, and dropped back on the pillow from which he had been attempting to rise; but then he fainted again, and though proper remedies soon revived him, the coming of the doctor was anxiously watched for.

He came and examined first the wound in Murtagh's arm. Mr. Plunkett's bullet had passed through the fleshy part of the arm, and though the loss of blood had been considerable, the wound was not important. But the exposure and excitement of the last three days had brought more serious effects in their train, and the doctor looked very grave, when, after examining the boy, he began to give careful directions to Nessa.

He would come early next day, he said, and all might be well, but he feared it was his duty to warn them that the case might be a very serious one.

His fears were but too well founded, and not many days later a telegram went from Mr. Blair to his brother Launcelot telling him that Murtagh was dangerously stricken with brain fever.

But he was not to die. November, December, and January passed away, and one mild day early in February he was well enough to sit in the big arm-chair by the open schoolroom window, while Winnie sat on the window-sill, swinging her legs outside, and fed her ducks once more with a merry heart. It had been a sad winter for her and Rosie and Bobbo, but their independent ways had proved of some use, and they had given real help in the long time of anxious nursing. Mr. Plunkett had taken his turn of sitting up at night, and had shown himself a valuable nurse. And all smaller sorrows had been merged in the one great trouble.

With Murtagh ill the children could think of little else; but Mr. Blair had been roused by the events preceding the boy's illness to act for once with energy. He had kept his promise of going without delay to Mrs. O'Toole, and he had known how to draw from her the information she had refused to Murtagh. Pat had been produced, and Mr. Blair, knowing Mr. Plunkett well, had trusted him with the whole story.

Mr. Plunkett justified the trust. Honor would have forbidden any attempt to punish the boy, and Mr. Blair saw that in this instance the ends of policy also would be better served by generous treatment; but it was neither policy nor the strict requirements of honor alone which moved Mr. Plunkett to take the tone he did when he talked with Mr. Blair, and to listen with unwonted gentleness even to Nessa when she suggested that one of the best ways of saving Pat from further mischief would be to find work for him elsewhere.

It was not the effect of the danger from which he had escaped; that would probably have made him simply hard and indignant; but Pat's confession had opened his eyes to many things. Unexpected kindness, together with Murtagh's dangerous illness, had filled Pat with remorse. He had confessed not only his full share in this last enterprise, but his unaided burning of Mr. Plunkett's hay-ricks; and it was in hearing of Murtagh's entire innocence with respect to that misfortune that Mr. Plunkett's self-confidence received a shock of which the effect was to him considerable. The fact that it was only a child whom he had misjudged and unfairly tried to punish, did not make a difference to him as it would have done to most people. He had been unjust; and whether the injustice had been committed towards a child, a man, or a chimpanzee, had, according to his way of looking at it, nothing to do with the question.

He was accustomed to respect himself, to think himself right, and now he found that he had been wrong,—more wrong than the child he had despised. He may have been proud, but he was not a man to shirk anything. He vividly realized the ruin into which the two boys had nearly rushed, and while he made no attempt even in his own mind to exculpate them altogether, he remembered that they were children, and blamed himself unsparingly for the treatment which had roused them to such a pitch of passion.

He had nothing to reproach himself with so far as Pat was concerned. At any other time he would have said the boy had only got what he deserved when he was caned for an impertinence. But the revelation of his injustice to Murtagh had strangely shaken his trust in himself. He had been wrong with him, perhaps he had often been wrong with other people, too.

Looking back over his feelings he was forced to acknowledge to himself that he had never for a moment felt forgivingly towards Murtagh. The child had been greater than he; he freely and humbly acknowledged it. He did not know that he owed his life to little Marion's love, but he turned to it in his trouble. Whatever he had done to others he had never judged her too harshly, and her clinging arms about his neck comforted him now when, though even Marion scarcely knew it, he was in need of comfort. And perhaps the gentle little spirit upon which at this time he was leaning influenced his actions more than either of them knew, for he certainly could not have been expected to feel particularly tender towards Pat; and yet Nessa was surprised by the kindness with which he entered into their plans for him, and relieved them of making arrangements.

