My mother’s submission was complete.  Within twenty-four hours she was busy preparing clothes for my journey to Rome.  The old coloured pattern book was brought out again, material was sent for, a sewing-maid was engaged from the village, and above all, in my view, an order was dispatched to Blackwater for a small squirrel-skin scarf, a large squirrel-skin muff, and a close-fitting squirrel-skin hat with a feather on the side of it.

A child’s heart is a running brook, and it would wrong the truth to say that I grieved much in the midst of these busy preparations.  On the contrary I felt a sort of pride in them, poor innocent that I was, as in something that gave me a certain high superiority over Betsy Beauty and Nessy MacLeod, and entitled me to treat them with condescension.

Father Dan, who came more frequently than ever, fostered this feeling without intending to do so, by telling me, whenever we were alone, that I must be a good girl to everybody now, and especially to my mother.

“My little woman would be sorry to worry mamma, wouldn’t she?” he would whisper, and when I answered that I would be sorrier than sorry, he would say: 

“Wisha then, she must be brave.  She must keep up.  She must not grieve about going away or cry when the time comes for parting.”

I said “yes” and “yes” to all this, feeling very confidential and courageous, but I dare say the good Father gave the same counsel to my mother also, for she and I had many games of make-believe, I remember, in which we laughed and chattered and sang, though I do not think I ever suspected that the part we played was easier to me than to her.

It dawned on me at last, though, when in the middle of the night, near to the time of my going away, I was awakened by a bad fit of my mother’s coughing, and heard her say to herself in the deep breathing that followed: 

“My poor child!  What is to become of her?”

Nevertheless all went well down to the day of my departure.  It had been arranged that I was to sail to Liverpool by the first of the two daily steamers, and without any awakening I leapt out of bed at the first sign of daylight.  So great was my delight that I began to dance in my nightdress to an invisible skipping rope, forgetting my father, who always rose at dawn and was at breakfast in the room below.

My mother and I breakfasted in bed, and then there was great commotion.  It chiefly consisted for me in putting on my new clothes, including my furs, and then turning round and round on tiptoe and smiling at myself in a mirror.  I was doing this while my mother was telling me to write to her as often as I was allowed, and while she knelt at her prayer stool, which she used as a desk, to make a copy of the address for my letters.

Then I noticed that the first line of her superscription “Mrs. Daniel O’Neill” was blurred by the tears that were dropping from her eyes, and my throat began to hurt me dreadfully.  But I remembered what Father Dan had told me to do, so I said: 

“Never mind, mammy.  Don’t worry ­I’ll be home for the holidays.”

Soon afterwards we heard the carriage wheels passing under the window, and then Father Dan came up in a white knitted muffler, and with a funny bag which he used for his surplice at funerals, and said, through a little cloud of white breath, that everything was ready.

I saw that my mother was turning round and taking out her pocket-handkerchief, and I was snuffling a little myself, but at a sign from Father Dan, who was standing at the threshold.  I squeezed back the water in my eyes and cried: 

“Good-bye mammy.  I’ll be back for Christmas,” and then darted across to the door.

I was just passing through it when I heard my mother say “Mary” in a strange low voice, and I turned and saw her ­I can see her still ­with her beautiful pale face all broken up, and her arms held out to me.

Then I rushed back to her, and she clasped me to her breast crying, “Mally veen!  My Mally veen!” and I could feel her heart beating through her dress and hear the husky rattle in her throat, and then all our poor little game of make-believe broke down utterly.

At the next moment my father was calling upstairs that I should be late for the steamer, so my mother dried her own eyes and then mine, and let me go.

Father Dan was gone when I reached the head of the stairs but seeing Nessy MacLeod and Betsy Beauty at the bottom of them I soon recovered my composure, and sailing down in my finery I passed them in stately silence with my little bird-like head in the air.

I intended to do the same with Aunt Bridget, who was standing with a shawl over her shoulders by the open door, but she touched me and said: 

“Aren’t you going to kiss me good-bye, then?”

“No,” I answered, drawing my little body to its utmost height.

“And why not?”

“Because you’ve been unkind to mamma and cruel to me, and because you think there’s nobody but Betsy Beauty.  And I’ll tell them at the Convent that you are making mamma ill, and you’re as bad as . . . as bad as the bad women in the Bible!”

“My gracious!” said Aunt Bridget, and she tried to laugh, but I could see that her face became as white as a whitewashed wall.  This did not trouble me in the least until I reached the carriage, when Father Dan, who was sitting inside, said: 

“My little Mary won’t leave home like that ­without kissing her aunt and saying good-bye to her cousins.”

So I returned and shook hands with Nessy MacLeod and Betsy Beauty, and lifted my little face to my Aunt Bridget.

