The Colonel had heard those words ages ago, and he now crept cautiously into the drawing-room and stood behind the little singer.

Certainly her voice was not strong, but it was at that stage of her growth a high soprano, and very clear and very true, so when she sang "When Malachi Wore His Collar of Gold," "The Vale of Avoca," "Believe Me, if all those Endearing Young Charms," "The Minstrel Boy," "Those Evening Bells," "Rich and Rare Were the Gems She Wore," "The Last Bose of Summer," and "The Harp that Once Through Tara's Halls," the Colonel felt as though he were living in a new world.

When he discovered Maureen's gift he did not get the piano tuned, which most men would have done, but got a beautiful new boudoir grand put in its place; and a master came twice a week from Kingsala to train a voice that needed no training, for it was Nature's voice, just as the birds' voices are. Thus the Colonel was intensely happy. The days sped by, and Maureen's passion for music was gratified. Evening after evening the "dear Colonel" and Maureen used to enjoy those incomparable melodies together, the child singing her heart away, the man listening, never speaking, never praising, but with his own heart full to the brim of love for this queer little creature. He loved to spend money on Maureen, and consulted his excellent housekeeper, and bought the child suitable frocks and pretty jackets and hats, and when she was strong enough he took her out riding with him.

The first ride was a bit of a trial to the child, for she could not help thinking of poor step-auntie and The O'Shee, but after that she enjoyed herself immensely. To the astonishment of the Colonel, he found that he had to teach her nothing. She could ride by a sort of instinct; she was part of her horse. He got her a dark Lincoln green habit, and a little green velvet cap with a heron's feather in it; and no sweeter sight could have been seen than the little maid and the elderly man as they crossed country side by side.

While these things were happening at Rathclaren and Maureen by no effort at all on her part was making herself the idol of the entire establishment, the Rector—dear man!—was making leaps and bounds towards health. The feeling of health was in his veins, the keenness of health was in his eyes. Egypt had begun to save him, and Switzerland—selected parts, of course—did the rest of the business. He would certainly be able to return to his parish duties in the early summer, just when Templemore was in its prime, when the fat kine were prosperous, and the lean kine had disappeared for the present.

The Rector was by no means sorry to live. He had been content to die—God's will was his—and he never struggled against the inevitable; but now that earthly life was really restored to him in the most marvellous and unexpected way, he gave himself up to the enjoyment of it. His wife's will troubled him, however, not a little. At first, that is, immediately after her death, it troubled him profoundly, but then Maureen's severe illness caused every thought, except of her, to fade from his mind; but when she got better and the danger passed away, the Rector's conscience smote him very hard with regard to the will. He went to see Murphy at Kingsala, he went to see O'More and Walters, and he said the same thing to each and all,

"That will ought not to be acted on. My poor wife died through an accident. Had she lived she would have altered her will, for she told me so just before her death, poor dear. In fact, I was supposed to know nothing of this will, which was made just before our marriage, when she fancied she loved me; but she certainly told me most distinctly quite lately that all her money would belong to her own two daughters. Then she was killed—you know how. The will turned up. You had a copy, O'More, and we have heard from Debenham and Druce; but I cannot possibly see how we can act upon it—I mean as gentlemen and Christians. We take advantage of a terrible accident to destroy all my poor wife's hopes with regard to her girls."

Then Murphy said, "Now whist awhile, your Reverence, and I'll come and see you in a few days at Templemore. This requires thinking over. These aren't the days of chivalry, O'Brien, my man. Go home, rest quiet, be thankful the life of the little one is spared, and do nothing until you see me, for I'll come over to Templemore one fine morning, and have a bit of news for you as like as not."

The Rector waited with what patience he could, and the longer he waited the more sensitive did his conscience become. But at last, to his unbounded amazement, Dominic rushed in to inform him that an outside car was coming down the avenue, and there were four men on it, to say nothing of the driver; and when the four men stepped into the old house, which looked most sadly shabby without Maureen's care, the Rector found himself in the presence of Murphy the lawyer, of Mr. O'More, Mr. Walters, and of Mr. Debenham, head of the great firm of solicitors in Chancery Lane.

Now these men began at once to talk to the Rector, and they talked in a wonderfully convincing way. Their argument was this: First and foremost, the late Mrs. O'Brien had very much undervalued her property, which amounted not to fifty thousand pounds, but after all death duties had been paid would represent the very comfortable figure of between eighty and ninety thousand pounds. This money, by the lady's desire, had remained untouched since her second marriage, and the lawyers, Debenham and Druce, by wise investments had increased the original capital very much. How by the terms of the will this sum was to be divided in equal portions among Mrs. O'Brien's two daughters, the Misses Mostyn, the Rector's three children and his niece, Maureen O'Brien, and further, an equal share was to be given to the Rector himself.

"That is precisely how the will stands, Mr. O'Brien," said Debenham, in his extremely refined English voice, "and as all the inheritors, with the exception of yourself, are much under age, nothing whatsoever can be done to alter it until your youngest child comes of age. Now I drew up this will for the late Mrs. O'Brien. She was most sincere in her wish at the time that you and yours should share her wealth with her own two daughters. The fact is, the late Mostyn was old enough to be her father. He was a city merchant and made his pile, although it amounted to nothing like what he would have made, had he not been suddenly stricken down by apoplexy. His wife and he led a cat-and-dog life together, and I think his death was a great relief to the poor woman. Anyhow, be that as it may, Mr. O'Brien, you can part with your share of the property if you like, but the portions set aside for the children cannot possibly be interfered with. I and my partner are trustees for the children's share of the property, and I shall provide them with ample means, which the will allows for their education, until they each come of age; more I cannot do. They will each be fairly well off, and I should strongly advise you, Mr. O'Brien, to take your own share and make no bones about it. The whole thing seems to me to be an interposition of Providence to prevent an angry and irresponsible woman from carrying out her designs. You will all be comfortably off, and I think if she could speak to you now, she would beg of you not to make your family unhappy by refusing to receive your share of the profits. After all, Mr. O'Brien, it was you she loved when she made the will. She did not know the children."

"God help me!" said Mr. O'Brien. "Poor Constance, I never understood her! If you really think it would please her, sirs——"

"Please her—naturally it would please her!" said O'More.

"And I shall not require it long," continued the Rector, who little guessed on that sorrowful day that he was to become quite well once more.

"There is a provision made for that in the will, sir," said Mr. Debenham, "which gives your share in equal proportions to the six children, so I do not see how in any case you can touch it or interfere with it. That's a fine boy of yours," continued Debenham. "I rather guess that he will make money of his own, and not require any help from any one."

All these things happened while Maureen was ill, and she naturally knew nothing about them, and nothing whatever about the little fortune which had been left her by step-auntie; but as the days flew on, and April followed March and May followed April, more and more deeply did Colonel Herbert hate that will, for if it were not in existence he would simply force O'Brien to give him Maureen to be his forever, to share his money, his love, and his home.