He advised Mr. Blair to apprentice the lad to a trade in Dublin, where he would be removed from the influence of his bad companions, and he himself took the trouble to find a respectable household in which the boy might live; so that when the cloud of delirium passed from Murtagh's brain and he asked with almost his first connected words for Pat O'Toole, Nessa was able to tell him truly that Pat was quite safe and was doing well.

He had spent more than one day in the big arm-chair, looking out with all an invalid's pleasure at the returning life which the spring sunshine was bringing to the land; and as he sat and watched the purple shadows of the trees and hedges contrasting with the faint green of the winter grass, he had many thoughts that he would have found it hard to express to any one. Never had the crocuses seemed so bright or the snowdrops so beautiful as they seemed this year; and when one day the children brought him in a spray of bursting hawthorn and a bunch of lord and lady leaves from the hedges, tears of pleasure came into his eyes at the sight.

Life was very peaceful and beautiful in those early spring days. Nessa's presence seemed to have brought a spring of gentleness to the children's hearts, and the joy in Murtagh's recovery shed sunshine through the house. The boys, too, were near the realization of one of their chief hopes. They were to go to school. For Mr. Launcelot Blair, on hearing from his brother an account of all that happened, had written to say that he was coming home on leave, and that one of his first cares should be to find a private tutor to whom Murtagh and Bobbo might go to be prepared for being sent next year to Eton.

"From all that you tell me of them," he wrote, "I believe that the discipline of a public school is what they want. They have been so left to themselves that they judge nothing by an ordinary standard, and a lot of rough schoolboys will knock common sense into them a great deal faster than you or I could do it."

To-day Murtagh was to see Mr. Plunkett for the first time since his recovery. He felt some natural nervousness at the prospect of the interview, but convinced of his fault, he had looked forward anxiously to making the only reparation in his power.

And now, while King and Senior squabbled over a tempting piece of brown bread too large for either of them to swallow, and Murtagh lay back in the chair, amused but scarcely taking the trouble to laugh, a big Newfoundland poked his black muzzle between and carried off the morsel.

"Why, Win!" exclaimed Murtagh, roused by the sudden apparition to a more energetic display of interest, "where did he come from? Did papa get him for you?"

Winnie did what Murtagh never expected to see her do when anything touched, however remotely, upon Royal,—began to laugh.

"No," she said. "Guess who did."

"I don't know," replied Murtagh.

"No, and you never would guess if you tried till Doomsday, so I may as well tell you. Old Plunkett! And, Murtagh," she added, with a sudden change of manner, "he was really sorry. He told me all about it, how it was because he was so very angry. And I thought about you getting in such rages, and—" Winnie paused as though she were fighting out again the struggle to accept the dog.

"What's his name?" asked Murtagh.

"Jim," replied Winnie. "I thought I ought to call him after him, you know; but I really couldn't call him 'James dear.' And besides," she added, dropping her voice, "I didn't want it to be a bit like—" She stopped short and her eyes filled with tears.

At that moment steps were heard advancing along the passage; Winnie dashed the tears out of her eyes, and as she glanced up at Murtagh she saw by the faint flush upon his cheek that he guessed who was coming.

"Are you going to say anything to him about—"

Murtagh nodded.

"Then I'll be off," she replied, jumping, as she spoke, from the window-sill to the flower-border beneath. "Come along, Guck, Guck, Guck." And the harsh sound of her duck-call filled the air as she walked away, the white flock waddling after her.

Murtagh was glad of it. It seemed to cover his nervousness a little as the door opened and Mr. Plunkett entered alone. Poor child!—he was very weak still, and his heart beat fast and his hands trembled as he watched Mr. Plunkett advance across the long room. But it was only for a moment. When Mr. Plunkett took one of the wasted hands in his, and asked him kindly how he was, he recovered himself and answered, "Oh, much better, thank you; they are all so kind, they make me well."

