While Winnie continued to speak, Murtagh had flung himself silently into a great arm-chair by the window, and Nessa saw by his face and manner that he was in one of his proud, angry moods. She attended to the wants of the other children, who were ravenously hungry, and then seeing that he did not stir, she said, "Your tea is poured out, Murtagh."
"I don't want any tea, thank you," replied Murtagh, from the depths of his arm-chair.
Then ashamed, perhaps, of the tone in which he had spoken, he sprang up and came to the table.
"But let me cut the bread and butter for them," he said, taking the loaf from her; "see what red marks the knife makes on your hands." He looked up as he spoke with a pleasant smile.
"Did you ever know any one like Mr. Plunkett?" remarked Rosie. "Just imagine him wanting to take the stones of our hut!"
"He's not going to get them," said Murtagh, shortly, his brow clouding over again.
"It's the most ridiculous idea I ever heard in my life!" exclaimed Winnie,—"knock down our hut that we've had ever since we've been here, to mend some silly old wall. They'll be knocking down this house next to build up Mr. Plunkett's. I think they've all gone mad."
"And besides," said Murtagh, "papa built that hut with his own hands when he was a little boy. He told us all about it before we came here. Pat O'Toole's father helped him, and they collected every single stone that's in it one by one out of the river. It took them more than six months getting all the stones, and building."
"Why don't you tell that to Uncle Blair?" said Nessa. "You may be quite sure nobody remembers who built it, or they would not pull it down to mend a wall. Shall I tell him for you this evening and ask him to explain to Mr. Plunkett?"
Murtagh's face relaxed a little, and Rosie exclaimed: