LIGHT O' THE MORNING

The Story of an Irish Girl

By L. T. Meade

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I. — NORA.

CHAPTER II. — “SOME MORE OF THE LAND MUST
GO.”

CHAPTER III. — THE WILD MURPHYS.

CHAPTER IV. — THE INVITATION.

CHAPTER V. — “I AM ASHAMED OF YOU.”

CHAPTER VI. — THE CAVE OF THE BANSHEE.

CHAPTER VII. — THE MURPHYS.

CHAPTER VIII. — THE SQUIRE'S TROUBLE.

CHAPTER IX. — EDUCATION AND OTHER THINGS.

CHAPTER X. — THE INVITATION.

CHAPTER XI. — THE DIAMOND CROSS.

CHAPTER XII. — A FEATHER-BED HOUSE.

CHAPTER XIII. — “THERE'S MOLLY.”

CHAPTER XIV. — BITS OF SLANG.

CHAPTER XV. — TWO LETTERS.

CHAPTER XVI. — A CHEEKY IRISH GIRL.

CHAPTER XVII. — TWO DESCRIPTIONS.

CHAPTER XVIII. — A COMPACT.

CHAPTER XIX. — SHE WILL SOON TAME DOWN.

CHAPTER XX. — STEPHANOTIE.

CHAPTER XXI. — THE ROSE-COLORED DRESS.

CHAPTER XXII. — LETTERS.

CHAPTER XXIII. — THE BOX OF BON-BONS.

CHAPTER XXIV. — THE TELEGRAM,

CHAPTER XXV. — THE BLOW.

CHAPTER XXVI. — TEN POUNDS.

CHAPTER XXVII. — ADVENTURES—AND HOME
AGAIN.

CHAPTER XXVIII. — THE WILD IRISH.

CHAPTER XXIX. — ALTERATIONS.

CHAPTER XXX. — THE LION IN HIS CAGE.

CHAPTER XXXI. — RELEASE OF THE CAPTIVE.

CHAPTER XXXII. — ANDY.

CHAPTER XXXIII. — THE CABIN ON THE
MOUNTAIN.

CHAPTER XXXIV. — A DARING DEED.

CHAPTER XXXV. — THE COT WHERE HE WAS BORN.

CHAPTER XXXVI. — “I'M A HAPPY MAN!”

CHAPTER I. — NORA.

“Why, then, Miss Nora—”

“Yes, Hannah?”

“You didn't see the masther going this way, miss?”

“What do you mean, Hannah? Father is never at home at this hour.”

“I thought maybe—” said Hannah. She spoke in a dubious voice,
backing a little away.

Hannah was a small, squat woman, of a truly Irish type. Her nose was
celestial, her mouth wide, her eyes dark, and sparkling with fun. She was
dressed in a short, coarse serge petticoat, with what is called a bedgown
over it; the bedgown was made of striped calico, yellow and red, and was
tied in at the waist with a broad band of the same. Hannah's hair was
strongly inclined to gray, and her humorous face was covered with a
perfect network of wrinkles. She showed a gleam of snowy teeth now, as she
looked full at the young girl whom she was addressing.

“Ah, then, Miss Nora,” she said, “it's I that am sorry for yez.”

Before Nora O'Shanaghgan could utter a word Hannah had turned on her heel.

“Come back, Hannah,” said Nora in an imperious voice.

“Presently, darlint; it's the childer I hear calling me. Coming, Mike
asthore, coming.”

The squat little figure flew down a side walk which led to a paddock:
beyond the paddock was a turnstile, and at the farther end of an adjacent
field a cabin made of mud, with one tiny window and a thatched roof.
Hannah was making for the cabin with rapid, waddling strides. Nora stood
in the middle of the broad sweep which led up to the front door of the old
house.

Castle O'Shanaghgan was a typical Irish home of the ancient régime. The
house, a great square pile, was roomy and spacious; it had innumerable
staircases, and long passages through which the wind shrieked on stormy
nights, and a great castellated tower at its north end. This tower was in
ruins, and had been given up a long time ago to the exclusive tenancy of
the bats, the owls, and rats so large and fierce that the very dogs were
afraid of them. In the tower at night the neighbors affirmed that they
heard shrieks and ghostly noises; and Nora, whose bedroom was nearest to
it, rejoiced much in the distinction of having twice heard the
O'Shanaghgan Banshee keening outside her window. Nora was a slender, tall,
and very graceful girl of about seventeen, and her face was as typical of
the true, somewhat wild, Irish beauty as Hannah Croneen's was the reverse.

In the southwest of Ireland there are traces of Spanish as well as Celtic
blood in many of its women; and Nora's quantities of thick, soft,
intensely black hair must have come to her from a Spanish ancestor. So
also did the delicately marked black brows and the black lashes to her
dark and very lovely blue eyes; but the clear complexion, the cheeks with
the tenderest bloom on them, the softly dimpled lips red as coral, and the
little teeth white as pearls were true Irish characteristics.

Nora waited for a moment after Hannah had left her, then, shading her eyes
from the westerly sun by one hand, she turned slowly and went into the
house.

“Where is mother, Pegeen?” she said to a rough-looking, somewhat
slatternly servant who was crossing the hall.

“In the north parlor, Miss Nora.”

“Come along, then, Creena; come along, Cushla,” said the girl, addressing
two handsome black Pomeranians who rushed to meet her. The dogs leaped up
at her with expressions of rapture, and girl and dogs careered with a wild
dance across the great, broad hall in the direction of the north parlor.
Nora opened the door with a somewhat noisy bang, the dogs precipitated
themselves into the room, and she followed.

“Ah, then, mother dear! and have I disturbed you?” she said.

A pale-faced lady, who was lying full-length on a very old and hard sofa,
rose with a querulous expression on her face when Nora entered.

“I wish someone would teach you thoughtfulness,” she said; “you are the
most tiresome girl in the world. I have been two hours trying to get a
wink of sleep, and just when I succeed you come in and wake me.”

“It's sorry I am to my heart's core,” said Nora. She went up to her
mother, dropped on one knee, and looked with her rosy face into the worn
and faded one of the elder woman. “Here I am, mammy,” she said again,
“your own little Nora; let me sit with you a bit—may I?”

Mrs. O'Shanaghgan smiled faintly. She looked all over the girl's slim
figure, and finally her eyes rested on the laughing, lovely face. Then a
cloud crossed her forehead, and her eyes became dim with tears.

“Have you heard the last thing, Nora?”

“There are so many last things, mother,” said Nora.

“But the very last. Your father has to pay back the money which Squire
Murphy of Cronane lent him. It is the queerest thing; but the mortgagee
means to foreclose, as he calls it, within three months if that money is
not paid in full. I know well what it means.”

Nora smiled. She took her mother's hand in hers, and began to stroke it
gently.

“I suppose,” she said, “it means this. It means that we must part with a
little more of the beloved land, every sod of which I love. We certainly
do seem to be getting poorer and poorer; but never mind—nothing will
ever alter the fact that—”

“That what, child?”

“That we O'Shanaghgans are the proudest and oldest family in the county,
and that there is scarcely an Englishman across the water who would not
give all he possesses to change places with us.”

“You talk like a silly child,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan; “and please
remember that I am English.”

“Oh, mummy, I am so sorry!” said the girl. She laid her soft head down on
the sofa, pressing it against her mother's shoulder.

“I cannot think of you as English,” she said. “You have lived here all,
all my life. You belong to father, and you belong to Terence and me—what
have you to do with the cold English?”

“I remember a time,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan, “when I thought Ireland the
most desolate and God-forsaken place on the earth. It is true I have
become accustomed to it now. But, Nora, if you only could realize what my
old home was really like.”

“I don't want to realize any home different from this,” said the girl, a
cloud shading her bright eyes for the moment.

“You are silly and prejudiced,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan. “It is a great
trial to me to have a daughter so unsympathetic.”

“Oh, mummy! I don't mean to be unsympathetic. There now, we are quite cozy
together. Tell me one of the old stories; I do so love to listen.”

The frown cleared from Mrs. O'Shanaghgan's forehead, and the peevish lines
went out of her face. She began to talk with animation and excitement.
Nora knew exactly what she was going to say. She had heard the story so
often; but, although she had heard it hundreds and thousands of times, she
was never tired of listening to the history of a trim life of which she
knew absolutely nothing. The orderly, well-dressed servants, the punctual
meals, the good and abundant food, the nice dresses, the parties, the
solid education, the discipline so foreign to her own existence, all—all
held their proper fascination. But although she listened with delight to
these stories of a bygone time, she never envied her mother those periods
of prosperity. Such a life would have been a prison to her; so she
thought, although she never spoke her thought aloud.