How it so happened that while the Rector was coming by leaps and bounds back again to life and health, two girls at school were mourning not so much for their mother, who, as a matter of fact, they did not like, but because they were not the heiresses they had hitherto called themselves to their schoolfellows.

Mr. Debenham called to see these girls, one day, at their showy school near Dublin. They were like each other, and painfully like the dead woman. The lawyer could not help uttering a quick sigh when he saw them. Henrietta was the taller and stronger of the two. She was what might be described as a "bouncing young maid," very much developed in figure, with her mother's fiery blue eyes and her mother's auburn hair which tended to red. That hair was all fluffy and curly and untidy about her head. She was not a pretty girl; she had too many freckles for that; and her nose had a little tilt up at the end, which gave to Henrietta Mostyn a particularly impertinent appearance. Daisy was very like her sister, but with a difference; her eyes were smaller and closer together, she had a cunning look about her, and her hair was of a flaxen shade without a touch of gold in it. Her eyebrows were the same colour as her hair, and her eyelashes were white. She was altogether the sort of girl whom you would rather not know, for there was a cunning, deceitful expression about her face, which no effort on her part could conceal.

"Well, so we are robbed," said Henrietta. "Poor mumsie-pumsie went to smash, and we are robbed. That's a nice look-out. Of course, you'll manage, Mr. Debenham, that those horrid O'Briens don't get our money."

"They shan't get your money, Miss Mostyn," said the lawyer, "but they'll get their own."

"Whatever do you mean by that? Then we do get mumsie's fortune. I said so to Daisy last night. When I want to tease her I call her Dysy."

"I don't think I care to listen to your remarks," said Mr. Debenham. "Your poor mother died in a very terrible way."

"Oh, don't tell me, or I'll shriek," said Daisy. "Hold me, Henny, hold me, Henny; I'll shriek!"

"Silly child," said the lawyer, "have you no self-control? I have spoken to the head-mistress of your school, Mrs. Henderson, and she understands that owing to circumstances you are not to remain here after the summer holidays. That is the wish of your step-father and guardian, the Reverend Patrick O'Brien. You will probably be sent to another school, which I will recommend."

"But our money—the chink," said Daisy; "that's the main thing."

"You get your share, Miss Daisy. Your mother's money is divided into seven portions. Until you come of age, or marry, a certain portion will be spent on your education. After that the capital will be yours to do as you wish with. You each of you have, roughly speaking, about thirteen thousand pounds."

"Is that all?" cried Henrietta. "Why, mumsie said that we were heiresses!"

"You are, to that extent."

"But she said we should have at least fifty thousand between us, and she was going to bring us out in Dublin, and we were going to have no end of larks. What do you mean by saying that we'll have thirteen thousand pounds each?"

"How old are you, Miss Mostyn?"

"We are both of us fifteen," said Daisy. "Twins, dear little twins. But please tell us, we want to know what has become of all the rest of mumsie's money?"

"She left her entire property," said the lawyer, "to be divided into seven portions. These portions, were to be divided between yourselves, Mrs. Mostyn's second husband, the Reverend Patrick O'Brien, his three children, and his dear little niece. None of you can touch the capital until you come of age. Kitty O'Brien is at present only six. Her portion, therefore, will in all probability be the largest, as there will be a greater time for it to accrue. By the way, your mother made one provision, which I rather fought against, but she was determined. You are not any of you to come of age until you are twenty-five."

"Good gracious!" exclaimed Henny.

Daisy burst into tears.

"I'll be a beastly old maid by then," she sobbed.

"Well, good-bye, children, good-bye. Your poor mother is gone, and you must make the best of what is to you a bad job. But you have got a delightful step-father, who will do his utmost for you so as to bring you up in the fear of God, and I am sure you cannot help liking his dear children."

"If you mean that I am going to like that beastly little niece, you're fine and mistook, Mr. Lawyer," said Daisy. "I think you are a horrid man, and I believe, I really do, that you forged that will."

"Good-bye, girls, and don't be silly," said Debenham.

He said to himself as he took his seat in his motor-car: "Poor O'Brien, I thought his troubles were ended; but I really do not think I ever saw a more unpleasant pair of girls than the Mostyns. Their mother over again, only worse. Thank goodness, I've saved O'Brien from making a fool of himself. That saintly sort of person often does that kind of thing. That poor, dear, brave little girl, I'm afraid, will have an awful time when the Mostyns go to Templemore. Why, the face of the one they call Daisy is as sly and as full of mischief as a monkey's."

CHAPTER VIII. SUMMER WITH AN EAST WIND.

The Rector had given directions that Templemore was to be re-painted and re-papered and to a certain extent re-furnished for his return. He was expected home on the first of June, that day of all days, when spring has not quite died away and summer has touched everything with her golden wings. Maureen and Colonel Herbert met the travellers when they entered the old house, and Maureen flung her arms round Uncle Pat's neck and kissed him over and over again. She kissed Dominic, too, but she was mostly taken up with Uncle Pat.

"Why, you look quite well; I do declare, you look young," said Maureen.

"And you, my dearest baby," replied the Rector, "I never saw you look better before."

"Oh, that's all owing to 'dear Colonel,'" said Maureen. "He is a darling. He doesn't much like my leaving him, but you come first, dearest, most dear."

"Yes, I come first, little girl," said the Rector.

He glanced at the Colonel as he spoke, and saw a shadow on his brow and a curious blue look round his lips, and it suddenly flashed upon the Rector that perhaps he was selfish in keeping Maureen; but he must keep her now, he felt he must. Was she not his twin-brother's only child, and was there not money enough now for everything? Money certainly was a power.

The Rector went up to the Colonel and began to thank him, but the Colonel interrupted him.

"None of that, dear old man. I'm the sort of person who cannot bear thanks from anyone; not even from her, blessed angel. By the way, I have bought her a horse—'Fly-away' by name. He's a thoroughbred Arab, and I have sent his own groom with him. It would give me sincere pleasure, Rector—unspeakable pleasure—if you would let me pay all the expense of Fly-away and groom."

The Rector paused before he replied; then he said slowly, "It shall be as you wish."

"I'll ride over to-morrow," said the Colonel, "and take Maureen for a scamper across country. Oh, by the way, she has got a nice little pipe of her own—not developed, of course—but it will be something very good, by-and-by. She sings at present as the birds sing, and you will find my present to her in the shape of a Blüthner grand in your drawing-room. Now I will say good-bye.—Maureen, acushla, one kiss. I'm coming back to-morrow."

"Yes, 'dear Colonel,' yes," said Maureen, and she pressed the withered cheek several times with her rosy lips, and the Colonel went away, a sadly broken-down man, although he had made such tremendous efforts to show nothing.

