There were no secrets in the Welsh family, and what one knew all knew. They not only knew the little things, but they knew the big things; they knew, for instance, when Mr. and Mrs. Welsh were short of money, and when money came in. They knew the people who were uncongenial to their gentle mother, and the people whom she loved to meet; they were open as the day to each other. But do not let it be supposed for a single moment that they were demonstrative to outsiders, that the Welsh family secrets went any farther. No, close as wax were all these young people with regard to home affairs except to one another.
“It would be the meanest thing on earth to tell anything with regard to our family affairs,” Mary Welsh had once pronounced; and Sam, the eldest boy, immediately illuminated the speech in the most flowery style, with a quantity of blue and gold and crimson paint, and stuck it up above the schoolroom mantelpiece, so that every member of the Welsh family could thus proclaim the sentiments of Mary to the others.
“This is the letter,” said Mary, standing up now and reading it aloud:
“My Dear Polly,—I am in an awful fix. Dear Peter Desmond is dead, and I went a few days ago to fetch his little girl from an Irish cabin in County Kerry. She is a most difficult subject, my dear Polly, and I don’t think any one on earth can help her if you don’t come to the rescue; so, will you come to-day? Come the very minute you get this, for I really don’t know what we shall do with the child. You will understand me when I tell you that this morning she lost herself and had exercise on the back of Farmer Anderson’s bull, Nimrod! You will perceive that she is what is termed an ‘impossibility.’ You, being Irish yourself, can doubtless touch her heart. For goodness’ sake, Polly, come and save us all, and in particular poor little Peggy Desmond.”
“There, now, daddy and mum,” said Mary, after she had read the letter, “this is a call which cannot possibly be neglected. I put it to the family.”
“And the family say that you are right,” was her father’s response.
“I’ll go and get the pony put to the cart,” said Sam.
“And I’ll pack your things. You’ll want your best evening dresses,” said Angela.
And so Mary started off on her visit to Preston Manor.
The children ran with her a good bit of the way, shouting to her and giving her directions. She was on no account to be bullied or oppressed by the grandeur of Preston Manor, and she was on no account either to allow the heart of the poor little Irish colleen to be broken; she was to keep herself to herself, as all self-respecting Irish maidens did, and at the same time she was to be a comfort and consolation to every single individual in the house. “And, above all things, Mary Molly Polly,” cried Sam, “you are to come back to your loving family as soon as possible, for we’ll be in a rare fix without you.”