Mrs. O'Shanaghgan began the old tale to-night, telling it with a little
more verve even than usual. She ended at last with a sigh.

“Oh, the beautiful old times!” she said.

“But you didn't know father then,” answered Nora, a frown coming to her
brows, and an angry feeling for a moment visiting her warm heart. “You
didn't have father, nor Nora, nor Terry.”

“Of course not, darling, and you make up for much; but, Nora dear,
although I love my husband and my children, I hate this country. I hate
it!”

“Don't, mother,” said Nora, with a look of pain. She started to her feet.
At that moment loud, strong steps were heard in the hall; a hearty voice
exclaimed:

“Where's Light o' the Morning? Where have you hidden yourself, witch?”

“It's father,” said Nora. She said the words with a sort of gasp of
rejoicing, and the next moment had dashed out of the room.

CHAPTER II. — “SOME MORE OF THE LAND MUST GO.”

Squire O'Shanaghgan was a tall, powerfully built man, with deep-set eyes
and rugged, overhanging brows; his hair was of a grizzled gray, very thick
and abundant; he had a shaggy beard, too, and a long overhanging mustache.
He entered the north parlor still more noisily than Nora had done. The
dogs yelped with delight, and flung themselves upon him.

“Down, Creena! down, Cushla!” he said. “Ah, then, Nora, they are as
bewitching as yourself, little woman. What beauties they are growing, to
be sure!”

“I reared them,” said Nora. “I am proud of them both. At one time I
thought Creena could not live; but look at her now—her coat as black
as jet, and so silky.”

“Shut the door, won't you, Patrick?” said his wife.

“Bless me! I forgot,” said the Squire. He crossed the room, and, with an
effort after quietness, closed the door with one foot; then he seated
himself by his wife's side.

“Better, Eileen?” he said, looking at her anxiously.

“I wish you would not call me Eileen,” she said. “I hate to have my name
Irishized.”

The Squire's eyes filled with suppressed fun.

“Ah, but you are half-Irish, whether you like it or not,” he said. “Is not
she, colleen? Bless me, what a day it has turned out! We are getting
summer weather at last. What do you say to going for a drive, Eileen—Ellen,
I mean? Black Bess is eating her head off in the stables. I want to go as
far as Murphy's place, and you might as well come with me.”

“And I too?” said Nora.

“To be sure, child. Why not? You run round to the stables, Norrie, and
give the order.”

Nora instantly left the room, the dogs following her.

“What ails her?” said the Squire, looking at his wife.

“Ails her, Pat? Nothing that I know of.”

“Then you know very little,” was his answer. “I never see that sort of
anxious frown between the colleen's brows without knowing there's mischief
in the wind. Somebody has been worrying her, and I won't have it.” He put
down his great hand with a thump on the nearest table.

“Don't, Pat. You quite shatter my nerves.”

“Bless you and your nerves, Ellen. I want to give them all possible
consideration; but I won't have Light o' the Morning worried.”

“You'll spoil that girl; you'll rue it yet.”

“Bless her heart! I couldn't spoil her; she's unspoilable. Did you ever
see a sweeter bit of a thing, sound to the core, through and through?”

“Sweet or not,” said the mother, “she has got to learn her lesson of life;
and it is no good to be too tender with her; she wants a little bracing.”

“You have been trying that on—eh?”

“Well, not exactly, Pat; but you cannot expect me to keep all our troubles
to ourselves. There's that mortgage, you know.”

“Bother the mortgage!” said the Squire. “Why do you harp on things the way
you do? I'll manage it right enough. I am going round to see Dan Murphy
now; he won't be hard on an old friend.”

“Yes; but have you not to pay up?”

“Some day, I suppose.”

“Now listen, Patrick. Do be reasonable. Whenever I speak of money you
fight shy of the subject.”

“I don't—I don't,” said the Squire restlessly; “but I am dead tired.
I have had a ride of thirty miles; I want my tea. Where is Nora? Do you
mind my calling her? She'll order Pegeen to bring the tea here.”

“No; I won't have it. We'll have tea in the dining room presently. I
thought you objected to afternoon tea.”

“So I do, as a rule; but I am mighty dhry—thirsty, I mean, Ellen.
Well, all the better; I'll get more to drink in the dining room. Order the
tea as soon as you please.”

“Ring the bell, Patrick.”

The Squire strode to the mantelpiece, pulled a bell-cord which hung from
the ceiling, a distant bell was heard ringing in noisy fashion, and a
moment afterward Pegeen put in her head.

“Come right in, Margaret,” said her mistress.

“Aw! then, I'm sorry, ma'am, I forgot,” said the girl. She came in, hiding
both her hands under her apron.

Mrs. O'Shanaghgan uttered an impatient sigh.

“It is impossible to train these creatures,” she said under her breath.
Aloud, she gave her order in quiet, impassive tones:

“Tea as soon as possible in the west parlor, and sound the gong when it is
ready.”

“Why, then, wasn't I getting it?” said Pegeen. She left the room, leaving
the door wide open.

“Just like them,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan. “When you want the door open
they invariably shut it, and when you want it shut they leave it open.”

“They do that in England too, as far as I can tell,” said the Squire, with
a slightly nettled tone in his voice.

“Well, now, Patrick, while we have a few moments to ourselves, I want to
know what you mean to do about that ten thousand pounds?”

“I am sure, Ellen, it is more than I can tell you.”

“You will have to pay it, you know.”

“I suppose so, some day. I'll speak to Dan to-night. He is the last man to
be hard on a chap.”

“Some more of the land must go,” said the wife in a fretful tone. “Our
rent-roll will be still smaller. There will be still less money to educate
Terence. I had set my heart on his going to Cambridge or Oxford. You quite
forget that he is eighteen now.”

“Cambridge or Oxford!” said the Squire. “Not a bit of it. My son shall
either go to Old Trinity or he does without a university education.
Cambridge or Oxford indeed! You forget, Ellen, that the lad is my son as
well as yours.”

“I don't; but he is half an Englishman, three parts an Englishman,
whatever his fatherhood,” said the Squire's wife in a tone of triumph.

“Well, well! he is Terence O'Shanaghgan, for all that, and he will inherit
this old place some day.”

“Much there will be for him to inherit.”

Eager steps were heard on the gravel, and the next instant Nora entered by
the open window.

“I have given the order,” she said; “Angus will have the trap round in a
quarter of an hour.”

“That's right, my girl; you didn't let time drag,” said her father.

“Angus wants you and mother to be quite ready, for he says Black Bess is
nearly off her head with spirit. Now, then, mother, shall I go upstairs
and bring down your things?”

“I don't mind if you do, Nora; my back aches a good bit.”

“We'll put the air-cushion in the trap,” said the Squire, who,
notwithstanding her fine-lady airs, had a great respect and admiration for
his wife. “We'll make you right cozy, Ellen, and a rattle through the air
will do you a sight of good.”

“May I drive, father?” said Nora.

“You, little one? Suppose you bring Black Bess down on her knees? That
horse is worth three hundred pounds, if she's worth a penny.”

“Do you think I would?” said the girl reproachfully. “Now, dad, that is
about the cruelest word you have said to your Nora for many a day.”

“Come and give me a hug, colleen,” said the Squire.

Nora ran to him, clasped her arms round his neck, and kissed him once or
twice. He had moved away to the other end of the room, and now he looked
her full in the face.

“You are fretting about something?”

“Not I—not I,” said the girl; but she flushed.

“Listen to me, colleen,” said the Squire; “if it is that bit of a
mortgage, you get it right out of your head. It's not going to worry me.
I am going this very evening to have a talk with Dan.”

“Oh, if it is Dan Murphy you owe it to,” said the girl.

“Ah, he's all right; he's the right sort; a chip of the old block—eh?
He wouldn't be hard on a brother in adversity?”

“He wouldn't if he could help it,” said Nora; but the cloud had not left
her sensitive face. Then, seeing that father looked at her with intense
anxiety, she made a valiant effort.

“Of course, I believe in you,” she said; “and, indeed, what does the loss
of money matter while we are together?”

“Right you are! right you are!” said the Squire, with a laugh. He clapped
her on the shoulder. “Trust Light o' the Morning to look at things in the
right direction,” he said.

CHAPTER III. — THE WILD MURPHYS.

