The Reverend Mr. O'Brien could not help saying, after his first pause of astonishment: "The person who has to forgive you is Maureen."
"But why?" said Daisy, in an injured voice. "If you forgive your own little girls, popsy-dad, surely, most surely, no one else ought to be angry."
"It is Maureen's piano," replied the Rector. "You both did a naughty, mischievous—indeed, I may say a wicked thing. I am heartily ashamed of you; but Maureen has got such a glorious spirit of perfect gentleness and love that she may overlook your sin."
"I wish you wouldn't praise her quite so much," said Henrietta.
"I don't over-praise," said the Rector. "I think of her as what she is. She comes of a noble stock. There never was anyone like her dear father, and her sweet young mother in her own way was equally blessed. They have long passed away from this troublesome world, but they have left their child behind them. You are more than fortunate girls to have such a companion, and to have the possibility of making such a friend. I don't say for a moment that you will make Maureen your friend. The matter rests with yourselves. She has the true spirit of forgiveness. No, don't touch the piano. You like to see it in its present horrible condition. I will sit in another room; for to me it is most repugnant. Amuse yourselves as you wish, girls. I am sorry I cannot feel very friendly to you at the present moment, but of course as I have said already, the matter rests in the hands of Maureen."
Certainly neither Henrietta nor Daisy felt comfortable at the Rector's words, and when late that evening Dominic and Maureen returned from Rathclaren, they both rushed out to her, Daisy whispering, "Now keep up your courage, Henny."
There was a standard lamp lighted in the drawing-room, and the ravages done to the Blüthner were very perceptible. Maureen, who had a happy colour in her cheeks and whose eyes were bright and soft, stared for a moment at the mangled instrument with a sort of horror. Mrs. Leach, who had joined the Colonel's tea-party, had not told the child what had happened; and Kathleen, who loved Maureen, had walked about the grounds with her letting her cling to her arm and throwing all the interest of which she was capable into Maureen's account of her life.
"You know, Maureen, you ought to live here," said Kathleen at last.
But Maureen stared at her, and said with a voice of amazement: "What! and leave Uncle Pat?"
So Kathleen said no more. She felt afterwards that she could not.