patsy had told the truth. sir shawn was not dead. whether he was going to live was another matter.

patsy had brought back dr. costello with unhoped for speed. the doctor had just come in from a case and had only to get what he thought he might need and come as fast as his motor-bicycle would carry him. he was a kind, competent doctor who might have had a wider field for his ambition than this lonely bog country. one of the big dublin doctors had said to a patient: "haven't you got costello at killesky? i don't know why he wastes himself there. it is very lucky for you since you need not trouble to be coming up to me."

it was a comfort to the poor woman's desolation to see the pitying capable face.

"patsy has told me all about it as we came along," he said in the slow even voice that had quieted many a terrified heart. "i got him to leave his bicycle at my place and come back with me in the side car. the horse broke his back in the bog, i believe. better the horse than the man. is there any one here who will help me to undress him?"

"the butler valets my husband," lady o'gara replied. "he was with an invalid before he came to us, and he was highly recommended for his skill and gentleness in nursing. i did not think then that we should have need of these qualifications."

"the very man i want. can you send him?"

as she turned away he put his hand on her arm. the pale smile with which she had spoken touched the man who was accustomed to but not hardened by human suffering.

"it is not as bad as it seems," he said. "i think he will recover consciousness presently. he must have been thrown rather violently."

she went away somewhat comforted. outside the door she found patsy seated on a chair, his head fallen in his hands. shot was sitting by him, his nose on patsy's knee. they looked companions in suffering.

"the doctor is hopeful," she said, with a hand on patsy's shoulder.

"go down and tell reilly to come. the doctor wants him."

the flat-faced, soft-footed reilly was to prove indeed in those sad days and nights an untold help and comfort. patsy watched him curiously and enviously, going and coming, as he would, in and out the sick-room.

absorbed as she was lady o'gara noticed that sick look of jealousy on patsy's face. she herself was content to sit by her husband's bed and let others do the useful serviceable things, unless when by the doctor's orders she went out of doors for a while.

"we don't want him to open his eyes on a white face he doesn't know.

the better you look, my lady, the better it will be for him," said dr.

costello.

the afternoon after the accident a watery sun had come out in fitful gleams. it had been raining and blowing for some hours. there was still no sign of returning consciousness in the sick man. sir shawn's face looked heavy and dull on the pillow, where he lay as motionless as though he were already dead.

"concussion, not fracture," said the doctor, lifting an eyelid to look at the unseeing eye. "he will come to himself presently."

and so saying he had sent her out to walk, bidding her exercise the dog as well as herself, for shot was a heartbreak in these days, lying about and sighing, a creature ill at ease.

"so long as he does not howl," she said piteously, "i do not mind. i could not bear him to howl."

"dogs howl for the discomfort of themselves or their human friends," said the doctor. "you are not superstitious, lady o'gara?"

"oh, no," she said, huddling in her fur cloak with a little shiver.

"you must believe in god or the devil. if in god you can't admit the

devil, who is the father of superstition as well as of lies."

"oh, i know, i know," she said. "but, just now, i cannot bear to hear a dog howl."

on the hall table she found a telegram from terry. he hoped to be with her by eleven o'clock.

the news from terry turned her thoughts to stella. for twenty-four hours she had not remembered stella. terry would ask first for his father and next for stella.

she would go and ask for stella. she turned back from the path that led to the south lodge, remembering that the gate was locked.

patsy would have the key. she went in search of him, accompanied by the melancholy shot and the two poms, rescued from the kitchen regions, to which they had been banished because of their inane habit of barking with or without reason. she was grateful to the poms, now that she was out of hearing of the sick-room, for the manner in which they leaped upon her and filled the air with their clamorous joy. there was nothing ominous about their yapping.

patsy came to meet her as she entered the stableyard. the small neat figure had a disconsolate air. patsy's eyes were red, his hair rumpled.

"how is he?" he asked.

"there is no change. the doctor is not alarmed."

"ah, well, that's good so far. master terry'll be comin'; that's better. i'll be meetin' him at the late train?"

"how did you know?" she asked surprised; "the telegram has only just come."

"the gorsoon that brought it spread the news along the road. we was the last to hear it."

"oh, of course," she said listlessly.

he looked at her anxiously.

"there'll be no use to trouble the master about that blackguard's lies?"

"no fear of that," she answered. "nothing to hurt or harm him shall enter that room."

"sure god's good always!" patsy said reverently.

she went on to ask him for the key of the south lodge.

"wait a minit, m'lady," he said, "i'll come wid you."

she waited while he fetched the key. he came back swinging it on his finger.

"i never seen a quieter little lad thin that georgie," he said. "he's very fond o' the books. i don't know how i'll give him back to his mother at all. he's great company for me."

they went on, past the house and into the path that led to the south lodge.

out of sight of the house patsy suddenly stopped, and nodded his head towards where the boundary wall of castle talbot ran down to the o'hart property.

"it never rains but it teems," he said. "i was waitin' about to see you. there's trouble down there."

his pointing finger indicated the direction of the waterfall cottage.

"what's the matter?" she asked in quick alarm.

"it's little miss stella. she strayed away last night. susan didn't miss her till the mornin'. she found her just inside the gates of the demesne—by old lizzie's lodge. she was soaked wid rain an' in a dead faint. i wonder susan ventured with that blackguard about. she brought miss stella to and helped or carried her back. she's wanderin' like in her mind ever since, the poor little lady."

"give me the key," lady o'gara said. "go back and bring dr. costello."

