The fair-weather promise of the crimson sunset was not kept. The morning broke bloodshot and threatening, with dark, jagged storm-clouds scudding angrily across the sky, and a truculent unrest moving the waters of the bay to lash out at the rocks, and snarl in rising murmurs among themselves.

Every soul in Muirisc came soon enough to share this disquietude with the elements. Such evil tidings as these, that The O’Mahony was quitting the country, seemed veritably to take to themselves wings. The village, despite the fact that the fishing season had not yet arrived, and that there was nothing else to do, could not lie abed on such a morning, much less sleep. Even the tiniest children, routed out from their nests of straw close beside the chimney by the unwonted bustle, saw that something was the matter.

Mrs. Fergus O’Mahony heard the intelligence at a somewhat later hour, even as she dallied with that second cup of coffee, which, in her own phrase, put a tail to the breakfast. It was brought to her by a messenger from the convent, who came to say that the Ladies of the Hostage’s Tears desired her immediate presence upon an urgent matter. Mrs. Fergus easily enough put two and two together, as she donned her bonnet and broch茅 shawl. It was The O’Mahony’s departure that was to be discussed, and the nuns were right in calling that important. She looked critically over the irregular walls of the castle, as she passed it on her way to the convent. Here she had been born; here she had lived in peace and plenty, after her brother’s death, until the heir from America came to turn her out. Who knew? Perhaps she was to go back again, after all. Mrs. Fergus agreed that the news was highly important.

The first glance which she threw about her, after she had been ushered in the reception-hall, revealed to her that not even she had guessed the full importance of what was toward.

The three nuns sat on their accustomed bench at one side of the fire, and behind them, in his familiar chimney-corner, palsied old Father Harrington lolled and half-dozed over the biscuit he was nibbling to stay his stomach after mass. At the table, before a formidable array of papers, was seated Cormac O’Daly, and at his side sat the person whose polite name seemed to be Diarmid MacEgan, but whom Muirisc knew and delighted in as Jerry. Mrs. Fergus made a mental note of surprise at seeing him seated in such company, and then carried her gaze on to cover the principal personage in the room. It was The O’Mahony, looking very grave and preoccupied, and who stood leaning against the chimney-mantel like a proprietor, who welcomed her with a nod and motioned her to a seat.

It was he, too, who broke the silence which solemnly enveloped the conference.

“Cousin Maggie,” he said, in explanation, to her, “we’ve got together this little family party so early in the mornin’ for the reason that time is precious. I’m goin’ away—for my health—in an hour or two, an’ there are things to be arranged before I go. I may be away for years; maybe I sha’n’t ever come back.”

“Sure the suddenness of it’s fit to take one’s breath away!” Mrs. Fergus exclaimed, and put her plump white hand to her bosom. “I’ve nerves that bad, O’Mahony,” she added.

“Yes, it is a sudden sort of spurt,” he assented.

“And it’s your health, you say! Sure, I used to look on you as the mortial picture of a grand, strong man.”

“You can’t always tell by looks,” said The O’Mahony, gravely. “But—the point’s this. I’m leaving O’Daly and Jerry here, as sort o’ joint bosses of the circus, during my absence. Daly is to be ringmaster, so to speak, while Jerry’ll be in the box-office, and kind o’ keep an eye to the whole show, generally.”

“I lamint, sir, that I’m not able to congratulate you on the felicity of your mettyphor,” said Cor-mac O’Daly, whose swart, thin-visaged little face wore an expression more glum than ever.

“At any rate, you git at my meaning. I have signed two powers of attorney, drawn up by O’Daly here as a lawyer, which gives them power to run things for me, while I’m away. Everything is set out in the papers, straight and square. I’m leaving my will, too, with O’Daly, an’ that I wanted specially to speak to you about. I’ve got just one heir in this whole world, an’ that’s your little gal, Katie. P’r’aps it’ll be as well not to say anything to her about it, but I want you all to know. An’ I want you an’ her to move back into my house, an live there jest as you did afore I come. I’ve spoken to Mrs. Sullivan about it—she’s as good as a farrow cow in a family—an’ she’ll stay right along with you, an’ look after things. An’ Jerry here, he’ll see that your wheels are kept greased—financially, I mean—an’—I guess that’s about all. Only lookout for that little gal o’ yours as well as you know how—that’s all. An’ I wish—I wish you’d send her over to me, to my house, in half an hour or so—jest to say good-bye.”

The O’Mahony’s voice had trembled under the suspicion of a quaver at the end. He turned now, abruptly, took up his hat from the table, and left the room, closely followed by Jerry. O’Daly rose as if to accompany them, hesitated for a moment, and then seated himself again.

The mother superior had heretofore preserved an absolute silence. She bent her glance now upon Mrs. Fergus, and spoke slowly:

“Ah, thin, Margaret O’Mahony,” she said, “d’ye mind in your day of good fortune that, since the hour you were born, ye’ve been the child of our prayers and the object of our ceaseless intercessions?”

Mrs. Fergus put out her rounded lower lip a little and, rising from her chair, walked slowly over to the little cracked mirror on the wall, to run a correcting finger over the escalloped line of her crimps.

“Ay,” she said at last, “I mind many things bechune me and you—not all of thim prayers either.”

While Mrs. Sullivan and Jerry were hard at work packing the scant wardrobe and meager personal belongings of the master for his journey, and the greater part of the population of Muirisc stood clustered on the little quay, watching the Hen Hawk, bemoaning their own impending bereavement, and canvassing the incredible good luck of Malachy, who was to be the companion in this voyage to unknown parts—while the wind rose outside, and the waters tumbled, and the sky grew overcast with the sullen menace of a winter storm—The O’Mahony walked slowly, hand in hand with little Kate, through the deserted churchyard.

The girl had been weeping, and the tears still blurred ............