"Why, Maureen, my blessing," said the Rector, "you have won Colonel Herbert's heart. He's a right good, gentlemanly fellow, one of the best in the county. Everyone has hitherto supposed that his heart was made of iron, but you—you have changed all that."

"Ho, it isn't me; it is his dear self," said the child, "and he hasn't a heart of iron, my Colonel, but a soft heart, very gentle. I think I love him next best to you and Dominic out of all the world. He has been so good to me while you were away. But now let's be happy. Oh, hurrah! This is a good world. Dear old Templemore! Come for a walk, Uncle Pat.—Come along, too, Dom.—We must see the fruit garden and the place where the periwinkles will soon be in full blossom. They are in bud now, but soon they'll be in blossom. Oh, what wonderful, amazing things have happened during this past year! God has given you back your life, my darling."

"Yes, Maureen," said the Rector, "and to see you, my little blessing, looking as you do, is the crowning touch to my bliss."

"I wish Kitty and Denis were here," said Maureen.

"They are coming in a week's time," replied the Rector; "and in about ten days from now their step-sisters will arrive."

"Oh," said Maureen, "the girls that step-auntie was always talking about?"

"Yes, the same. They are pretty much about your age, Maureen—a little older if anything. I have not seen them yet."

"We must be very good to them," said Maureen.

"Yes, acushla, yes. What a big family we'll be, with all you young ones trotting about, and the Colonel and I—a pair of old fogies, bedad!—watching you at your games."

"Indeed, no; nothing of that sort," said Maureen. "You'll join in our games, for you are quite young again, and my Colonel isn't old. I have taught him to play hide-and-seek, and he loves it. There is nothing like play to keep people young. I shouldn't be a bit surprised if Pegeen joined in some fine morning. She is the only really old person in the house. But now, Uncle, please tell me all about step-auntie's girls."

"I can't tell you anything, darling, for I have not seen them. Even when, long ago—at least, it is five years ago now—when I asked their poor mother to marry me, the girls were at school, and she never would allow them to come home for the holidays. I disapproved, but now all that is changed, for I am their guardian as well as their step-father."

"I wonder if they'll be nice," said Maureen. "We ought to give them a very pretty bedroom, Uncle Pat."

"I thought their poor mother's room—it is the best in the house and the best furnished; and you can make it look very charming for them by the time they arrive, Maureen."

"You may be certain sure of that," said Maureen, and she clasped her little hands tightly and looked with her loving eyes full at Uncle Pat.

The Colonel arrived the next day and took Maureen for a long ride on Fly-away, and then Maureen insisted on his staying to dinner, which she had herself prepared with the help of Pegeen, who of course worshipped the "swate asthore."

Afterwards Maureen sang several old Irish songs, and a boy and two men listened and wondered. How gay and true and clear was that voice. The Colonel could not help sighing as he got up to go back to his solitary home.

"If only I had a child of my own," he thought, but he kept his thoughts to himself.

The weather was as fine this year as it had been last, and Denis and Kitty arrived all in due course, perfectly wild with rapture and enthusiasm. Then one day, quite unexpectedly, an outside car of the very shabbiest make was seen trundling down the avenue. From the car leaped a girl with flaxen hair and another girl with red hair, and the girl with flaxen hair flew at Uncle Pat and flung her arms round his neck and said, "Why, dad, dad, dear old dad! It is good to see you. Let's have a good hug. I'm Daisy, you know—called Dysy when I'm naughty—and this here is Henny-penny."

The girl with red hair was not as demonstrative as the flaxen-haired Daisy; her eyes had a cruel look in them, and her mouth was loose and ugly.

"I'm Henrietta Mostyn," she said. "I suppose you are my step-father."

"Yes, my dear; welcome to Templemore."

"What a rum old place," said Henrietta.

"Oh, we all love it very much, dear," said the Rector; "and I hope you'll both be good and happy while you are with us."

"Who is that boy?" asked Henrietta. "Quite a nice boy. What's his name?"

"I'm Dominic," replied Dominic O'Brien.

"Oh, are you? Well, you can take me round presently, if you like. There are lots of others, aren't there? Of course, I know that poor mumsie is dead and gone——"

"Oh, for goodness' sake, keep cheerful, Henny!" "That's what I'm trying to do. Will someone pay the driver; I have no money."

"I'll see to it," said Dominic, going into the hall.

"Why, there is another boy!" cried Daisy. "What's your name, scamp?"

"It's not Scamp," said Denis O'Brien, who, although he was much younger than Dominic, had a good deal of Irish pride packed away in his eleven years of life. "My name is Denis O'Brien."

"Well, well, don't be huffy, kid. Whoever is that little sprite over there? A mite of a thing—a sort of changeling!"

Daisy's mocking finger pointed to pretty Kitty, who burst into floods of terrified tears and rushed to Maureen for comfort.

"Oh, come, Daisy, you must not speak of my youngest child in that tone," said the Rector. "She is my sweet little Kitty, and the dearest little pet."

"And whoever is that rag of a girl?"

"This is Maureen."

"Well," said Daisy, "wasn't mother right? Don't you remember, Henny-penny, how she used to write us pages about the detestable Maureen, and here she is in the flesh, as stuck-up as you please, and in all those fine feathers, too. I can give a shrewd guess as to whose money paid for those!"

There was a solemn silence in the great hall, then the Rector laid one strong, firm hand on Daisy's shoulder and the other on Henrietta's.

"My dears," he said, "you are strangers to us, but we wish, if possible, to be good to you. It is our intention, if possible, to be good, but you must not speak against any of my family, and in especial you must not speak against Maureen. She is the joy of my life and my greatest earthly comfort. Remember, girls, I am now in the position of your step-father and your guardian and can do with you just what I please.—Maureen, darling, take the girls up to their bedroom, and see that they have every comfort.—We shall have tea in the hall in about half an hour, and then the Colonel will come to take Maureen for her customary ride."

There was something very stern and solemn in the Rector's words, and even Daisy was subdued for the moment.

Maureen, who had not shed a tear or shown a scrap of apparent emotion, now came forward and gravely without any smile said in her distinct, sweet voice: "Shall I take you to your room?—Kitty, dear, go and have a ride on daddy's shoulder."

"He's my daddy as well as the sprite's!" cried out the irrepressible Daisy. "That's one comfort. Well, I suppose we may as well go with you, interloper." The last word she dropped as she did not wish her step-father to hear her.

Maureen had taken great pains with the late Mrs. O'Brien's room. She had taken away the large double bed and had substituted two little oak bedsteads, and the room was really quite charming, with its good furniture, its flowers, and wide-open windows, which let in the delicious air, that blew straight from the Atlantic, not two miles away.

