But, alas, the Reverend Patrick O'Brien had never forgotten and never could forget the terrible fact which had brought misery into his hitherto happy home. He said nothing to his wife on this special occasion—it was not his way to answer back; but a couple of days afterwards, he ordered what was called the old phaeton and drove to the nearest railway station, which went by the name of Farringallaway. He took a ticket from there to the city of Cork. He had a little business to do in the city, and in especial he had a very long talk with a certain doctor—Dr. James Mulhalphy. The two had a long and anxious conversation together, and the Rector returned home in the cool of the evening with a strange weight at his heart. That heart of his was very big and very loving, and the feeling he had was both of rejoicing and fear, for although long ago he had insured his life and settled his own little property on his children, Denis, Dominic, and Kitty, in those days there was no Maureen in the house, and he had done nothing at all for her. She was the only child of his twin-brother, who had died leaving her in his care, but who was unable to give her even a penny. Oh, how much the Rector loved that brother and how he adored the bonnie bit thing! But what was to happen now to that bright darling, who kept them all alive, who was never dull, never idle, never sulky; who never thought of herself for a single moment?
On this special, most lovely day, Maureen happened to be a little tired as well as anxious. She had been rushing about since early morning, attending to Aunt Constance, helping the inferior servants, and doing what she could for old Pegeen. She felt that she had earned her rest under the trees. She had a very old and tattered book beside her. It had been given to her by her uncle, and was called Gulliver's Travels; it seemed to Maureen to be a most fascinating book, and when she told her uncle how she delighted in it, he informed her that on the occasion of her next birthday he would give her the Arabian Nights as a present. That birthday was four months off, it was true, but what mattered that when she had this priceless treasure to look forward to.
The summer at Templemore was ordinarily celebrated by a rich supply of fruit and vegetables, milk, butter, and eggs. The Reverend Patrick was a born gardener, and his strawberries were so fine that they scented the air as you passed them. In addition to the strawberries there were great gooseberries of every variety, raspberries as large as thimbles, also a fruit, not very well known now, called sugar-pears, other pears of every description, plums of every variety, apples innumerable, and peaches—oh, such peaches! In short, the summer of the year brought with it plenty and abundance. It resembled Joseph's fat kine, which were closely followed by the lean kine in the long sad winter.
Well, this was the longest day of the year. Maureen on her next birthday would be fourteen years of age. She had earned her rest under the tall trees, for had she not picked the peas and shelled them, and had she not gathered the strawberries and removed their stalks? And had she not beaten up a great bowl of whipped cream to go with the said strawberries?
By-and-by Dominic came whistling along. He was accompanied by Denis, who had hoisted Kitty on his shoulder. Kitty was the baby of the family. She was a blue-eyed, fair-haired little girl, decidedly pretty and with a look at times—a look which came and went—of the Reverend Patrick O'Brien on her sweet, funny, jolly sort of face.
"Hullo," suddenly cried Dominic. He stood still and stared at Maureen. "Puss, whatever are you idling for?"
"I'm not idling—I'm resting."
"Resting? Whatever have you to be tired about?"
It seemed to Maureen at that moment that the sun went behind a cloud and that the fear at her heart grew greater and more tremendous. It was a large fear, and it pressed on her like a stone. She did not want to lie still any longer.
"I was resting," she repeated, "and you'll all know why when dinner-time comes along."