"it was what i was venturin' to recommend," said patsy, giving her the key.

she went on quickly, a new cause for trouble oppressing her. she had not waited to ask questions of patsy…. was stella very ill? what had happened to the poor child? how was she going to tell terry? these were some of the questions that hammered at her ears as she hurried on as fast as her feet could carry her.

she was at the south lodge before she remembered the dogs. shot might be trusted to be quiet, but the poms, in a strange house, would bark incessantly. she shut the gate between them and her, leaving it unlocked for the doctor. their shrill protests followed her as she went down the road.

she stood by the gable-end of the house and called up to the window, open at the top, which she knew to be that of stella's room. while she waited expectantly, she became aware of a low voice talking very quickly in a queer monotonous way. susan came to the window and looked out above the lace blind. she made a signal that she would open the gate and disappeared.

lady o'gara went on to the gate and saw susan coming down the little avenue. susan, dropping the curtsey which had doubtless been the meed of the squire's lady, opened the gate for her.

"i'm troubled about the poor young lady, m'lady," she said, jerking her thumb backwards towards the cottage. "i wish her mother'd come back. she do keep callin' for her, somethink pitiful."

"leave the gate open, susan; i expect the doctor immediately."

"i'm sorry for your own trouble, m'lady," susan said. "i hope sir

shawn's doin' nicely now?"

"there is no change yet. but the doctor seems confident."

"there: i am pleased," said susan.

they went back to the little house, susan explaining and apologizing. she did not know how she had come to sleep so soundly. she supposed it must have been because she'd been sleeping the fox's sleep, keeping one eye open on miss stella, for several nights past, till she was fair worn out. still, she didn't ought to have done it.

as they stood by the end of the little brass bed on which stella lay, tossing in fever, she told the rest of the tale—how she had awakened with the first glimmer of dawn and realized that she had slept the night through; how, going to stella's room she had missed her; how she had searched house and garden in a frenzy without finding any traces of her; finally she had discovered that the gate stood open.

"i declare to goodness, m'lady," said susan. "i never even thought of baker when i went out to look for her. after all, if georgie was safe, there isn't much more he could do to me than he's done. i don't know why it was i turned in at old lizzie's cottage, an' there i found the poor lamb up against the door, for all the world as though she'd tried to get in and dropped where she was. she've been talking ever since of some one follerin' her. and then she calls out for her mother to come. once or twice i thought i heard her callin' master terry to come and save her. i can't tell whether she was frightened or whether she fancied it. but she do cry out, poor little soul, in mortal terror of some one or something."

standing there by the foot of the bed lady o'gara's heart went out in tenderness to the sick girl as though she was her own little daughter. what maze of terror had she passed through, whether in dreams or reality, that had brought that look to her face? while they watched stella got up on her elbow and peered into the corners of the room with a terrible expression. she struggled violently for a moment as though held in a monstrous grip. then she fell back on her pillow, exhausted.

there came a knocking at the door. the doctor. in a few seconds dr. costello was in the room with his invaluable air of never being flurried, of there being no need for flurry. he did not even express surprise, though he must have felt it, at seeing stella there, nor at the state in which he found her.

"i shall explain to you presently," lady o'gara said, "why she is here instead of at inch. mrs. comerford has quarrelled with her."

"ah," said the doctor, getting out his clinical thermometer. "it has been her bane, poor lady, that difficult temper. years have not softened it apparently."

"but for all that she has a noble nature," lady o'gara said. "this will be a terrible grief to her."

"if they have fallen out i should not recommend her presence here when miss stella returns to herself," the doctor said quietly. "she must be kept very quiet. evidently she has had a bad shock of some kind, following on a strained condition of the nerves."

after his examination lady o'gara told him something of stella's case. he did not ask for more than he was told. he did not even show surprise at hearing that stella had a mother living.

"ah," he said, "if her mother's face could be the first thing for her eyes to rest upon when she comes out of that bad dream, it would do a good deal to restore her sanity."

"unfortunately we do not know where the mother is," lady o'gara said sorrowfully.

"i will give the patient something to keep her quiet to-night," the doctor went on. "perhaps you could send some one over to my house for the medicine."

"patsy kenny will go."

"now let me take you back to the house. it is growing dusk. is there any one you could send to stay with mrs. … mrs. …?"

"susan horridge. oh, yes. i can send margaret mckeon, my maid. she never talks."

the doctor gave no indication of any curiosity as to why no talking made margaret mckeon a suitable person for this emergency. the world was full of odd things, even such a remote bit of it as lay about killesky. the place buzzed with gossip. every one in it knew already the story of the charge made by the drunken tramp against sir shawn o'gara. it had reached dr. costello at an early stage in its progress. he remembered the death of terence comerford and the gossip of that time. in his own mind he was piecing the story together: but he was discretion itself. no one should be the wiser for him.

he was on his way home, having left lady o'gara safely at her own door, when he did something that very nearly ran the bicycle with the side-car into the bog. patsy, his passenger, merely remarked calmly: "a horse 'ud have more sinse than this hijeous thing."

the doctor, piecing together the details of the old tragedy to explain the new, had had an illumination as blinding as the flash of lightning widen reveals a whole countryside for a moment before it falls again to impenetrable blackness.

"by jove," he had said to himself, "stella is terry's daughter. and the woman at waterfall cottage—they will talk even though i don't encourage them—is bridyeen sweeney that was. i wonder some of them didn't chance on that."

he murmured excuses to patsy for the peril he had narrowly escaped.

"she answers to my hand like a horse," he said. "that time i was dreaming and i pulled her a bit too suddenly."

as he got out at his own door he said something half aloud; being a solitary bachelor man he had got into a trick of talking to himself.

"i did hear that boy of the o'garas' was sweet on her," he said. "my word, what a pretty kettle of fish!"

"i beg your pardon, doctor?" said patsy.

"oh nothing, nothing. i was wool-gathering. come in and wait; i'll have the medicine ready in less than no time."