"How shivering—how bitter!" cried Daisy. "For goodness' sake, shut that window; I'll catch my death—I know I shall. What a great empty room! Nothing in it to speak of. The only decent person I have seen since I entered the house is the boy they call Dominic. I am going to have a try and flirt with him. It will get my hand in for proper practice by-and-by."

"You mustn't be unkind to me if you expect Dominic to like you," said Maureen.

"Oh, so that's the way the wind blows! Ho-ho! Well, little figure of fun, and how do you enjoy your stolen goods?"

"I don't understand you; I haven't a notion what you mean," said poor little Maureen.

"Don't begin by teasing her," suddenly exclaimed Henrietta; "we'll have plenty of opportunity later on. You know we made our plans, but you are such an air-bubble. 'Dysy—Dysy—give me your answer, do!'"

"I'll scratch your cheeks if you talk to me like that," exclaimed Daisy. "I'm not going to be afraid of anybody, and I say it plainly and frankly. Dad's an old frump, but it's wisest to make up to him. What did mother see in him to marry him? As to this creature, she is unspeakable, but of course stolen goods! Well, miss, what are you staring at us for?"

"I thought perhaps I might help you," said Maureen, in her sweet voice, which, in spite of every effort, had a sort of tremble in it. "I don't know that I can; but I thought I could. I'd like to, awfully!"

"Oh, humbug, shut up!" said Henny-penny.

"You'd like me to leave you perhaps," said Maureen. "There's hot water there, and when the bell rings for tea, or rather when the gong sounds, I can come up and fetch you. We thought you'd like this room. Pegeen and I took great pains preparing it for you. It is quite the best bedroom in the house, and the largest. Uncle Pat ought to have it by right, but he wouldn't take it from you, for step-auntie always slept in it, and we thought you'd be sure to like her room, seeing that you are her children. The bed has been moved and two small beds put in. I think myself it is a beautiful room," continued Maureen.

She turned as she spoke in her graceful way and walked towards the door, but before she could reach it both girls had sprung upon her.

"How old are you?"

"I shall be fifteen in a few months. Please don't clutch my shoulders so tightly."

"Well, you're very little younger than we are. We're twins and we're fifteen. We won't be sixteen till Christmas, so there isn't a year between us. We can have a fair fight."

"Now, look here, little monster," said Henny-penny. "Don't you think you are going to have your way in this house, which belonged to our mother."

"Please," said Maureen, "it belongs to Uncle Pat. It is the Rectory, you know."

"Take that," said Daisy, and she gave her a resounding smack upon her cheek.

"Now, look here, Miss Interloper," said Henny.—"Daisy, for goodness' sake, don't strike the creature—we mean to be top dogs at Templemore. We mean to get round dad and Dominic and a man you call Colonel, and you'll have no chance whatsoever; and if you think for an instant that we are going to sleep in this room where mumsie slept until the day she was killed, you're finely mistaken, that's all. You want to kill us; that's about the truth."

"Oh, you don't understand," said poor Maureen.

"If I'm forced to sleep in this room, I shall shriek and yell all night long," said Daisy.

"No, you won't, Daisy, for of course you won't sleep in the room. Why, we should have mumsie walking over us all night long—a pretty trick for you to play on us, Miss Humbug; but you'll soon know your own place. We haven't come to this home of desolation for nothing."

"Where's father?" cried Daisy. "Oh, there he is walking with Dominic. Dad, I say, dad, come upstairs at once! Dominic may come, too, if he likes. The little scamp has been playing tricks on us. Come quick, father, come quick, and save your poor children."

The amazed Rector, accompanied by Dominic, entered the room. The first thing Dominic saw was a great red mark on Maureen's cheek. He went up to her and slipped his hand through her arm.

"Who has been hurting you, acushla?" he said, speaking in that loving Irish voice, which few girls can withstand.

"I tell you what," said Henny.—"Daisy, for Heaven's sake, keep quiet.—That creature put us into this room because she wanted to frighten us out of the world. Why, this was mumsie's room. Please, father, order another room to be got ready for us."

"Certainly, my dears. I shall be only too pleased to take possession of this room myself, and you and your sister can sleep in my room. It is a storey higher up, but the beds can be moved.—Maureen, can you give orders, dear? Why, whatever has happened to your cheek, darling?"

"I suppose I'm a bit flushed," said Maureen.

"Nothing of the sort. Out with the truth," said Daisy. "I smacked her for her cruelty."

"You did that!" said the Rector of Templemore.—"Maureen, my darling, go to your room and lie down. Dominic, take her there, and take every possible care of her.—Now, girls," continued the Rector, when Dominic and Maureen had gone away together, "if you attempt to persecute my little niece or make her life at all miserable I put down my foot, and I think, all things considered, that you will find it a very firm one. Our wish was to make you happy at Templemore, but if you choose to be miserable over nothing at all, and to go on in the exceedingly unpleasant way you have done since you entered the house, why, there is an old lady I know who will take charge of you. I won't tell you her name. I won't tell you anything about her except that she is a relation of my own; and I rather fancy, Henrietta and Daisy, that if you go and live with her, you will sleep where she chooses, you will eat what she puts before you, you will obey her to the letter, and you will not have an easy time. You need not unpack, now, girls. You have shown since you came to this house want of heart and want of feeling, and I may as well tell you that I am bitterly ashamed of you."

Whereupon the Rector left the beautiful bedroom, and the girls stood and stared at each other.

"We're in prison," said Daisy, and she began to sob.

"Nothing of the sort, if we play our cards properly," returned her sister. "Now I'm going to tidy up a bit, and you'd best do the same, and, for goodness, gracious' sake, don't say a word against that little brat in the company of her elders. We can tease her fine in private, and she has got some grit in her, I must say, for she didn't tell when you gave her that awful blow, Daisy. You did yourself no good by that. I wouldn't sleep in this room; I'm with you there. Poor mumsie's room; but I think we'll have to change our tactics a little, otherwise we'll be packed off to that truly awful woman father has described to us. He's not at all a nice man, but Dominic is worth cultivating, and then there's the Colonel. I own I should like to get into his good graces, so do brush out my hair and let me look pretty, and I'll do the same for you. Afterwards we can find our way to the hall hand in hand, two forlorn, sad little orphans—enough to touch the heart of anyone."

Daisy submitted, as she always did, to the stronger nature, and the girls entered the hall a quarter of an hour later in their somewhat tawdry travelling dresses, much the worse for wear—one with her head of fiery red hair and her eyes of fiery blue, the other a sort of shadow of her sister with no colour in the hair, nor in the small pinched face.

The Colonel was seated as usual in the hall, and the Rector was speaking to him on all kinds of subjects, learned subjects and subjects of the day.

