“What man?”
“The man that did it. The man that stole our home from us. He is a nobleman and I’m just a poor boy, but the time is coming when he’ll beg to me for mercy.”
Feargus’ round, good-natured face had turned white. His dark hair was ruffled all over his head in wild confusion. His eyes had a bloodshot look and he waved his clinched fists dramatically above his head.
Billie was frightened. She felt as if she were speaking to an insane person; but then she had really never met any one with a grievance before, and Feargus O’Connor had a serious and deep grievance against some one.
“Come on,” she said kindly. “Don’t spoil your appetite for breakfast. You were singing when I came out. Start up again and maybe it will help you forget your troubles. How did it go?
“‘A wet sheet and a flowing sea,
And a wind that follows fast—”
“You’re awfully kind, Miss Billie,” said the boy, waking into consciousness again, and feeling that he had been very rude to air his troubles to a comparative stranger. “Let’s sing ‘Come back to Erin, Mavourneen, Mavourneen.’ That’s my sister’s favorite song. She sings it with the harp. You should hear her. It’s beautiful.”
They had just started on their promenade again, when they heard scampering footsteps behind them and a childish voice called:
“Please wait. I want to walk with you.”
It was the pale little boy, Arthur, whose last name they had never learned, racing down the deck after them.