Mr. Plunkett was sitting in an arm-chair next the window, with his back turned to the door. There was no one else in the room, and having entered, the children stood hesitating for a moment near the door where he could not see them. Now that they were actually in his room their courage seemed all to have vanished. Their hearts were beating fast, they had a queer sensation in their throats, and not one of them could have spoken a word just then.
"Is that you, Marion?" inquired Mr. Plunkett, in a voice so gentle that the children could scarcely believe it was Mr. Plunkett who was speaking.
"No," faltered Rosie. Then plucking up courage she advanced towards his chair, and said in her most winning manner: "I hope you're feeling better now. It was so unlucky, wasn't it, that you fell under poor Black Shandy?"
"Thank you; I am somewhat recovered," replied Mr. Plunkett in his usual severe voice, and the children no longer doubted their ears.
"Did it hurt you very much?" inquired Rosie.
"I suffered considerably."
"I'm so sorry," said Rosie. "I do hate being hurt so." After a little pause she continued, the color mounting to her cheeks, "We have come to ask you a favor, and we do hope you'll grant it." Murtagh, Winnie, and Bobbo came slowly into view, and Mr. Plunkett's face on seeing them did not look as though he were going to grant a favor.
"By what door did you come in?" he inquired sharply.
"We came in together by the back door," answered Winnie.
"I should like to know where Bridget was. These Irish servants are all alike, careless and gossiping. I suppose her mind is too much taken up by the village mystery to allow her to pay any attention to work."