"Yes; she and I will stay together," said the child. "She isn't angry with me any longer. God has taken away her anger. See, she smiles. You must break it to Uncle Pat, Colonel. I'll stay with her until she can be moved."
"She shall be moved to my house at Rathclaren," said the Colonel. "It can easily be managed, my brave little girl. But you can do no good here. Had you not better come with me?"
"No, no; I'll stay with her. She's not angry with me any longer. Please, Colonel, be very quick, and don't frighten Uncle Pat, for he's far from strong."
CHAPTER VI. COLONEL HERBERT TO THE RESCUE.
There are times in life when the brain ceases to act—that is, consecutively—when the heart ceases to perform its usual functions, and when all life, and all that life means, becomes topsy-turvy. This happened to be the case with little Maureen O'Brien. When she entered Colonel Herbert's house looking brave and upright, never shedding a tear nor uttering a sigh, that brave little heart of hers suddenly gave way. She fell down in a deep and prolonged swoon. When she came to herself again she was in a small white bed, and two nurses were taking care of her. She did not recognise the room, and she did not recognise the nurses. They were of no moment to her. She passed quickly away again into a sort of trance, not a death trance by any means, but a fever trance. During that time she talked a great deal about step-auntie, and said with bright, uplifted eyes: "I don't mind being a charity child, step-auntie; I don't mind one little bit."
Uncle Pat came to see her, and so did Dominic, but she did not know either of them. She kept on with her eternal moan, "I don't mind being a charity child."
Then grave professional men came and stood by the little white bed and felt the fluttering pulse, and said gravely that the child was suffering from shock of a severe description.
Uncle Pat said: "Is Maureen in danger?"