Dominic, Denis, and Kitty had placed themselves as far as possible from the Mostyns. Presently there was a little rush heard on the richly-carpeted stairs, and a girl, a beautiful girl, in a Lincoln-green habit, with her little peaked cap of velvet to match with its heron's feather, dashed into the middle of the group. As she advanced, she sang, and the song she sang was "When Malachi Wore His Collar of Gold," and she flew to the Colonel and put her soft arms round his neck and gave him one very light kiss on his forehead.

"Why, Maureen, my blessing!" exclaimed Colonel Herbert.

"You'd best pour out tea now, Maureen," said her uncle, "or you and the Colonel will be late for your ride."

CHAPTER IX. STEP-DAUGHTERS.

"You look tired, Maureen," said Henrietta, coming forward at that moment, "and as I'm father's child, perhaps he would like me to pour out tea."

Maureen turned very red, but did not speak a word; she sat down quietly on a seat near Colonel Herbert. He looked at the child with unspeakable love and anxiety in his eyes. By-and-by, to Maureen's great rejoicing, she and the Colonel went off for their ride together.

The moment the Rector found himself alone with his step-daughters, for the two boys and Kitty had fled from the hall, Henrietta went and knelt down by the elderly man's side.

"Are you vexed with me, father dear?"

"I am, Henrietta, decidedly vexed. You have no right to take Maureen's place in this house. I did not wish to make a fuss before Colonel Herbert, but clearly understand that Maureen has the management of things at Templemore."

"But I am your child, daddy, and older, too," said Henrietta.

"And so am I, daddy, dad. We are twins, of course, so we are the same age," said Daisy, "and we are older than Maureen by a few months."

"Yes, I know all that," said the Rector.

"Well, you see, it's like this," proceeded Henrietta. "It was quite bad enough to be robbed. Darling father—for you do look a dear old duck—we are not blaming you one little bit, you couldn't help yourself; but mumsie, had she lived, meant all her money to go to Daisy and me. Well, she died, poor dear, so there was an end to that. She was a bit mad when she made that will, but we must put up with it. It's there, and the lawyers say it cannot be changed; only really and truly, father dear, Daisy and I, as your step-daughters, and as mumsie's own children, ought to be heads of everything in this house. We want to order the servants. Maureen can do rough work, of course, if we like to give it to her, but she must do it under our superintendence; don't you think so, Daisy?"

"Certain sure, Henny-penny."

"So you see, father dear," continued Henrietta, fixing the Rector with her fierce bright eyes, "it's better to begin at once. That's why I spoke as I did just now, and why I took possession of the tea-urn."

"And gave me," said the Rector, "quite the most nauseous cup of tea I ever had at Templemore."

"Oh, you are prejudiced, daddy dear," said Daisy. "It was delicious tea. Henny is famed for her tea; but never mind, you shall teach Henny, and she shall give it to you just as you like—only the main point is this: Is not Maureen to understand clearly and at once, that she is under us in this establishment?"

"No," said the Rector, "it cannot be."

"But it is very queer of you, daddy"—sob-sob came from Daisy's lips. "Here are we, your own darling wife's only children, treated anyhow, and that little scamp put on top of us. I don't think we can stand it."

"I don't think you can, Daisy. I think I must give immediate directions to have you and your sister sent to my cousin. She'll manage you if I can't. And now, my dears, although I'm better, I'm not the strongest of the strong, so I must ask you both kindly to leave me."

"But we won't go to that awful cousin of yours. We ought to be heads of this establishment; it's very cruel, that's what I call it. Our money gone, and our mother gone, and we thought nothing of at all. If you were anything of a gentleman, father, you wouldn't have taken us from that nice school that mumsie chose for us, where we had lots and lots of friends."

"My dears," said the Rector, and he laid his hand as gently as he could on Henrietta's shoulder and looked into those fierce eyes so like his poor wife's, and noticed the cloud of red-gold hair; and then he glanced from her to Daisy, who was winking at her sister, and altogether putting on a most disagreeable appearance. "My dears," he said, "God help me—I'm a weak man. I have suffered sorely, and your mother's money is no pleasure to me."

"Oh, don't talk tommy-rot," said Daisy. "If it is no pleasure to you, you can give it back to us."

"There is such a thing as the law of the land, girls, and by that law, the money your mother left behind her can only be spent according to the one will she made. I wish for many reasons it could have been otherwise. I will tell you one thing, my dears: I did not even know of the existence of the will until the very day your poor mother leapt from the dog-cart and broke her neck."

"She must have looked very queer with her neck broken," said Daisy. "Did you see her, father? Was it twisted round or doubled over, or what?"

"Daisy, I refuse to answer any more of your heartless questions. Go away now and leave me in peace. I am feeling terribly tired and upset. But clearly understand, both of you girls, that for the present you are only guests in this establishment, and that Maureen keeps her old place. Now, go!"

"Well, he is a frump," said Daisy to her sister. She uttered these words after she had left the hall. "If you had gone out, Daisy, and left him to me, I would have managed him fine. I'm the sort of girl that can come round any man. But you—you are just contemptible. I'll get the upper hand of Miss Maureen yet, but I'll manage it in my own way. You can back me, of course, if you like."

"You may be sure I'll do that, Henny! I couldn't live but for you, but I do get so passionately angry when I think of the way we have been treated. Just to think of that little whipper-snapper having a horse of her own and a Colonel to ride with her, and she put before everyone and getting as much money as we shall have. Oh, I call it detestable!"

"Well, you heard what father said—that the will can't be changed," said Henrietta. "Let's go now and visit the kitchens and scold the servants. They at least shall imagine we are mistresses."

"Oh, what larks!" said Daisy. "Come along, Henny; you are just splendid."

There were a good many servants seated at tea in the old kitchen, for Mr. O'Brien, owing to his added wealth, had increased his staff. They were all Irish Mollies, Bridgets, and Norahs, in addition to which there was the old butler Burke, who sat at one end of the long table, while Pegeen occupied the place of honour at the other. This goodly group of men and maids—for several of the gardeners had come in without permission for their meals—were talking in the soft, low-pitched voice of the Irish. They were drinking tea, too, according to the invariable fashion, out of saucers, their elbows resting on the table-cloth, which was by no means too clean.

"Lawk-a-massy," one of the men was saying to Norah, the under-housemaid, "why, what Mr. Burke has been a-telling to me fair takes my breath entirely. It seems to grip me like. That young minx taking our Miss Maureen's place and slopping out the tea, half into the saucer and half into the cup; and Miss Maureen, the angel that she is, not a word out of her, but just setting down near the Colonel, blessed man, and taking her tea, as though it was nice, although the left cheek of the poor lamb was all swelled up; wasn't it, Burke?"

"It was that so," replied Burke, "and fiery red for that matter."

"And herself such a pale little colleen," said Norah. "My word, one of 'em must have riz a hand at her."

All this time Pegeen had not uttered a word, but her sunken black eyes looked very black indeed, and her breath came in short, quick puffs from her almost toothless mouth.

It was upon this scene that the Misses Mostyn burst in.