Terence made his appearance at the tea table. In every respect he was a
contrast to Nora. He was very good-looking—strikingly handsome, in
fact; tall, with a graceful elegance of deportment which was in striking
contrast to the burly figure of the old Squire. His face was of a
nut-brown hue; his eyes dark and piercing; his features straight. Young as
he was, there were the first indications of a black silky mustache on his
short upper lip, and his clustering black curls grew in a high ridge off a
lofty brow. Terence had the somewhat languid air which more or less
characterized all his mother's movements. He was devoted to her, and took
his seat now by her side. She laid her very thin and slender hand on his
arm. He did not respond by look or movement to the gesture of affection;
but had a very close observer been present he would have noticed that he
drew his chair about the tenth of an inch nearer to hers.

Nora and her father at the other end of the table were chattering volubly.
Nora's face was all smiles; every vestige of that little cloud which had
sat between her dark brows a few moments before had vanished. Her blue
eyes were sparkling with fun.

The Squire made brilliant sally after sally, to which she responded with
all an Irish girl's aptitude for repartee.

Terence and his mother conversed in low tones.

“Yes, mother,” he was saying, “I had a letter from Uncle George this
morning; he wants me to go next week. Do you think you can manage?”

“How long will you be away, Terence?”

“I don't know; a couple of months, perhaps.”

“How much money will it cost?”

“I shall want an evening suit, and a new dress-suit, and something for
everyday. These things are disgraceful,” said the lad, just glancing at
the frayed coat-sleeve, beneath which showed a linen cuff of immaculate
whiteness.

Terence was always the personification of fastidiousness in his dress, and
for this trait in his character alone Mrs. O'Shanaghgan adored him.

“You shall have it,” she said—“somehow.”

“Well, I must reply tonight,” he continued. “Shall I ask the governor, or
will you?”

“We won't worry him, Terry; I can manage.”

He looked at her a little anxiously.

“You are not going to sell any more of them?” he said.

“There is a gold chain and that diamond ring; I never wear either. I would
fifty times rather think that you were enjoying yourself with my relations
in England. You are fitted to grace any society. Do not say another word,
my boy.”

“You are the very best and noblest mother in the world,” said the lad with
enthusiasm.

Meanwhile, Nora and her father continued their gay conversation.

“We will take a basket with us,” said Nora, “and Bridget shall give me a
couple of dozen more of those little brown eggs. Mrs. Perch shall have a
brood of chicks if I can manage it.”

“Trust the girleen for that,” said the Squire, and then they rose from
table.

“Ellen,” he continued, addressing his wife, “have you and Terence done
colloguing together? for I hear Black Bess coming to the front door.”

“Oh, hasten, mother; hasten!” said Nora. “The mare won't stand waiting;
she is so fresh she is just ready to fly.”

The next few moments witnessed a scene of considerable bustle. Mrs.
O'Shanaghgan, with all her English nerves, had plenty of pluck, and would
scorn to show even a vestige of fear before the hangers-on, as she called
the numerous ragged urchins who appeared from every quarter on each
imaginable occasion. Although she was shaking from head to foot with
absolute terror at the thought of a drive behind Black Bess, she stepped
into her seat in the tall dog-cart without a remark. The mare fidgeted and
half reared.

“Whoa! whoa! Black Bess, my beauty!” said the Squire. The groom, a
bright-faced lad, with a wisp of yellow hair falling over his forehead,
held firmly to the reins. Nora jumped up beside her mother.

“Are you going to drive?” asked that lady.

“Yes, mummy; you know I can. Whoa, Black Bess! it's me,” said the girl.
She took the reins in her capable little hands; the Squire sprang up
behind, and Black Bess flew down the avenue as if on the wings of the
wind.

Mrs. O'Shanaghgan gave one hurried pant of suppressed anguish, and then
sat perfectly still, her lips set, her hands tightly locked together. She
endured these drives almost daily, but had never yet got accustomed to
them. Nora, on the contrary, as they spun through the air, felt her
spirits rising; the hot young blood coursed through her veins, and her
eyes blazed with fun and happiness. She looked back at her father, who
nodded to her briefly.

“That's it, Nora; keep her well in. Now that we are going uphill you can
give her her head a bit. Whoa, Black Bess! Whoa!”

The mare, after her first wild canter, settled into a more jog-trot gait,
and the dog-cart did not sway so violently from side to side. They were
soon careering along a wide, well-made road, which ran for many miles
along the top of some high cliffs. Below them, at their feet, the wild
Atlantic waves curled and burst in innumerable fountains of spray; the
roar of the waves came up to their ears, and the breath of the salt
breeze, the freshest and most invigorating in the world, fanned their
cheeks. Even Mrs. O'Shanaghgan felt her heart beating less wildly, and
ventured to put a question or two to Nora with regard to the clucking hen,
Mrs. Perch.

“I have not forgotten the basket, mammy,” said the girl; “and Hannah will
put the eggs under the hen tonight.”

“I am quite certain that Hannah mismanaged the last brood,” said Mrs.
O'Shanaghgan; “but everything goes wrong at the Castle just now.”

“Oh, mother, hush! he will hear,” said Nora.

“It is just like you, Nora; you wish to keep——”

“Oh, come, now,” said the Squire; “I hear the grumbles beginning. No
grumbles when we are having our ride—eh, Ellen? I want you to come
back with a hearty appetite for dinner, and a hearty inclination to sleep
tonight.”

They drove faster and faster. Occasionally Nora touched the mare the
faintest little flick with the end of her long whip. The creature
responded to her touch as though girl and horse were one.

At last they drew up outside a dilapidated gate, one hinge of which was
off. The Squire jumped down from his seat, came round, and held the
horse's head.

“Whoa! whoa!” he said. “Hullo, you, Mike! Why aren't you in your place?
Come and open the gate this minute, lad.”

A small boy, with bare feet and ragged trousers, came hurrying, head over
heels, down the road. Mrs. O'Shanaghgan shuddered and shut her eyes. The
gate was swung open. Nora led the mare skillfully round a somewhat sharp
corner, and the next instant they were dashing with headlong speed up a
steep avenue. It was neglected; weeds grew all over it, and the adjacent
meadows were scarcely distinguishable from the avenue itself.

The Squire ran after the dog-cart, and leaped up while the mare was going
at full speed.

“Well done, father!” called back Nora.

“Heaven preserve us!” thought Mrs. O'Shanaghgan, who still sat speechless,
and as if made of iron.

At last they reached a long, rambling old house, with many small windows,
interspersed with a few of enormous dimensions. These were called
parliament windows, and had been put into many houses of that period in
order to avoid the window-tax. Most of the windows were open, and out of
some of them ragged towels were drying in the evening breeze. About half a
dozen dogs, most of which were of mongrel breed, rushed forward at the
sound of the wheels, barking vociferously. Nora, with a dexterous touch of
her hand, drew the mare up just in front of the mansion, and then sprang
lightly to her feet.'

“Now, mother, shall I help you down?”

“You had better find out first if Mrs. Murphy is in,” said the Squire's
wife.

A ragged urchin, such as seemed to abound like mushrooms in the place,
came and held the reins close to the horse's mouth. The creature stood
trembling from the violence of her exertions, and pouring down moisture at
every pore. “She wants to be well rubbed down,” said the Squire. “She
doesn't get half exercise enough; this will never do. What if I have to
make money on her, and she is spoiled?”

The low words which came to his lips were not heard by anyone; there was a
frown, very like Nora's own, between his brows. The next moment a small
man, with reddish hair, in a very shabby suit of half-worn tweed, appeared
on the steps of the front door.

“Hullo, O'Shanaghgan, is that yourself?” he called out. “How are you, Mrs.
O'Shanaghgan? Right glad to see you. You'll step inside—won't you? I
believe the wife is somewhere round. Neil, my man, go and look for the
missus. Tell her that Madam O'Shanaghgan is here, and the Squire. Well,
Nora, I suppose you are wanting a chat with Bridget? You won't find her
indoors this fine evening.”

“Where is she, Mr. Murphy?” asked the girl. “I do want to have a talk with
her.”

“Ah! what's the basket for?”

“I want her to give me some of the pretty brown eggs.”

“Well, go right down there by the sea-path, and you'll find her, as likely
as not.”

“Very well,” answered Nora. Slinging her basket on her arm, she started
for her walk. As soon as she was out of sight she began to run. Presently
she stopped and began whistling “The Wearing of the Green,” which was
responded to in a moment by another voice, sweet as that of a blackbird.
She looked to right and left, and presently saw a pair of laughing black
eyes looking down at her from beneath the shelter of a huge oak tree.

“Here I am. Will you climb up?” said the voice of Bridget Murphy.

