CHAPTER VII. HAPPINESS.
There come in life moments, perhaps hours, perhaps days, perhaps even months of perfect bliss, and this glorious happening—these sunshiny days, hours, and months—came to little Maureen O'Brien while she lived with Colonel Herbert. She had undoubtedly had a most severe shock, and as her illness had been long and dangerous, so undoubtedly was her recovery somewhat tedious; but by degrees her little larklike voice could be heard singing about the house; and then all kinds of indescribable changes took place at Rathclaren. It was a handsome and stately home before Maureen arrived there, but now it became a beautiful home. The Colonel could not quite make out what had altered it. He did not know that a great nest of daffodils in a certain corner of his vast library made the room all aglow with light. He could not guess why the piano began to sound in the old-fashioned drawing-room, and why a pretty soft voice sang all kinds of old-fashioned songs—"The Dark Rosaleen" for one, "The Wearing o' the Green" for another, and Moore's inimitable melodies—
"Oh, there's nothing half so sweet in life
As love's young dream!"
The Colonel had heard those words ages ago, and he now crept cautiously into the drawing-room and stood behind the little singer.
Certainly her voice was not strong, but it was at that stage of her growth a high soprano, and very clear and very true, so when she sang "When Malachi Wore His Collar of Gold," "The Vale of Avoca," "Believe Me, if all those Endearing Young Charms," "The Minstrel Boy," "Those Evening Bells," "Rich and Rare Were the Gems She Wore," "The Last Bose of Summer," and "The Harp that Once Through Tara's Halls," the Colonel felt as though he were living in a new world.
When he discovered Maureen's gift he did not get the piano tuned, which most men would have done, but got a beautiful new boudoir grand put in its place; and a master came twice a week from Kingsala to train a voice that needed no training, for it was Nature's voice, just as the birds' voices are. Thus the Colonel was intensely happy. The days sped by, and Maureen's passion for music was gratified. Evening after evening the "dear Colonel" and Maureen used to enjoy those incomparable melodies together, the child singing her heart away, the man listening, never speaking, never praising, but with his own heart full to the brim of love for this queer little creature. He loved to spend money on Maureen, and consulted his excellent housekeeper, and bought the child suitable frocks and pretty jackets and hats, and when she was strong enough he took her out riding with him.
The first ride was a bit of a trial to the child, for she could not help thinking of poor step-auntie and The O'Shee, but after that she enjoyed herself immensely. To the astonishment of the Colonel, he found that he had to teach her nothing. She could ride by a sort of instinct; she was part of her horse. He got her a dark Lincoln green habit, and a little green velvet cap with a heron's feather in it; and no sweeter sight could have been seen than the little maid and the elderly man as they crossed country side by side.