"Hullo, hullo, you good people!" said Daisy.

"Hold your tongue, Daisy, and let me speak," interrupted Henrietta.

But here Pegeen rose to her feet, the rest immediately following her example.

"I'll thank ye, madames, to walk out of my kitchen. Ye are not welcome here, and that's flat."

"Oh, dear, dear, what horrid people you all are!" exclaimed Daisy. "We poor orphan girls can't go anywhere to get a bit of welcome."

"To be sure now," said Pegeen, "and there is much of the grief of the orphan about yez. I niver did see it, niver, displayed so touchin' like. Ye are your mother over again, and she war a bad 'un if ever there was a bad 'un. What call had ye, I'd like to know, to go and push yourself into Miss Maureen's place—her little darling self that is the angel of the world? Yes, yez did that; and, what's more, one or other of ye, I can't say which, sthruck her across the left cheek. What call had ye to go on like that, and then come prying in on us? Get out of the way, that's what I say—quick!"

"Please," said Henrietta, who thought it best to be as polite as she knew how, for all the servants were glaring at her as though they would tear her in pieces. "Please let me speak and then I'll go, but I'll take good care to tell the master—my father—what a disgraceful scene I have lighted on. I don't believe for one moment those men have any right to be in the kitchen, and—why, I do declare that is peach jam you are eating, and new-laid eggs. I'm the head of the house in future, so you'd better accept the fact. But now, what I wish to know is this: When is Miss Daisy's and my room to be changed?"

"Sakes alive—ye have got a fine bedroom! Haven't ye tuk to it?"

"We were taken to a room where my mother slept until she died. Do you think we would put up with a haunted room?"

"I did hear the banshee two nights ago," said Norah. "She was crying at one of the windows. It was a sure sign of another death."

"And you expect us to sleep there," said Henrietta. "That's likely. However, the matter is settled, and whoever is the housemaid—I'm sure I don't know how many there are—dozens, I should say—but anyway the housemaids, as soon as they have finished their peach jam and new-laid eggs, are to go upstairs and put our beds into father's room, and father will sleep in the haunted room. He has given orders to that effect, and if you don't believe me, impertinent Irish savages, you'd better go and ask him."

"My word, I will that," said Norah.

"And so will I," said Bridget.

"And so will I," cried Molly. "It will be a nice change for the masther, for his room is mighty poor and what you might call rickety, whilst 'herself' had what was the best room in the house. I'm right glad ye heard the banshee, Norah, for now the poor dear masther will have a dacent room to sleep in; and as like as not, for that matter, the banshee'll cry at the window of the room ye'll be sleeping in, misses. It's ye she's after—the same as your poor mother. Oh, my word, we must bustle to."

"Finish your tay," said Pegeen; "and, young ladies—what calls theirselves such—lave the kitchen!"

CHAPTER X. AT TEMPLEMORE.

The girls did not find themselves thoroughly comfortable at Templemore. The room upstairs was small. It faced north, and the furniture was shabby. In vain they demanded better furniture. No notice was taken of their request. What the Rector had endured for years without uttering a word they must endure now by their own choice and desire. The Rector's illness had been greatly brought on by his unsuitable bedroom.

Maureen poured out tea, Maureen coaxed the servants into a good humour, Maureen picked flowers, and with the help of Pegeen arranged the menu for the kitchen and also for the hall, where they generally partook of refreshments in the hot weather. Maureen was growing very tall and very slim, and the ugly red glow had faded from her cheek. Nevertheless, she had her trials. Henrietta and Daisy saw that as they could not work openly, they must work by guile. She might still be the pretended head of the establishment, but they could make her unhappy. They managed this by many clever dodges.

On a certain night when the Mostyns had been at Templemore for a few days, the Colonel came to dine. There was an excellent meal planned by Maureen, and the family and visitor alike were waited on by old Burke, and a smart-looking girl, who called herself by the uncommon name of Vivian. She was the head-parlourmaid, and being truly Irish by birth, was accepted by Burke as worth training. When the dinner had come to an end, the Mostyns, who were wearing bright pale blue gauzy frocks (they had refused to put on any sort of mourning for their mother), and Maureen, who was in simple white, with a green bow, the true Irish green, in her soft brown hair, were standing together in the drawing-room.

The Mostyns had not made any way whatever with the Colonel, and, although the Rector was kind to them, it was a distant sort of kindness with no love in it. He had begged them on their arrival to wear black for their mother, but as they positively refused to do anything of the sort, he did not press the point.

Denis and Kitty had both retired to bed; Dominic, the one person whom the girls could endure in the family, was nowhere to be seen; but Maureen was there, looking exquisite and fair, with her pale, creamy complexion, her dark brows and soft brown eyes to match her hair—Maureen, the interloper.

"Do you know," said Henrietta suddenly, "that you are a robber?"

"Please, Henrietta, don't talk like that," said Maureen.

"Let her alone," cried Daisy; "if we don't she'll begin to cry, and we have our fun prepared upstairs to-night."

"Whisper, whisper." The other girl nodded, and a pleased expression came over her face.

"I say, what larks!" she exclaimed. Then she said suddenly: "What a glorious piano. When did mumsie buy it?"

"Your mother didn't buy it," said Maureen. "It was Colonel Herbert who bought it and gave it to me."

"That's another of your lies," said Daisy. "All right; let's see what it sounds like."

She could hardly play a note of music, but she could pound wrong notes and crashing chords to any extent. Henrietta stood by her, smiling.

"How," said Henrietta, "you shall play my accompaniments. I have a great voice."

She set to work with great fervour, Daisy improvising the accompaniment. Her song was one just then very much in vogue: "Cheer Up; Never Say Die!" The partly cracked, untrue voice, the hopeless accompaniment, brought the gentlemen, who were all musical, out of the dining-room.

"Good heavens!" said Colonel Herbert. "Maureen's piano will be broken if that sort of thing goes on."

They entered the room long before they were expected. The Colonel said with extreme politeness to the two Mostyns: "Thank you for your performance. Now may we have the pleasure of a song from Maureen."

Maureen immediately sat down and sang the songs "dear Colonel" loved best. Her voice was gaining in power and richness every day. Dominic stood by and turned the pages for her, but suddenly a burst of giggling in a distant part of the room caused him to leave his place. He went up to the two girls, who were choking and stuffing their handkerchiefs into their mouths.

"If you wish to laugh, will you go outside," he said. "We want to listen to Maureen."

"You come along with us, Dommy, boy," said Daisy.

"Thanks; but I would not lose the pleasure of Maureen's singing for the world."

"You call that singing?" said Henrietta. "I call it the squealing of a cat."

"Thanks. You will perhaps allow me to retain my opinion. Don't laugh again when something beautiful is being done."