“Give me a hand, and I'll be up with you in a moment,” said Nora. She
tossed her basket on the ground; a very firm, little brown hand was
extended; and the next moment the girls were seated side by side on a
stout branch of the tree.

“Well, and what has brought you along here?” said Bridget.

“I came with father and mother in the dog-cart,” replied Nora. “Father let
me drive Black Bess. I had a jolly time; but she did pull a bit—my
wrists are quite stiff.”

“I am glad you have come,” said the other girl. “I was having a concert
all by myself. I can imitate the thrush, the blackbird, and most of the
birds round here. Shall I do the thrush for you?”

Before Nora could speak she began imitating the full liquid notes of the
bird to perfection.

“I declare you have a genius for it,” said Nora. “But how are you
yourself, Biddy?”

“What should ail me?” replied Biddy. “I never had a care nor a worry nor a
trouble yet; the day is long, and my heart is light. I am at peace, and I
never had an ache in my body yet. But what is up with you, Nora alannah?”

“It's that mortgage, you know,” said Nora, dropping her voice. “What is
your father going to do?”

“Oh, the mortgage,” said Bridget. “Mr. Morgan came down from Dublin
yesterday; he and father had a long talk. I don't know. I believe there's
worry in the air, and when there is I always steer clear of it.”

“Your father, you mean?”

“I can't tell you; don't question me. I am glad you have come. Can't you
stay for the night?”

“No, I can't. I must go back with father and mother. The fact is this,
Bridget, I believe your father would do anything in the world for you.”

“I suppose he would. What do you want to coax out of me now? Oh, Nora
alannah! don't let us talk of worries. Come down to the sea with me—won't
you? I have found the most lovely cave. I mean to explore it with
lanterns. You go into the cave, and you can walk in nearly half a mile;
and then it takes a sudden turn to the right, and they say there's an
entrance into another cave, and just beyond that there's a ghost supposed
to be. Some people say it is the home of the O'Shanaghgans' Banshee; but
whatever it is, I mean to see all about it.”

“Do you mean the Sea-Nymphs' Cave?” said Nora. “But you can only get to
that by crossing the bay.”

“Yes. Well, I am going tomorrow night; the moon is at the full. You will
come over and go with me—won't you?”

“Oh! I wish I could.”

“But why can't you? Don't let us worry about fathers and mothers. We're a
pair of girls, and must have our own larks. There's Neil and there's Mike;
they will get the boat all ready, and we can start off for the cave just
when the tide is high; we can only get in then. We'll run the boat in as
far as it will go, and we'll see what we'll see. You will come—won't
you, Nora?”

“I should like it of all things in the world,” said Nora.

“Well, why not? You can come over tomorrow afternoon, and stay the night
here. Just say that I have asked you.”

“But mother does not much like my sleeping out.”

“You mean that she does not like you to sleep at the house of the wild
Murphys—that's what you mean, Nora. Then, get away; I don't want to
force my company on you. I am as good as any other girl in Ireland; I have
the blood of the old Irish kings in my veins; but if you are too proud to
come, why——”

“I am not, and you know it,” said Nora; “but mother is an Englishwoman,
and she thinks we are all a little rough, you and I into the bargain. All
the same, I'll come to-morrow. I do want to explore that cave. Yes, I'll
come if you give me a proper invitation before mother.”

“Oh, mercy me!” said the girl, “must I go back to the house? I am so
precious shabby, and your lady-mother has got such piercing eyes. But
there, we can smuggle in the back way. I'll go up to my room and put on my
bits of finery. Bedad! but I look as handsome as the best when I am
dressed up. Come along, Nora; we'll get in the back way, and I'll give the
invitation in proper style.”

CHAPTER IV. — THE INVITATION.

Bridget and Nora began to climb up a very steep and narrow winding path.
It was nothing more than a grass path in the midst of a lot of rock and
underwood, but the girls were like young chamois, and leaped over such
obstacles with the lightness of fawns. Presently they arrived at the back
entrance of Cronane, the Murphys' decidedly dilapidated residence. They
had to cross a courtyard covered with rough cobbles and in a sad state of
neglect and mess. Some pigs were wallowing in the mire in one corner, and
a rough pony was tethered to a post not far off; he was endeavoring, with
painful insistence, to reach a clump of hay which was sticking out of a
hayrick a foot or two away. Nora, seeing his wistful eyes, sprang forward,
pulled a great handful of the hay, and held it to his mouth. The little
creature almost whinnied with delight.

“There you are,” said Bridget. “What right have you to give our hay to
that pony?”

“Oh, nonsense,” said Nora; “the heart in him was starving.” She flung her
arms round the pony's neck, pressed a kiss on his forehead, and continued
to cross the yard with Biddy. Two or three ragged urchins soon impeded
their path; one of them was the redoubtable Neil, the other Mike.

“Is it to-morrow night you want the boat, Miss Biddy?” said Neil.

Bridget dropped her voice to a whisper.

“Look here, Neil,” she said, “mum's the word; you are not to let it out to
a soul. You and Mike shall come with us, and Miss Nora is coming too.”

Neil cast a bashful and admiring glance at handsome Nora, as she stood
very erect by Biddy's side.

“All right, miss,” he said.

“At ten o'clock,” said Bridget; “have the boat in the cove then, and we'll
be down there and ready.”

“But they say, miss, that the Banshee is out on the nights when the moon
is at the full.”

“The O'Shanaghgans' Banshee,” said Biddy, glancing at Nora, whose face did
not change a muscle, although the brightness and wistfulness in her eyes
were abundantly visible. She was saying to herself:

“I would give all the world to speak to the Banshee alone—to ask her
to get father out of his difficulty.”

She was half-ashamed of these thoughts, although she knew and almost
gloried in the fact that she was superstitious to her heart's core.

She and Biddy soon entered the house by the back entrance, and ran up some
carpetless stairs to Biddy's own room. This was a huge bedroom, carpetless
and nearly bare. A little camp-bed stood in one corner, covered by a
colored counterpane; there was a strip of carpet beside the bed, and
another tiny strip by a wooden washhand-stand. The two great parliament
windows were destitute of any curtain or even blind; they stared blankly
out across the lovely summer landscape as hideous as windows could be.

It was a perfect summer's evening; but even now the old frames rattled and
shook, and gave some idea of how they would behave were a storm abroad.

Biddy, who was quite accustomed to her room and never dreamed that any
maiden could sleep in a more luxurious chamber, crossed it to where a huge
wooden wardrobe stood. She unlocked the door, and took from its depths a
pale-blue skirt trimmed with quantities of dirty pink flounces.

“Oh, you are not going to put that on,” said Nora, whose own
training had made her sensitive to incongruity in dress.

“Yes, I am,” said Biddy. “How can I see your lady-mother in this style of
thing?”

She went and stood in front of Nora with her arms akimbo.

“Look,” she said, “my frock has a rent from here to here, and this
petticoat is none of the best, and my stockings—well, I know it is
my own fault, but I won't darn them, and there is a great hole just
above the heel. Now, this skirt will hide all blemishes.”

“But what will your mother say?”

“Bless her!” said Biddy, “she won't even notice. Here, let's whip on the
dress.”

She hastily divested herself of her ragged cotton skirt, and put on the
pale blue with the dirty silk flounces.

“What are you looking so grave for?” she said, glancing up at Nora. “I
declare you're too stately for anything, Nora O'Shanaghgan! You stand
there, and I know you criticise me.”

“No; I love you too much,” replied Nora. “You are Biddy Murphy, one of my
greatest friends.”

“Ah, it's sweet to hear her,” said Biddy.

“But, all the same,” continued Nora, “I don't like that dress, and it's
terribly unsuitable. You don't look ladylike in it.”

“Ladylike, and I with the blood of——”

“Oh, don't begin that,” said Nora; “every time I see you you mention that
fact. I have not the slightest doubt that the old kings were ruffians, and
dressed abominably.”

“If you dare,” said Biddy. She rushed up to the bed, dragged out her
pillow, and held it in a warlike attitude. “Another word about my
ancestors, and this will be at your devoted head!” she cried.

Nora burst into a merry laugh.

“There, now, that's better,” said Biddy. She dropped the pillow and
proceeded with her toilet. The dirty skirt with its tawdry flounces was
surmounted by a bodice of the same material, equally unsuitable.

Biddy brushed out her mop of jet-black hair, which grew in thick curls all
over her head and stood out like a mop round her shoulders. She was a
plain girl, with small, very black eyes, a turned-up nose, and a wide
mouth; but there was an irresistible expression of drollery in her face,
and when she laughed, showing her milk-white teeth, there were people who
even thought her attractive. Nora really loved her, although the two,
standing side by side, were, as far as appearances were concerned, as the
poles asunder.

