Then arose the very grave question, what to do about it? Suppose she should tell her suspicions: would Mrs. Kirkland believe her word against that of a lady, an old customer? Would she not run the risk of losing her own place, without doing anybody any good,—that place for which she had prayed and worked, and in which she was striving so hard to give satisfaction? On the other hand, was it right to allow her employer to be robbed? The thefts grew bolder and bolder every day; and Kelly began to be afraid that she should herself be accused. Mrs. Kirkland had missed some little articles; and Nelly fancied that she began to watch her more closely. She could not ask advice without mentioning her suspicions; and she did not like to do this till she was quite certain. It was a great responsibility to fall upon the shoulders of a girl like Nelly, and it almost weighed her down. She was conscious that something should be done directly, and yet she could not make up her mind what to do. But one thing she did know,—that God had always helped her before whenever she had asked him; and she went again and again to the same source of strength and wisdom. The light and the counsel came at last, and from rather an unexpected quarter.
Granny had lately learned to take great pleasure in hearing Nelly read, especially in the Testament,—at first from pride in the child's achievements, but latterly from interest in the book itself. Granny had rather fallen between two stools, if I may say so, in the matter of religious belief. Her mother's family were Romanists; but the Butlers were Protestants; and granny's mother, partly from pride, partly from affection, had professed to follow her husband's faith; though, in fact, she knew little about it. She had taught her little girl to call herself a Protestant, and to feel a pride in adhering to her father's religion and setting at defiance all the coaxings and persecutions of her aunts and cousins. She sent the little Gracie to the Ladies' school, instead of to the Sisters'; and, though Gracie was neither very regular in her attendance nor very diligent when there, she had learned her creed and some few rudiments of doctrine. She had always called herself a Protestant, even after she married Tim Ryan (who was a Romanist of the very-easy-going kind); but her religious notions were dim and obscure. Such as they were, they began to be awakened by Nelly's reading and by her accounts of what she heard in Sunday-school. She began to take pleasure in recalling and repeating things which she had learned in her youth; and when Nelly was away she would sometimes take the large-print Testament Miss Powell had given the child, and spell out a chapter by herself.
One Sunday afternoon, Nelly had been reading aloud the parable of the talents. When she had finished it, she exclaimed at the stupidity and laziness of the slothful servant.
"I'm thinking there was more than that the matter; though that's bad enough, mind," said the old woman, shrewdly. "I'm thinking the poor crater was a coward, me dear."
"How?" asked Nelly. "What was he afraid of, granny?"
"Why, ye see, dear, he would run some risk in trading with his lord's money," replied granny. "He might lose it, or make some bad speculation with it, and so be blamed when his lord came home; and he was so afraid of being found fault with that he just did nothing at all,—which was the very worst thing he could do."
"I see," said Nelly, thoughtfully.
"I remember a story that would show you what I mean—" continued granny, "a true story, too, that happened in Ireland when I was a girl like yourself."
"Oh, do tell it, granny!" exclaimed Nelly. "I love true stories."
"Well, you must know, dear, that one of my uncles—Martin was his name, and a good, steady lad, but not wonderful knowing—was groom at the great house,—that's not Kilmane Park, you understand, but Dunsandle House, the seat of Sir Patrick Byrne. Sir Patrick was wonderful fond of horses, and his children took after him,—especially his eldest daughter, Miss Una, the boldest rider to hounds in all the county, and as constant at the hunt as the huntsman himself. Well, there was one horse in the stable that was a terror to all the grooms and to Sir Patrick himself,—a chestnut mare. She was named Pooka; and you would think an evil spirit was in her, by the look of her eye. Well, this very mare it was, above all others, Miss Una was possessed to ride; and ride her she would, for all her father and friends could say; and at last Sir Patrick forbade the grooms to saddle Pooka for Miss Una. So what does Miss Una do, but get up very early in the morning, open the stable with a key she had, saddle the horse herself—"