Maureen was singing "Those Evening Bells" when he went back to her. Her eyes were wonderfully soft and bright, and the Colonel patted her on the shoulder and kissed her on the cheek when he went away.

"We'll have a long ride to-morrow, girleen," he said. "You and I and Fergus and Fly-away. I'll call for you early, for I want to go a good long way; and, oh, by the way, Rector, may Maureen dine with me at Rathclaren to-morrow night? I can send the horse back by the groom, and will bring the child back in my motor-car in time for bed."

"Certainly. You would like that, Maureen," said the Rector.

"Oh, yes," said the little girl. "I should love it."

CHAPTER XI. THE GRAND BLÜTHNER.

There was a strange feeling over the old house, a feeling which had never pervaded it even in the unhappy days of the late Mrs. O'Brien. To all appearance, it was Maureen who was the cause of the misery. It was not that she ever complained, but that she looked fagged and lifeless. She locked her piano, the beautiful Blüthner. She could not stand Daisy's crashing chords and Henrietta's false notes. The two Mostyn girls went one day, when Maureen was out, on purpose to open this instrument in order to indulge in long squeals on it, and in short to injure it as much as possible. They hated the piano because it belonged to Maureen. They could not accuse her of robbery in connection with it, for Colonel Herbert had given it to her.

Mr. O'Brien was busy over his parochial work, and the girls thought they would have a fine time. They had dragged Denis and little Kitty into the room, and, wild with mischievous excitement, they proposed a dance.

"I'll play the music," said Daisy. "I'm the musical one; and Henny-penny, you can hop round with Denis. He's just about better than nobody, and that's about all I can say for him. Wherever is Dominic, I wonder? I say, Kitty—oh, don't look so frightened, you little goose!—where is your eldest brother? Where's the one respectable member of the family?" "Dominic—has gone—away—with Colonel Herbert—and Maureen," faltered Kitty. "Colonel Herbert brought his motor car—and the three went away together. I—I don't want—to dance, please—'sides, I couldn't, as the pianner is locked."

"Locked, you little brat, you little imp! What on earth do you mean?"

"Please, I'm going out," said Kitty.

"You don't go out until you tell us the truth." "'Pon my word, she's right."

Henrietta struggled with all her might to open the instrument; but the lock was good—in fact, a double one—and the great piano stood in its solitary splendour completely shut away from mischievous fingers.

"Well, this is more than I can stand," said Henrietta. "Look here, Denis, you'll be a man some day, and a right handsome one, too—fetching, you know."

"Whatever's fetching?" asked Denis.

"Oh, the sort of boy that lures the birds from the hedges, with those dark grey eyes of yours and the curly black lashes. Oh, I say, you are a wonder. You'll catch the girls by handfuls!"

"Don't know, and don't care!" said Denis. "I hate girls—that is, except Maureen and Kitty!"

"Well, I never! You are a nice sort of lad," said Daisy. "I've thought of a plan, though. You don't know where she has put the key?"

"No, I don't," said the boy sturdily; "and if I did I wouldn't tell."

"Well, get away as fast as you can, with that little brat of a sister of yours."

The two children only too eagerly left the room.

"Henny," said Daisy, the minute they were alone, "are you going to stand this sort of thing?"

"I don't see how we are going to do anything else. It is most detestable," said Henrietta. "But if the piano is locked, we can't do anything with it, can we?"

"I have my thoughts, and they are very fine ones," said Daisy. "Will you listen to me, Henrietta?"

"Oh, I'm sick of everything," said Henrietta, and she put her arms down on the lovely instrument and began to cry loudly and bitterly.

"Look here, Henny, do shut up. Let's dance a jig on the top of the piano. We've got our outdoor shoes on and they are covered with mud. That little wretch is so particular about the top of her piano—always dusting it and polishing it; and then, I say, can't we go to her room and search for the key?"

Henny was not one long to endure hopeless grief. The next moment she had jumped on the top of the piano, and, encircling Daisy in her arms, proceeded to do the one thing she could do fairly decently—that was the steps of a Scotch reel. She whistled the tune with her full rosy lips, and the two girls danced faster and faster until, suddenly going too near the narrow part of the instrument, they both fell over with a resounding crash.

Just at that moment Burke solemnly opened the drawing-room door and announced the Honourable Mrs. Leach and Miss Leach. How it so happened that this Mrs. Leach was a friend in a sort of way of the second Mrs. O'Brien. She therefore thought it her duty to call on the poor lady's daughters, although her own daughter Kathleen by no means approved of the idea.

The sight that met their eyes was decidedly startling: Two girls prone on the floor, and the top of the piano hopelessly injured by clumsy boots and covered from end to end with mud; but Daisy, quick as lightning, saved the situation. Henrietta felt slightly stunned, but Daisy always kept her composure.

"We're so glad to see you, Mrs. Leach," she said. "Darling mumsie wrote so often about you, and said you were quite cheearming. We are glad to see you—we poor lone orphans. And what a pretty daughter you have got, Mrs. Leach. What's her name—Sally or Patty, or what?"

"My name is Kathleen," said that young lady, in a very stiff voice.

"I hope you are not hurt, Miss Mostyn," said Mrs. Leach, going up to Henrietta. "What an awful mess that lovely piano is in! Is it possible that you were dancing on the top? How terribly vexed little Maureen will be!"

"Well, she locked it, spiteful cat," said Henrietta, "so we thought we would pay her out. We are two lone orphans. You'll stay and have tea with us, won't you, Mrs. Leach; mumsie-pumsie's friend—you will, won't you now? I'll ring and tell Burke to get tea at once."

"No, I'm greatly afraid I cannot stay," said Mrs. Leach. "I have several other calls to make."

"Then have you only come to tantalise us like?" said Daisy. "You come in—mumsie's friend—you and your beauty of a daughter—why, I could hug her this minute—and I will, too. I never can restrain myself when I get a passionate fit on. Oh, please stay, do; we are such lone orphans."

Kathleen stood up. She was very tall and graceful. She was one of the most beautiful girls in the neighbourhood. She was more than a head taller than Daisy.

"Mother, we must go," she said. "I always told you that what you have done to-day was a mistake. No, we cannot possibly stay. Miss Mostyn, forgive me, I never kiss strangers. May I ring to have our carriage brought round?"

But Burke at that moment was standing at the door.

"Is it tay ye'll be requiring for the ladies?" he inquired of Henrietta.

"No, thank you, Burke," said Mrs. Leach. "We cannot possibly stay to tea. Good-bye, Miss Mostyn. Good-bye, Miss Daisy. For your mother's sake"—she paused and seemed to swallow something in her throat—"for her sake, I intended to be kind, but it is impossible; you are hopeless. We only make friends with our own sort."

"Give my love to Maureen and sweet little Kitty," said Kathleen. "Come, mother darling, or we'll be late for Colonel Herbert's tea-party."

