Two little children in white pinafores were playing with wooden bricks on the floor. Marion, perched on a chair on the other side of the fireplace, stretched out two little blue-stockinged feet to the blaze; and while Nurse took the boots down-stairs, the clean fat baby was transferred to Adrienne's lap.
Finding that Adrienne was fond of children, Mrs. Plunkett grew confidential over the sayings and doings of her own four; and then suddenly interrupting herself, she exclaimed in a tone half-curious, half-confidential:
"But your cousins, Miss Blair? Have they left you alone already? I should have thought they would have liked to show you the place. Ah, it's very sad to see children lead such lives."
"Yes," said Adrienne, "it is almost the same as though they had neither father nor mother, poor little things."
"It is their own fault, I assure you; entirely their own fault. For shame, baby! is that the way you treat ladies who are kind enough to nurse you, sir? Mr. Plunkett and I were prepared to take every interest in them," she continued, bending over Adrienne, and helping to extricate her hair from baby's fat, rosy fingers. "We were away for our summer trip when Murtagh and Winnie first arrived. Poor little Marion was the only one we had then, and we were very near losing her that same summer. When we came back we found that that poor foolish Mrs. Donegan had already done a great deal of harm.
"The two children were making themselves ill with pining, and she encouraging them, letting them do every mortal thing they liked, under the pretence that they must be amused. My husband saw at once that it was his duty to remonstrate; he was quite shocked to see the way things were going. And I'm sure it was enough to shock any one to see those two children, with their heads cropped after the fever, and their wizened yellow faces, and their little sticks of arms; they were enough to frighten one.
"They had suffered so terribly from fever that Mr. Launcelot insisted upon their having what he called perfect rest. He said that their brains were too active, and that the thing he most desired to hear of them was that they were growing as ignorant as the village children.
"But my husband was determined to do his duty by them. He spoke sharply to Mrs. Donegan about her behavior, and there were most unpleasant scenes between them. She came down here one evening and said the most dreadful things. She told me myself, Miss Blair, that he ought to be ashamed to be so hard on poor little fatherless, motherless children, who were pining for a bit of love. I was quite upset after she went away. But my husband never minds those things. He does his duty, and he doesn't mind what anybody says. He spoke to Murtagh himself next day, and told him how sinful it was to give way like that to every fanciful feeling that came over him,—one minute pining and miserable, and the next rampaging like wild animals all about everywhere, not minding a word anybody said to them. But it was all no use: Murtagh wouldn't answer a word, and from that day to this they've just gone on growing worse and worse.
"My husband has tried severity with them; but Mr. Blair doesn't like to hear of their being punished, and James hesitates to take the responsibility entirely upon himself. If they were his own children, he'd soon bring them to order.
"He worries himself about those children ten times as much as he's ever had occasion to worry about his own. Why, their governesses alone have given him more trouble than all his own servants put together. What's the good of worrying about other people's children? They are not one bit grateful. I really believe, Miss Blair, that they hate him; I believe those children hate every one; there's never been one day's peace since they've been here."