“Now, come along,” said Biddy. “I know I look perfectly charming. Oh, what
a sweet, sweet blue it is, and these ducky little flounces! It was Aunt
Mary O'Flannagan sent me this dress at Christmas. She wore it at a fancy
ball, and said it might suit me. It does, down to the ground. Let me drop
a courtesy to you, Nora O'Shanaghgan. Oh, how proper we look! But I don't
care! Now I'm not afraid to face anyone—why, the old kings would
have been proud of me. Come along—do.”

She caught Nora's hand; they dashed down the wide, carpetless stairs,
crossed a huge hall, and entered a room which was known as the drawing
room at Cronane. It was an enormous apartment, but bore the same traces of
neglect and dirt which the whole of the rest of the house testified to.
The paper on the walls was moldy in patches, and in one or two places it
had detached itself from the wall and fell in great sheets to the ground.
One loose piece of paper was tacked up with two or three huge tacks, and
bulged out, swaying with the slightest breeze. The carpet, which covered
the entire floor, was worn threadbare; but, to make up for these defects,
there were cabinets of the rarest and most exquisite old china, some of
the pieces being worth fabulous sums. Vases of the same china adorned the
tall marble mantelpiece, and stood on brackets here and there about the
room. There were also some exquisite and wonderfully carved oak, a Queen
Anne sofa, and several spindle-legged chairs. An old spinet stood in a
distant window, and the drab moreen curtains had once been handsome.

Standing on the hearth, with his elbow resting on the marble mantelpiece
close to a unique vase of antique design, stood Squire O'Shanaghgan. He
was talking in pleasant and genial tones to Mrs. Murphy, a podgy little
woman, with a great likeness to Biddy.

Mrs. Murphy wore a black alpaca dress and a little three-cornered knitted
shawl across her shoulders. She had gray hair, which curled tightly like
her daughter's; on top of it was a cap formed of rusty black velvet and
equally rusty black lace. She looked much excited at the advent of the
Squire, and her cheeks testified to the fact by the brightness of their
color.

Mr. Murphy was doing penance opposite to Mrs. O'Shanaghgan. He was
dreadfully afraid of that stately lady, and was glancing nervously round
at his wife and the Squire from moment to moment.

“Yes, madam,” he was saying, “it's turnips we are going to plant in that
field just yonder. We have had a very good crop of hay too. It is a fine
season, and the potatoes promise to be a sight for sore eyes.”

“I hate the very name of that root,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan in her most
drawling tones.

“Why, then, ma'am, you don't say so,” answered Murphy; “it seems hard on
the poor things that keep us all going. The potheen and the potatoes—what
would Ireland be without 'em? Glory be to goodness, it's quite awful to
hear you abusing the potato, ma'am.”

“I am English, you know,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan.

On this scene Nora and Biddy entered. Mr. Murphy glanced with intense
relief at his daughter. Mrs. O'Shanaghgan slightly raised her brows. It
was the faintest of movements, but the superciliousness of the action
smote upon Nora, who colored painfully.

Biddy, taking her courage in her hand, went straight up to the august
lady.

“How do you do?” she said.

Mrs. O'Shanaghgan extended her hand with a limp action.

“Oh, dear!” panted Biddy.

“What is up, my dear Bridget?” said her mother, turning round and looking
at her daughter. “Oh, to goodness, what have you put that on for? It's
your very best Sunday-go-to-meeting dress, and you won't have another, I
can tell you, for six months.”

“There now, mother, hush, do,” said Biddy. “I have put it on for a
purpose. Why, then, it's sweet I want to make myself, and I believe it's
sweet I look. Oh, there's the mirror; let me gaze at myself.”

She crossed the room, and stood in front of a long glass, examining her
unsuitable dress from the front and side; and then, being thoroughly
satisfied with the elegance of appearance, she went back and stood in
front of Mrs. O'Shanaghgan.

“It's a request I want to make of you, ma'am,” she said.

“Well, Biddy, I will listen to it if you will ask me properly,” said Mrs.
O'Shanaghgan.

“Yes, to be sure,” said Biddy. “How shall I say it?”

“Speak quietly, my dear.”

“Yes, Biddy, I do wish you would take pattern by Nora, and by Mrs.
O'Shanaghgan,” said Mrs. Murphy, who in her heart of hearts envied Mrs.
O'Shanaghgan's icy manners, and thought them the most perfect in all the
world. She was in mortal fear of this good lady, even more terrified of
her than her husband was.

“Well, Biddy,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan.

“May Nora come and spend tomorrow night here?”

“No,” was on Mrs. O'Shanaghgan's lips; but just then the Squire came
forward.

“To be sure she may; it will do her a sight of good. The child hardly ever
goes from home.”

Mrs. O'Shanaghgan raised displeased eyes to her husband's face.

“Girls of Nora's age ought to stay at home,” she said.

“Yes, to be sure, to be sure,” said the Squire; “and we would miss her
awfully if she was away from us; but a day or two off duty—eh,
madam?” He glanced at his wife.

“You have your answer, Biddy,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan; “her father wishes
Nora to accept your invitation. She may stay away for one night—no
longer.”

Biddy winked broadly round at Nora.

“Now, then,” she said, “come along.” She seized her friend by the arm, and
whisked her out of the room.

“It was the dress that did it,” she said; “it is the loveliest garment in
all the world. Come along now, and let's take it off. I want to gather
those eggs for you.”

She ran upstairs again, followed by Nora. The dress was disposed of in the
large wooden wardrobe, the old torn frock readjusted on Biddy's stout
form, and the girls went out into the lovely summer air. The eggs which
Nora required were put into the little basket, and in half an hour the
O'Shanaghgans' party were returning at full speed to Castle O'Shanaghgan.
Nora glanced once into her father's face, and her heart gave a great leap.
Her high spirits left her as if by magic; she felt a lump in her throat,
and during the rest of the drive hardly spoke.

The Squire, on the contrary, talked incessantly. He talked more than ever
after Nora had looked at him. He slapped his wife on the shoulder, and
complimented her on her bravery. Nora's driving was the very best in all
the world; she was a born whip; she had no fear in her; she was his own
colleen, the Light o' the Morning, the dearest, sweetest soul on earth.

Mrs. O'Shanaghan replied very briefly and coldly to her husband's excited
words. She treated them with what she imagined the contempt they deserved;
but Nora was neither elated just then by her father's praise nor chilled
by her mother's demeanor. Every thought of her heart, every nerve in her
highly strung frame, was concentrated on one fact alone—she had
surprised a look, a look on the Squire's face, which told her that his
heart was broken.

CHAPTER V. — “I AM ASHAMED OF YOU.”

It was late that same evening, and the household at the Castle had all
retired to rest. Nora was in her own room. This room was not furnished
according to an English girl's fancy. It was plain and bare, but, compared
to Biddy Murphy's chamber, it was a room of comfort and even luxury. A
neat carpet covered the floor, there were white dimity curtains to the
windows, and the little bed in its distant recess looked neat and
comfortable. It is true that the washhand-stand was wooden, and the basin
and jug of the plainest type; but Mrs. O'Shanaghgan herself saw that Nora
had at least what she considered the necessaries of life. She had a neat
hanging-press for her dresses, and a pretty chest of drawers, which her
mother herself had saved up her pin-money to buy for her.

Nora now stood by one of the open windows, her thick and very long black
hair hanging in a rippling mass over her neck and shoulders. Suddenly, as
she bent out of the window, the faint, very faint perfume of a cigar came
up on the night air. She sniffed excitedly for a moment, and then, bending
a little more forward, said in a low tone:

“Is that you, Terry?”

“Yes—why don't you go to bed?” was the somewhat ungracious response.

“I am not sleepy. May I come down and join you?”

“No.”

“Will you come up and join me?”

The answer was about to be “No”; there was a moment's hesitation, then
Nora's voice said pleadingly, “Ah, do now, Terry; I want to say something
so badly.”

“But if anybody hears?”

“They can't hear. Father and mother's room is at the other end of the
house.”

“All right; don't say any more; you'll wake people with that chatter of
yours. I'm coming.”

In a couple of minutes there was a knock at Nora's door. She flew to open
it, and Terence came in.

“What do you want?” he said.

“To talk to you; I have got something to say. Come over and sit by the
window.”

Terence obeyed.

“The first thing to do is to put out that light,” said Nora. She ran to
the dressing table, and before her brother could prevent her had
extinguished the candle.

“Now, then, there is the dear old lady moon to look down upon us, and
nothing else can see us.”