“That’s better,” she said, after she had kissed me, but when I had passed her my quick little ear caught the words: 

“Good thing she’s going, though.”

During this time my father, with the morning mist playing like hoar-frost about his iron-grey hair, had been tramping the gravel and saying the horses were getting cold, so without more ado he bundled me into the carriage and banged the door on me.

But hardly had we started when Father Dan, who was blinking his little eyes and pretending to blow his nose on his coloured print handkerchief, said, “Look!” and pointed up to my mother’s room.

There she was again, waving and kissing her hand to me through her open window, and she continued to do so until we swirled round some trees and I lost the sight of her.

What happened in my mother’s room when her window was closed I do not know, but I well remember that, creeping into a corner of the carriage.  I forgot all about the glory and grandeur of going away, and that it did not help me to remember when half way down the drive a boy with a dog darted from under the chestnuts and raced alongside of us.

It was Martin, and though his right arm was in a sling, he leapt up to the step and held on to the open window by his left hand while he pushed his head into the carriage and made signs to me to take out of his mouth a big red apple which he held in his teeth by the stalk.  I took it, and then he dropped to the ground, without uttering a word, and I could laugh now to think of the gruesome expression of his face with its lagging lower lip and bloodshot eyes.  I had no temptation to do so then, however, and least of all when I looked back and saw his little one-armed figure in the big mushroom hat, standing on the top of the high wall of the bridge, with William Rufus beside him.

We reached Blackwater in good tithe for the boat, and when the funnels had ceased trumpeting and we were well away, I saw that we were sitting in one of two private cabins on the upper deck; and then Father Dan told me that the other was occupied by the young Lord Raa, and his guardian, and that they were going up together for the first time to Oxford.

I am sure this did not interest me in the least at that moment, so false is it that fate forewarns us when momentous events are about to occur.  And now that I had time to think, a dreadful truth was beginning to dawn on me, so that when Father Dan, who was much excited, went off to pay his respects to the great people, I crudled up in the corner of the cabin that was nearest to the door and told myself that after all I had been turned out of my father’s house, and would never see my mother and Martin any more.

I was sitting so, with my hands in my big muff and my face to the stern, making the tiniest occasional sniff as the mountains of my home faded away in the sunlight, which was now tipping the hilltops with a feathery crest, when my cabin was darkened by somebody who stood in the doorway.

It was a tail boy, almost a man, and I knew in a moment who he was.  He was the young Lord Raa.  And at first I thought how handsome and well dressed he was as he looked down at me and smiled.  After a moment he stepped into the cabin and sat in front of me and said: 

“So you are little Mary O’Neill, are you?”

I did not speak.  I was thinking he was not so very handsome after all, having two big front teeth like Betsy Beauty.

“The girl who ought to have been a boy and put my nose out, eh?”

Still I did not speak.  I was thinking his voice was like Nessy MacLeod’s ­shrill and harsh and grating.

“Poor little mite!  Going all the way to Rome to a Convent, isn’t she?”

Even yet I did not speak.  I was thinking his eyes were like Aunt Bridget’s ­cold and grey and piercing.

“So silent and demure, though!  Quite a little nun already.  A deuced pretty one, too, if anybody asks me.”

I was beginning to have a great contempt for him.

“Where did you get those big angel eyes from?  Stole them from some picture of the Madonna, I’ll swear.”

By this time I had concluded that he was not worth speaking to, so I turned my head and I was looking back at the sea, when I heard him say: 

“I suppose you are going to give me a kiss, you nice little woman, aren’t you?”

“No.”

“Oh, but you must ­we are relations, you know.”

“I won’t.”

He laughed at that, and rising from his seat, he reached over to kiss me, whereupon I drew one of my hands out of my muff and doubling my little mittened fist, I struck him in the face.

Being, as I afterwards learned, a young autocrat, much indulged by servants and generally tyrannising over them, he was surprised and angry.

“The spitfire!” he said.  “Who would have believed it?  The face of a nun and the temper of a devil!  But you’ll have to make amends for this, my lady.”

With that he went away and I saw no more of him until the steamer was drawing up at the landing stage at Liverpool, and then, while the passengers were gathering up their luggage, he came back with Father Dan, and the tall sallow man who was his guardian, and said: 

“Going to give me that kiss to make amends, or are you to owe me a grudge for the rest of your life, my lady?”

“My little Mary couldn’t owe a grudge to anybody,” said Father Dan.  “She’ll kiss his lordship and make amends; I’m certain.”

And then I did to the young Lord Raa what I had done to Aunt Bridget ­I held up my face and he kissed me.

It was a little, simple, trivial incident, but it led with other things to the most lamentable fact of my life, and when I think of it I sometimes wonder how it comes to pass that He who numbers the flowers of the field and counts the sparrows as they fall has no handwriting with which to warn His children that their footsteps may not fail.