"And it is all our fault!" said Murtagh.
They looked at each other for a moment in silence, then quickening their footsteps they soon stood within the cottage.
Mrs. O'Toole was crouching over the fire, but she started up on their entrance, and they asked at once for Pat.
"What is it ye want with Pat?" she inquired.
"We want to talk to him about something," replied Murtagh.
"Sure ye can leave your message with me. Is it about them night-lines he was settlin' for yez?"
"No, no," returned Murtagh, impatiently; "I must see himself. Is he inside?"
"Sit down, yer honor, and have a bit of griddle-cake," said Mrs. O'Toole, wiping a stool with her apron; "maybe he'd be in in a minnit. It's the whitest flour I've had this long time."
"No, thanks," replied Murtagh, "we can't wait; we must go and try to find him."
They went, accordingly, to the village, where he was generally to be found lolling on the grass by the roadside, minding the goat and playing marbles. They searched a long time, but they could not find him, and one of his playmates at last volunteered the information that Pat had not been out this morning. Mrs. O'Toole had been down herself to milk the goat, and she told them that Pat was ill in bed.