“Why don't you go to bed, Nora? Hannah would say that you are losing your
beauty-sleep sitting up at this, hour.”

“As if anything about me mattered just now,” said Nora.

“Why, what's up?”

“The old thing, Terry; you must know what's up.”

“What old thing? I am sure I can't guess.”

“Well, then, if you can't you ought. Father is in a peck of trouble—a
peck of trouble.”

Nora's voice broke and trembled. Terence, who disliked a scene beyond
anything, fidgeted restlessly. He leaned out of the window, and dropped
his cigar ash on the ground beneath.

“And you are his only son and the heir to Castle O'Shanaghgan.”

“The heir to a pack of ruins,” said the boy impatiently.

“Terry, you don't deserve to be father's son. How dare you speak like that
of the—the beloved old place?”

“Come, come, Nora, if you are going into heroics I think I'll be off to
bed,” said Terence, yawning.

“No, you won't; you must listen. I have got something most important to
say.”

“Well, then, I will give you five minutes; not another moment. I know you,
Nora; you always exaggerate things. You are an Irishwoman to your
backbone.”

“I am, and I glory in the fact.”

“You ought to be ashamed to glory in it. Don't you want to have anything
to do with mother and her relations?”

“I love my mother, but I am glad I don't take after her,” said Nora; “yes,
I am glad.”

The moon shone on the two young faces, and Nora looked up at her brother;
he put on a supercilious smile, and folded his arms across his broad
chest.

“Yes,” she replied; “and I should like to shake you for looking like that.
I am glad I am Irish through and through and through. Would I give
my warm heart and my enthusiasm for your coldness and deliberation?”

“Good gracious, Nora, what a little ignorant thing you are! Do you suppose
no Englishman has enthusiasm?”

“We'll drop the subject,” said Nora. “It is one I won't talk of; it puts
me into such a boiling rage to see you sitting like that.”

Terence did not speak at all for a moment; then he said quietly:

“What is this thing that you have got to tell me? The five minutes are
nearly up, you know.”

“Oh, bother your five minutes! I cannot tell you in five minutes. When my
heart is scalded with unshed tears, how can I measure time by minutes?
It has to do with father; it is worse than anything that has ever gone
before.”

“What is it, Norrie?” Her brother's tone had suddenly become gentle. He
laid his hand for a moment on her arm; the gentleness of the tone, the
unexpected sweetness of the touch overcame Nora; she flung her arms
passionately round his neck.

“Oh, and you are the only brother I have got!” she sobbed; “and I could
love you—I could love you like anything. Can't you be sympathetic?
Can't you be sweet? Can't you be dear?”

“Oh, come, come!” said Terence, struggling to release himself from Nora's
entwining arms; “I am not made like you, you know; but I am not a bad chap
at heart. Now, what is it?”

“I will try and tell you.”

“And for goodness' sake don't look so sorrowfully at me, Nora; we can
talk, and we can act and do good deeds, without giving ourselves away. I
hate girls who wear their hearts on their sleeves.”

“Oh! you will never understand,” said Nora, starting back again;
all her burst of feeling turned in upon herself. “I can't imagine how you
are father's son,” she began. But then she stopped, waited for a moment,
and then said quietly, “There is a fresh mortgage, and it is for a very
big sum.”

“Oh, is that all?” said Terence. “I have heard of mortgages all my life;
it seems to be the fashion at O'Shanaghgan to mortgage to any extent.
There is nothing in that; father will give up a little more of the land.”

“How much land do you think is left?”

“I am sure I can't say; not much, I presume.”

“It is my impression,” said Nora—“I am not sure; but it is my
impression—that there is nothing left to meet this big thing
but the—the—the land on which”—her voice broke—“Terry,
the land on which the house stands.”

“Really, Nora, you are so melodramatic. I don't know how you can know
anything of this.”

“I only guess. Mother is very unhappy.”

“Mother? Is she?”

“Ah, I have touched you there! But anyhow, father is in worse trouble than
he has been yet; I never, never saw him look as he did tonight.”

“As if looks mattered.”

“The look I saw tonight does matter,” said Nora. “We were coming home from
Cronane, and I was driving.”

“It is madness to let you drive Black Bess,” interrupted Terence. “I
wonder my father risks spoiling one of his most valuable horses.”

“Oh, nonsense, Terry; I can drive as well as you, and better, thanks,”
replied Nora, much nettled, for her excellent driving was one of the few
things she was proud of. “Well, I turned round, and I saw father's face,
and, oh! it was just as if someone had stabbed me through the heart. You
know, or perhaps you don't, that the last big loan came from Squire
Murphy.”

“Old Dan Murphy; then we are as safe as we can be,” said Terence, rising
and whistling. “You really did make me feel uncomfortable, you have such a
queer way; but if it is Dan Murphy, he will give father any amount of
time. Why, they are the best of friends.”

“Well, father went to see him on the subject—I happen to know that—and
I don't think he has given him time. There is something wrong, anyhow—I
don't know what; but there is something very wrong, and I mean to
find out tomorrow.”

“Nora, if I were you I wouldn't interfere. You are only a young girl, and
these kind of things are quite out of your province. Father has pulled
along ever since you and I were born. Most Irish gentlemen are poor in
these days. How can they help it? The whole country is going to ruin;
there is no proper trade; there is no proper system anywhere. The tenants
are allowed to pay their rent just as they please——”

“As if we could harry them,” said inconsistent Nora. “The poor dears, with
their tiny cots and their hard, hard times. I'd rather eat dry bread all
my days than press one of them.”

“If these are your silly views, you must expect our father to be badly
off, and the property to go to the dogs, and everything to come to an
end,” said the brother in a discontented tone. “But there, I say once more
that you have exaggerated in this matter; there is nothing more wrong than
there has been since I can remember. I am glad I am going to England; I am
glad I am going to be out of it all for a bit.”

“You going to England—you, Terry?”

“Yes. Don't you know? Our Uncle George Hartrick has asked me to stay with
him, and I am going.”

“And you can go? You can leave us just now?”

“Why, of course; there will be fewer mouths to feed. It's a good thing
every way.”

“But Uncle George is a rich man?”

“What of that?”

“I mean he lives in a big place, and has heaps and heaps of money,” said
Nora.

“So much the better.”

“You cannot go to him shabby. What are you going to do for dress?”

“Mother will manage that.”

“Mother!” Nora leaped up from the window-ledge and stood facing her
brother. “You have spoken to mother?”

“Of course I have. Dear me, Nora, you are getting to be quite an
unpleasant sort of girl.”

“You have spoken to mother,” repeated Nora, “and she has promised to help
you? How will she do it?”

Terence moved restlessly.

“I suppose she knows herself how she will do it.”

“And you will let her?” said Nora—“you, a man, will let her? You
know she has no money; you know she has nothing but her little trinkets,
and you allow her to sell those to give you pleasure? Oh, I am ashamed of
you! I am sorry you are my brother. How can you do it?”

“Look here, Nora, I won't be scolded by you. After all, I am your elder,
and you are bound, at any rate, to show me decent outward respect. If you
only mean to talk humbug of this sort I am off to bed.”

Terence rose from his place on the window-ledge, and, without glancing at
Nora, left the room. When he did so she clasped her hands high above her
head, and sat for a moment looking out into the night. Her face was
quivering, but no tears rose to her wide-open eyes. After a moment she
turned, and began very slowly to undress.

“I will see the Banshee tomorrow, if it is possible,” she whispered under
her breath. “If ruin can be averted, it shall be. I don't mind leaving the
place; I don't mind starving. I don't mind anything but that look
on father's face. But father's heart shall not be broken; not while Nora
O'Shanaghgan is in the world.”

CHAPTER VI. — THE CAVE OF THE BANSHEE.

At ten o'clock on the following evening two eager excited girls might have
been seen stealing down a narrow path which led to Murphy's Cove. Murphy's
Cove was a charming little semicircular bay which ran rather deeply into
the land. The sand here was of that silvery sheen which, at low tide,
shone like burnished silver. The cove was noted for its wonderful shells,
producing many cowries and long shells called pointers.

In the days of her early youth Nora had explored the treasures of this
cove, and had secured a valuable collection of shells, as well as very
rare seaweeds, which she had carefully dried. Her mother had shown her how
to make seaweeds and shells into baskets, and many of these amateur
productions adorned the walls of Nora's bedroom.