Then after a little pause, the flush mounting again to his cheek, "I wanted to see you because I wanted to tell you I am very, very sorry I was so near—being so dreadfully wicked." And the effort to speak of it brought tears to his eyes. They were driven back again at once, but Mr. Plunkett saw them. He had not expected any apology; he had been thinking how wasted and shadowy the boy still looked. He was taken by surprise, and he suddenly flushed and looked more confused than Murtagh.

Not that he did not think an apology was owing to him; but Murtagh had scarcely ever spoken even civilly to him before, and the brown eyes raised to his looked so humble and beseeching through their shimmering veil of tears, that he found himself remembering only all the hard things he had said and done to the boy.

"Don't say anything more," he said, looking straight before him out of the window; "perhaps there were faults on both sides."

"I didn't know how wicked it was. I thought it would be a great thing to do, because I thought—" he hesitated a little, not quite sure how much Mr. Plunkett would bear—"I thought you were oppressing the people, and it would set them free. And then Nessa said you weren't, and then little Marion—It was so dreadful; I knew about how wicked it was then, but I never, never would have tried if I'd known at first."

"Marion!" said Mr. Plunkett, turning his head, "what had she to do with it?"

"I was in the ditch near your garden, and you were carrying her, and she had her arms round you, and she seemed to love you so. It seemed almost like papa," said Murtagh, his voice dropping at the recollection. "It would have been so dreadful if anything happened to you then. And then you said, 'God knew you were doing the best you could for the people;' and I felt quite sure you were speaking the truth, and you really were trying, and you were only just making mistakes; and it seems so cruel people getting hurt for making mistakes."

Mr. Plunkett did not speak at once. After a moment he turned and said:

"I have made mistakes with you; but we must start fresh, and perhaps we shall get on better now."

And before Murtagh had recovered from his surprise Mr. Plunkett had wrung his hand and left the room. For a moment or two Murtagh was too much astonished to understand. Then he felt that he was forgiven, as he had never expected to be. The old life was wiped out; with a rush of happy exultation he realized that this was indeed a fresh start.

Nessa entered the room with a bunch of white crocuses and some ivy leaves that she had just brought in from the garden.

"Oh, Nessa," he exclaimed, "I am so happy!"

"Are you, dear?" she said, with a glad smile, kneeling down beside him and laying the crocuses on his knees.

"Yes," he said. "Everything seems so good and bright. Only when I look at it at all," he added slowly, "I wonder how I could ever—have thought like I used to think." Nessa did not answer. She wondered, too, as she gazed out across the sunny grass to the bridge. Winnie was standing on the ivy-covered parapet, with one hand swinging her hat, and with the other supporting a pigeon which she was feeding with bits of bread from between her lips; Jim sat patient on the gravel; the white ducks clamored round her; and another pigeon was spreading his tail and pluming himself upon the parapet at her feet. The water sparkled; the sky beyond was blue; the voices of the other children playing somewhere out of sight floated in happy bursts upon the air. It was all beautiful enough to make anybody wonder how wickedness could be.

Murtagh's eyes followed Nessa's. They both looked at Winnie in silence for a moment, and then he continued, turning to Nessa:

"But I am glad I have been ill. It has made me seem to understand things better. I have been thinking and thinking, often when you didn't think I was thinking of anything. And I seem to feel now,"—he blushed a little, but went on firmly,—"that even if people are wicked and disagreeable, it can't do one bit of good hating them. I mean," he said, fixing his eyes with a fervent, earnest look upon hers, "I feel it so that I don't think I ever can forget it."

"Yes," said Nessa, softly. "If God were to hate us even when we are wicked, what should we do? It often comes over me with a sort of rush of gladness, how that when we make mistakes, and get tired, and go wrong, He is still there watching over us, loving us all the time, never getting impatient. And you know," she added a little shyly, "we are told to try and be as like God as we can."

THE END.