Cabins were left unswept, dinners uncooked, pigs unfed. The whole population of the little village turned out into the street, and wondered, and conjectured, and shook their heads, and had a little drink at the shop at the corner just to keep up their spirits; till from one cause or another they had worked themselves into a state of mind in which accuracy was far from being one of the predominant qualities.
Rumors and conjectures spread like wild-fire. In vain Mrs. Donegan and Nessa tried to find out the truth. Some said one thing and some another, and poor old Donnie so implicitly believed always the worst account, that Nessa grew thoroughly confused, and felt half-terrified at the barbarism of a place where every one seemed to think it quite natural and probable that a little girl should be carried off and murdered in order to annoy her mother.
"Oh, I am so glad you have come back!" she exclaimed, as Murtagh and Rosie entered the schoolroom. "Tell me what is true about Mrs. Daly's little girl. Your countrymen talk so wildly I really cannot understand them."
"If you can't understand Irishmen you can't understand me," replied Murtagh, throwing himself into an arm-chair.
His tone was almost rude. Nessa flushed a little, and turning to Rosie she continued:
"They told us such dreadful stories. They said—they said—the floor of the hut was covered with blood; but one said one thing and one another till it was not possible to understand. It is not true, is it? It cannot be true."
It was too much; Rosie could not bear it. Her only answer was a burst of tears.
"Oh, Mon Dieu!" said Nessa. "Her poor mother! Is it so bad as that? Is she really dead?"
"No more dead than I am!" exclaimed Murtagh, springing from the chair and walking impatiently to the window.
Rosie sobbed on, and Nessa, now utterly bewildered, put her arms round her, and asked soothingly, "What is it that makes you cry?"