All the charm of these things had passed away, however; the time had come
when she no longer cared to gather shells or collect seaweeds. She felt
that she was turning very fast into a woman. She had all an Irish girl's
high spirits; but she had, added to these, a peculiarly warm and sensitive
heart. When those she loved were happy, no one in all the world was
happier than Nora O'Shanaghgan; but when any gloom fell on the
home-circle, then Nora suffered far more than anyone gave her credit for.

She had passed an anxious day at home, watching her father intently,
afraid to question him, and only darting glances at him when she thought
he was not looking. The Squire, however, seemed cheerful enough, plodding
over his land, or arranging about the horses, or doing the
thousand-and-one small things which occupied his life.

Mrs. O'Shanaghgan seemed to have forgotten all about the mortgage, and was
eagerly discussing ways and means with Terence. Terence avoided Nora's
eyes, and rode off early in the evening to see the nearest tailor. It was
not likely that this individual could make a fitting suit for the young
heir to O'Shanaghgan; but the boy must have something to travel in, and
Mrs. O'Shanaghgan gave implicit directions as to the London tailor whom he
was to visit as soon as he reached the Metropolis.

“For you are to look your best, and never to forget that you are my son,”
was her rejoinder; and Terence forgot all about Nora's words on the
previous evening. He was to start in two days' time. Even Nora became
excited over his trip and in her mother's account of her Uncle Hartrick.

“I wish you were going, Nora,” said the mother. “I should be proud of you.
Of course you are a little rough colt; but you could be trained;” and then
she looked with sudden admiration at her handsome daughter.

“She has a face in a thousand,” she thought, “and she is absolutely
unconscious of her beauty.”

At five o'clock Nora had started off in the pony-trap to visit her friend
Biddy. The trap had been brought back by one of the numerous gossoons who
abounded all over O'Shanaghgan, and Biddy and Nora had a few hours before
the great secret expedition was to take place. And now the time had come.
The girls had put on thick serge petticoats, short jackets, and little
tight-fitting caps on their heads. There was always a breeze blowing round
that extreme corner of the Atlantic. Never did the finest summer day find
the waves calm there. Nora and Biddy had been accustomed to these waves
since their earliest girlhood, and were not the least afraid. They stood
now waiting in the little cove, and looking round wonderingly for the
appearance of Mike and Neil upon the scene. They were to bring the boat
with them. The girls were to wade through the surf to get into it, and
Biddy was stooping down to take off her shoes and stockings for the
purpose.

“Dear, dear!” she cried. “Do you see that ugly bank of clouds just behind
the moon? I hope my lady moon is not going to hide herself; we can do
nothing in the cave if we have not light.”

“But the cave is dark, surely?”

“Yes. But don't you know there is a break in the cliffs above, just in the
center? And it is down there the moon sends its shafts when it is at the
full; it is there the Banshee will meet us, if we are to see her at all.
The shafts from the moon will only enter the cave at midnight. I have
counted the times, and I know everything.”

“I want to see the Banshee so badly,” said Nora.

“You won't be frightened, then, Nora?”

“Frightened? No. Not of our own Banshee.”

“They say,” began Biddy, “that if you see a spirit, and come face to face
with it, you are good for—”

“What?” said Nora.

“If you hold out during the year you have seen the spirit, you are good to
live for another ten; but during that first year you are in extreme danger
of dying. If you escape that fate, however, and are whole and sound, you
will be quite safe to live for ten more years. They say nothing can send
you out of the world; not sickness, nor accidents, nor fire, nor water;
but the second year you are liable to an accident, and the year after to a
misfortune; then in the fourth year your luck turns—in the fourth
year you find gold, in the fifth year health, in the sixth year beauty.
Oh, I would give anything to be beautiful!”

“You are very well as you are, Biddy.”

“Very well as I am? What nonsense! Look at my turned-up nose.” Here Biddy
pressed her finger on the feature in question.

“It looks very racy,” answered Nora.

“Bedad, then, it does that,” replied Biddy. “I believe I got it sound and
safe from one of the old——”

“You needn't go on,” cried Nora. “I know what you are going to say.”

“And why shouldn't I say it? You would be proud enough to be descended
from——”

“Oh, I have a very fine descent of my own,” answered Nora, with spirit.

“Now, if I was like you,” began Biddy, “wouldn't I be proud, just? But
dear, dear! there never were two Irish girls farther asunder as far as
appearance goes. See here, let me describe myself, feature by feature. Oh,
here's a clear pool. I can get a glimpse of myself in it. You come and
look in too, Nora. Now, then, we can see ourselves. Oh, holy poker! it's
cruel the difference between us. Here's my forehead low and bumpy, and my
little nose, scarcely any of it, and what there is turned right up to the
sky; and my wide mouth, and my little eyes, and my hair just standing
straight up as rakish as you please. And look at you, with your elegant
features and your—oh, but it's genteel you are!—and I love
you, Nora alannah; I love you, and am not a bit jealous of you.”

Here the impulsive girl threw her arms round her friend's neck and kissed
her.

“All the same,” she added, “I wish those clouds were not coming up. It has
been so precious hot all day that I should not be the least surprised if
we had a thunderstorm.”

“A thunderstorm while we are in the cave would be magnificent,” said Nora.

“Does anything ever frighten you, Nora?”

“I don't think anything in nature could frighten me; but there are some
things I am frightened at.”

“What? Do tell me. I should like to know.”

“You'll keep it a secret—won't you, Biddy?”

“To be sure I will. When did I ever blaze out anything you told me? If I
am plain, I am faithful.”

“Well, I am afraid of pain,” said Nora.

“Pain! You? But I have seen you scratch yourself ever so deep and not so
much as wink; and I mind that time when you twisted your ankle and you
didn't even pretend you were hurt.”

“Oh, it is not that sort of pain. I am terrified of pain when it affects
those I love. But there! don't ask me any more. Here are the boys; we'll
jump into the boat and be off. Why, it is half-past ten, and it will take
half-an-hour's good rowing to cross the bay, and then we have to enter the
cave and——”

“I don't like those clouds,” said Biddy. “I wonder if it is safe to go.”

“Safe?” said Nora. “We must go. Mother won't allow me to spend another
night here, and I shall lose my chance. I am determined to speak to the
Banshee or die in the attempt.”

The splash of oars was now distinctly audible, and the next moment a
four-oared gig swiftly turned the little promontory and shot with a rapid
movement into the bay.

“Why,” said Biddy, running forward, “who's in the boat?”

A lad and a man now stood upright and motioned to the girls.

“Where's Neil?” said Biddy.

“Neil could not come, Miss Biddy, so I'm taking his place,” said the deep
voice of a powerful-looking man. He had a black beard down to his waist,
flashing black eyes, a turned-up nose, and a low forehead. A more bull-dog
and ferocious-looking individual it would be hard to find. Biddy, however,
knew him; he was Neil's father—Andy Neil, as he was called. He was
known to be a lawless and ferocious man, and was very much dreaded by most
of the neighbors around. Neither Nora nor Biddy, however, felt any reason
to fear him and Nora said almost cheerfully:

“As we are to have such a stiff row, it is just as well to have a man in
the boat.”

“Faix, now, young ladies, come along, and don't keep me waiting,” said
Andy, rising and brandishing one of his oars in a threatening way.
“There's a storm coming on, and I want to be out of this afore it
overtakes us. Oh, glory be to goodness, there's a flash of lightning!”

There came a flash on the edge of the horizon, lighting up the thick bank
of rapidly approaching clouds.

“Nora, had we better go tonight?” said Biddy. She had as little fear as
her friend, but even she did not contemplate with pleasure a wild storm in
the midst of the Atlantic.

The man Neil looked gravely round.

“Och! good luck to ye now, young ladies; don't be kaping me waiting after
the botheration of coming to fetch yez. Come along, and be quick about
it.”

“To be sure,” said Nora. She splashed bravely into the surf, for the boat
could not quite reach the shore. The waves reached high above her pretty,
rosy ankles as she stepped into the boat.

Biddy followed in her wake; and then Nora, producing a rough towel, began
to dry her feet. Both girls put on their shoes and stockings again in
absolute silence.

Neil had now faced the boat seaward, and with great sweeps with a pair of
sculls was taking it out to sea. The tide was in their favor, and they
went at a rapid rate. The man did not speak at all, and his face was in
complete shadow. Nora breathed hard in suppressed excitement and delight.
Biddy crouched at the bottom of the boat and watched the clouds as they
came up.

“I wish I hadn't come,” she muttered once or twice.

The boy Mike sat at the stern. The two girls had nothing whatever to do.

“Shall I take an oar, Andy?” said Nora at last.

“You, miss?”

“I can take a pair of oars and help you,” said the girl.

