Produced by Al Haines. THE YOUNG O’BRIENS BEING AN ACCOUNT OF THEIR SOJOURN IN LONDON By the author of "ELIZABETH’S CHILDREN" [Transcriber’s note: Margaret Westrup] LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY, MDCCCCVI _Copyright_, 1906 BY JOHN LANE COMPANY _The Plimpton Press Norwood Mass. U.S.A._ _By the same Author_ ELIZABETH’S CHILDREN Fifth Edition HELEN ALLISTON *THE YOUNG O’BRIENS* *CHAPTER I* Inside the hired omnibus there was a dead silence. Outside the rain lashed drearily against the window panes. From the corner where Molly sat there came a dismal, despairing sniffle, drowned, before its finish, by Denis’s superlatively cheerful voice. "Sure, ’tis a rough night entirely!" he observed airily. Nell gave a sudden quick little laugh with a queer end to it. "So it is!" she said, and her effort after cheerfulness gave the remark a surprised tone, as if she had not noticed before that the night was rough. Sheila Pat sat silent in her corner, her slim little body stiff and erect, a bag and a box clutched tight in her small arms. Afterwards, later that night, she found that her arms ached. There was desperation in that tight clutch of the bag and the box. Suddenly Mr. O’Brien spoke; he recognised the futility of ignoring what was in everyone’s mind. "Well," he said, "a year soon passes, after all, and I hope we shall be back in about ten or eleven months." "But—but not—" came a watery stammer from Molly’s corner, but Nell broke in hurriedly. "I—I wonder will you look different, dad?" "Oh, yes," her mother laughed the pretty laugh that was just like Nell’s, "I shall be a horrid, stout old woman! Even Sheila Pat won’t acknowledge me then!" Sheila Pat said nothing. Mrs. O’Brien squeezed Nell’s fingers tightly. There was another silence. There was nothing to say. Everything had been said over and over again. The wind sent the rain beating angrily against the closed windows. The omnibus jolted and jarred over the road. A hoarse shout smote on their ears, and the driver’s whip flicked one of the panes. Denis jumped up and let down the small window in front. Then shouting began; the wind howled derisively, drowning their voices. The driver’s hoarse yells, and Denis’s impatient shouts, asked and answered questions over and over again. At last Denis drew in his head: "If that’s a specimen of the London driver, I don’t think much of ’em! The wind didn’t get at you, did it, mother?" "No, dear, your broad shoulders kept it off."