Rosie twisted herself out of Nessa's arms and made no answer. Nessa looked inquiringly towards Murtagh, but he was standing with his back turned to her, staring out of the window, and almost counting every sob of Rosie's.
At last he turned and said quietly, "Don't you think you had better go up-stairs, Rose?"
Without stopping her tears Rosie went slowly out of the room, and they heard her sobs growing fainter and fainter as she walked away down the long passage.
"What is it?" asked Nessa, half-timidly, as the sound of the last sob died away. "Is it something about the little girl, or have you—" She stopped, fearing to offend Murtagh by suggesting that they might have quarrelled.
Poor Murtagh was at his wit's end. In despair he turned round to his cousin with a mute pleading look that said more than words. There were no tears in his eyes. They were like the eyes of some dumb animal in pain; they did not ask for help—they seemed only to implore a little patience. Nessa had never seen a child look like that; she felt as though she were in the presence of a real trouble.
"Oh, I beg your pardon," she exclaimed almost involuntarily, and then remembering that Murtagh was only a little fellow she put her arms round his neck and kissed him.
"Don't be so sad," she said.
Murtagh's heart bounded at her kindness. It was nearly five years since any one had caressed him so. He kissed her warmly back again, tears that had not been there before springing to his eyes.
The luncheon-bell ringing loudly, they all moved away together to the dining-room.
Ellie was in high spirits, and Murtagh and Nessa devoted themselves to the little lady, till towards the middle of dinner Winnie and Bobbo came in from the garden.