They swept out of the dismantled drawing-room with all those airs of women of the world which they truly possessed. As Burke was conducting them to their carriage, he could not help saying:

"Ah, thin, it's the truth I'm telling y'ladyship. The things that be going on now are past bearing—past bearing; and I'm frightened out of my very life for Miss Maureen and Miss Kitty."

"Well, Burke, you must do your best to protect them," said Mrs. Leach. "I quite feel with you; but you must know that it is impossible for us to associate with such girls."

"It's the truth ye are saying, ma'am. Why, their ma—goodness knows she was bad enough—but she was a beauty compared to thim as she has left ahint her. Oh, Heaven presarve us, they're listening. That's one of their ways. It's my heart that's broke entirely. Good-bye, ma'am; good-bye, Miss Kathleen. May the God above bless ye both."

The old servant stood bareheaded on the steps of the ancient house and the handsome carriage of the Leaches rolled down the avenue. Then Burke stepped softly back on his way to the kitchen premises. There was no sound audible anywhere, and he sincerely hoped that he was mistaken in supposing that Miss Daisy had been listening to him. But he was not. Daisy had listened—Daisy had overheard, and had now come back to her sister.

"We must do something," she said, and she ground her little uneven teeth and spite flashed out of her small eyes.

"What's to be done?" said Henrietta. "It is you who make the mischief, Daisy. You have no reticence of any sort. I'm sure dear mums didn't keep us so many years at that expensive school without our at least learning that strange girls a great deal older than ourselves should not be kissed. If you had gone away quietly and tidied your mop of white hair, I would soon have got round Mrs. Leach; but I can do nothing when you are by—nothing at all."

"Oh, do let us stop talking about the old horror," said Daisy. "There's one thing I'm determined on: Burke shall be turned away. I heard what he said of us. Disgraceful, I call it!"

"Well, father is the only one to turn him away," said Henrietta. "My head aches. I got a very nasty fall."

"Poor Henny-penny—poor old girl! We did damage the piano a good bit, that's one comfort. How, look here, suppose we go up to Maureen's room and have a right good search for the key. She must have hidden it somewhere. There's something very tiresome about Maureen. Whatever we do to her, whatever we say, she only looks sad and pale and doesn't answer back. I detest that sort of little nonentity. And the petting she gets! And she living on poor mumsie's money! We must contrive to punish her in some way she'll feel."

"Well, anyhow," said Henrietta, "we will go and have a look for the key."

They soon found themselves in Maureen's room, which was a little dressing-room off Uncle Pat's, and which, although by no means grand, was exquisitely neat and tidy.

"Let's make hay while the sun shines," said Daisy. "Pull the bed to pieces and throw the bed-clothes on the floor. Now, then, let's look in her drawers. Locked, I do declare! What a mean spite of a thing! Henrietta, can't you contrive to kick over her water-jug and set the water rolling on the floor? That, I rather fancy, will put Miss Neatness out. Oh, dear—oh, dear! Why, whatever have we here?"

The girls converted the neat room into a hopeless, sopping mess, but now their eager eyes lighted on a little basket, which contained screw-drivers and tools of different descriptions. With these in their hands, they rushed downstairs again to the drawing-room, and began to use every endeavour to burst open the Blüthner grand. Try as they would, however, they could not succeed, for the double lock was too much for them. All they did do was to break two or three screw-drivers and injure the front of the piano. They even broke off little bits of its lovely, highly-polished frame. They then returned the tools to Maureen's room and went out hand-in-hand into the open air. There they met Garry, the young groom, who was just bringing in Fly-away after his daily exercise.

They stopped immediately and entered into a very animated conversation, which obtained but small response.

"Couldn't we ride him, just for a bit?" said Daisy. "Turn about, you know. Maureen doesn't want him to-day, and it would be such fun. Do let us, Garry; do—do!"

"I won't, and that's flat," said Garry. "The horse ain't mine—he's Miss Maureen's. He has had his scamper, and now that he's dry and brushed down and cooled off a bit I'm going to give him his oats. The Colonel is that particular about him—white oats he allus gives him. They are a sight dearer than the others. He's a beautiful baste entirely. I wouldn't be tampering with him if I was you, misses; you must remember, though 'tain't for me to sphake, that it was The O'Shee kilt your mother and The O'Shee is nothing at all to Fly-away. Watch the fire in his eye. It wants a practised rider to manage himself, that it does. Ye'd best lave him alone. Ef you ride him, as sure as I'm standing here, ye'll get your deaths as 'herself' did afore ye."

"But please tell us," said Daisy, who could be very agreeable to any man when she liked, "you don't only give him those white oats? We don't want to ride him. We are not a bit that sort; but we are interested. I suppose you don't mind telling us how you feed him, do you, Garry?"

"I knows my business, and as a rule I kapes it to meself," said Garry.

"But you'll tell it to us, won't you? There surely is no harm in that, Garry; and we are so fond of Maureen!"

"Are ye, now? Well, I wouldn't have guessed it; but there's no saying what's hid in the breast of a maid. I must be off now. I'm going to lock himself in, and ye'd best be making for the hall, for the Rector will be there, and as like as not will be wanting his tay—with Masther Dominic and Miss Maureen away."

"But do—do tell us what else you give him to eat," said Daisy.

"To ate—bless ye—he has his males reglar. A hot mash o' nights."

"Oh, a hot mash at night," said Henrietta.

"Yus, and why not. Yee are afther no good; but I have the charge o' Fly-away, and I don't say that the stable yard is the right place for little maids. Ye'll forgive me, misses, but it ain't, really it ain't."

The girls walked back slowly and thoughtfully to the house. They had never ridden in their lives, and were not at all anxious to risk their existence on the back of Fly-away. Rich as she was, Mrs. Mostyn, before she became Mrs. O'Brien, had placed her daughters in a very common school, and beyond saying from time to time that she meant to leave them all her money and that they were dear, beautiful girls, she took little or no interest in them. She paid their school fees and their holiday fees, and did not bother about anything else. Her one great object was to keep Mostyn's daughters away from Patrick O'Brien, for she knew perfectly well that her second husband was a very different sort of person from her first. But now the girls were established at Templemore and were bent on mischief. They certainly could not break open the piano, but they might be able to injure the horse.

They conversed in low tones on that subject while they went arm in arm to the house, where Burke, according to custom, was laying a sumptuous tea in the hall. They felt certain they could accomplish it if they took their time over the matter. They did not absolutely want to kill him, but Daisy's idea was to mix something in his hot mash which poor unsuspecting Garry would give him without knowing anything about it. They felt they must be very careful how they set to work. The horse must be brought to the jaws of death, so that it would not be good for anything for a long time afterwards; and that horrid Garry would be dismissed. Oh, it was a jolly, jolly notion, and would pay off Miss Prunes and Prisms, which was their private name for Maureen.