"Well," replied Donnie, "I don't say but what they might have a governess, and let them do a bit of learning every day. But when they first came Mr. Launcelot said they wasn't to be allowed to see a book at all, but running about wild in the good mountain air; and quite right he was, too. And since then they begged so hard not to have a governess in the house, that Mr. Blair giv' in to them, and got them governesses from Ballyboden.
"But what with one thing and another they never stay. One says it's too far to come every day, and another says she can't manage the children, an' the last went away close upon three months ago because Mr. Murtagh slipped a handful of hailstones down her back. But it doesn't signify; they weren't any good, when they did come; they hadn't got the wit to teach these children.
"They tell me there'll be a real clever German governess next year, when the young gentlemen go to school. If they never got a governess at all, there's no fear but what Mr. Launcelot's children would be clever enough. They may be a bit wild like, but if they've got the good blood in them, they'll never go far wrong. I'm old, and I've seen a lot o' people, an' I tell you, Miss, you may always let the good blood have its way; it's only the half-and-half folks take such a deal o' looking after.
"Then it isn't every one can understand that, and that's where the trouble is. With these children, now, ye can manage them with a crick o' your little finger, if you take them the right way. They'd give you the coats off o' their backs, and the bit out o' their mouths, if they thought you wanted it. But they won't be driven. There's nothing but gentleness is a bit o' good with them, and that's where it is them and Mr. Plunkett is such enemies."
Such were Donnie's opinions, and she descanted upon them at length, till Kate came to say that she had sent up Miss Blair's luncheon to the dining-room.
Mr. Blair did not take luncheon, so Adrienne sat alone at the head of the big table. She spent her afternoon alone, too, and had plenty of leisure to decide that Murtagh was right,—the drawing-room was a musty-smelling old room. She opened the windows wide, and filled the old china bowls and vases with flowers, and pushed the furniture about till the room looked more habitable. Then she unpacked her needlework and her music, and tried to occupy herself; but finally she was very glad when at half-past five Brown came to inform her that six o'clock was the dinner hour—an intimation which she took as a respectful hint that in Brown's opinion it was now time for her to dress.
CHAPTER IV.
The children meanwhile had completely forgotten the existence of their new cousin. The morning was deliciously bright; there was a fresh scent in the air that made them all feel inclined to caper about without exactly knowing why. Even Murtagh forgot his troubles with Mr. Plunkett, and raced and shouted with the others.
Their river was a branch of a broad mountain stream. It came trickling, sparkling, dancing between the great bits of moss-grown rock that strewed its course, tumbling unexpectedly from time to time head over heels down the side of a big stone, and then lying still and clear in pools sheltered by the rocks. In the very middle the water flowed swiftly along in uneven ripples, slapping up against obtrusive rocks with a ruffle of white spray that made the delight of the children.