“If it plazes you, miss.” The man hastily stepped to the back of the boat.
Nora took her place, and soon they were going at greater speed than ever.
She was a splendid oarswoman, and feathered her oars in the most approved
fashion.

In less than the prescribed half-hour they reached the entrance to the
great cave.

They were safe. A hollow, booming noise greeted them as they came close.
Andy bent forward and gave Nora a brief direction.

“Ship your oars now, miss. Aisy now; aisy now. Now, then, I'll take one
pull; pull your left oar again. Now, here we are.”

He spoke with animation. Nora obeyed him implicitly. They entered the
shadow of the cave, and the next instant found themselves in complete
darkness. The boat bobbed up and down on the restless water, and just at
that instant a flash of vivid lightning illuminated all the outside water,
followed by a crashing roar of thunder.

“The storm is on us; but, thank the Almighty, we're safe,” said Mike, with
a little sob. “I wish to goodness we hadn't come, all the same.”

“And so do I,” said Biddy; “it is perfectly awful being in a cave like
this. What shall we do?”

“Do!” said Neil. “Hould your tongues and stay aisy. Faix, it's the
Almighty is having a bit of a talk; you stay quiet and listen.”

The four oars were shipped now, and the boat swayed restlessly up and
down.

“Aren't we going any farther?” said Nora.

“Not while this storm lasts. Oh, for goodness' sake, Nora, do stay quiet,”
said Biddy.

Andy now produced out of his pocket a box of matches and a candle. He
struck a match, applied it to the candle, and the next moment a feeble
flame shot up. It was comparatively calm within the cave.

“There! that will light us a bit,” said Andy. “The storm won't last long.
It's well we got into shelter. Now, then, we'll do fine.”

“You don't think,” said Biddy, in a terrified tone, “that the cave will be
be crashed in?”

“Glory be to Heaven, no, miss—we have cheated the storm coming
here.” The man smiled as he spoke, showing bits of broken teeth. His words
were gentle enough, but his whole appearance was more like that of a wild
beast than a man. Nora looked full at him. The candle lit up her pale
face; her dark-blue eyes were full of courage; a lock of her black hair
had got loose in the exertion of rowing, and had fallen partly over her
shoulder and neck. “Faix, then, you might be the Banshee herself,” said
Andy, bending forward and looking at her attentively.

“If the moon comes out again we may see the Banshee,” whispered Nora. “Can
we not go farther into the cave? Time is flying.” She took her watch from
her pocket and looked at the hour. It was already past eleven o'clock.

“The storm will be over in good time,” said the man. “Do you want to get
the gleam of moonlight in the crack of the inner cave? Is that what you're
afther, missy?”

“Yes,” said Nora.

“Well, you stay quiet; you'll reach it right enough.”

“Nora wants to see the Banshee, Andy,” called out Biddy. “Oh, what a
flash! It nearly blinded me.”

“The rain will soon be on us, and then the worst of the storm will be
past,” said the man.

Mike uttered a scream; the lightning was now forked and intensely blue. It
flashed into every cranny in the cave, showing the barnacles on the roof,
the little bits of fern, the strange stalactites. After the flash had
passed, the darkness which followed was so intense that the light of the
dim candle could scarcely be seen. Presently the rain thundered down upon
the bare rock above with a tremendous sound; there were great hailstones;
the thunder became less frequent, the lightning less vivid. In a little
more than half an hour the fierce storm had swept on to other quarters.

“Now, then, we can go forward,” said Andy. He took up his oars. “You had
best stay quiet, missies; just sit there in the bottom of the boat, and
let me push ahead.”

“Then I will hold the candle,” said Nora.

“Right you are, miss.”

She took it into her cold fingers. Her heart was beating high with
suppressed excitement; she had never felt a keener pleasure in her life.
If only she might see the Banshee, and implore the spirit's intercession
for the fortunes of her house!

The man rowed on carefully, winding round corners and avoiding many
dangers. At last they came bump upon some rocks.

“Now, then,” he said, “we can't go a step farther.”

“But we must,” said Nora. “We have not reached the chasm in the rock. We
must.”

“We dare not, miss; the boat hasn't water enough to float her.”

“Well, then, I shall wade there. How far on is the chasm?”

“Oh, Nora! Nora! you won't be so mad as to go alone?” called out Biddy.

“I shan't be a scrap afraid,” said Nora.

“But there's water up to your knees; you dare not do it,” said Biddy.

“Yes, I dare; and the tide is going down—is it not?”

“It will be down a good bit in half an hour,” said the man, “and we'll be
stranded here as like as not. These are bad rocks when the tide is low; we
must turn and get out of this, miss, in a quarter of an hour at the
farthest.”

“Oh, I could just do it in a quarter of an hour,” said Nora.

She jumped up, and the next moment had sprung out of the boat into the
water, which nearly reached up to her knees.

“Oh, Nora! Nora! you'll be lost; you'll slip and fall in that awful
darkness, and we'll never see you again,” said Biddy, with a cry of
terror.

“No, no; let her go,” said Andy. “There ain't no fear, miss; you have but
to go straight on, holding your candle and avoiding the rocks to your
left, and you'll come to the opening. Be as quick as you can, Miss Nora;
be as quick as you can.”

His voice had a queer note in it. Nora gave him a look of gratitude, and
proceeded on her dangerous journey. Her one fear was that the candle might
go out; the flame flickered as the air got less good; the hot grease
scalded her fingers; but suddenly a breeze of fresher air reached her, and
warned her that she was approaching the aperture. There came a little puff
of wind, and the next moment the brave girl found herself in total
darkness. The candle had gone out. Just at that instant she heard, or
fancied she heard, a splash behind her in the water. There was nothing for
it now but to go forward. She resolved not to be terrified. Perhaps it was
a water-rat; perhaps it was the Banshee. Her heart beat high; still she
had no fear. She was going to plead for her father. What girl would be
terrified with such a cause in view? She walked slowly and carefully on,
and at last the fresher air was followed by a welcome gleam of light; she
was approaching the opening. The next moment she had found it. She stood
nearly up to her knees in the water; the shaft of moonlight was piercing
down into the cave. Nora went and stood in the moonlight. The hole at the
top was little more than a foot in width; there was a chasm, a jagged
chasm, through which the light came. She could see a bit of cloudless sky,
and the cold moonlight fell all over her.

“Oh, Banshee!—Lady Spirit who belongs to our house, come and speak
to me,” cried the girl. “Come from your home in the rock and give me a
word of comfort. A dark time is near, and we implore your help. Come,
come, Banshee—it is the O'Shanaghgans who want you. It is Nora
O'Shanaghgan who calls you now.”

The sound of a laugh came from the darkness behind her, and the next
instant the startled girl saw the big form of Andy Neil approaching.

“Don't you be frightened, Miss Nora,” he said. “I aint the Banshee, but I
am as good. Faix, now, I want to say something to you. I have come here
for the purpose. There! don't be frightened. I won't hurt ye—not I;
but I want yez to promise me something.”

“What is that?” said Nora.

“I have come here for the purpose. She aint no good.” He indicated
with a motion of his thumb the distant form of Biddy within the dark
recess of the cave.

“Does Miss Murphy know you have followed me?” said Nora.

“No, she don't know it; she's in the dark. There's the little lad Mike
will look after her. She won't do nothing until we go back.”

“Oh, I did want to see the Banshee!”

“The Banshee may come or not,” said the man; “but I have my message to
yez, and it is this: If you don't get Squire O'Shanaghgan to let me keep
my little bit of land, and to see that I aint evicted, why, I'll—you're
a bonny lass, you're as purty a young lady as I ever set eyes on, but I'll
drownd yez, deep down here in this hole. No one will ever know; they'll
think you has fallen and got drowned without no help from me. Yes, I'll do
it—yes, I will—unless you promises that Squire O'Shanaghgan
shan't evict me. If I go out, why, you goes out first. Now, you'll do it;
you'll swear that you'll do it? You'll leave no stone unturned. You'll get
'em to leave me my cabin where I was born, and the childer was born, and
where the wife died, or I'll drownd yez deep down here in the Banshee's
hole. Look!” said the man as the moon nickered on a deep pool of water;
“they say there is no bottom to it. Just one shlip, and over you goes, and
nobody will ever see Nora O'Shanaghgan again.”

“I'm not going to be frightened; you wouldn't do it, Andy,” said the girl.

“Wouldn't I just? You think that I'd be afraid?”

“I don't think so. I am sure you are afraid of nothing.”

“Then why shouldn't I do it?”

“Because you wouldn't be so bad, not to an innocent girl who never harmed
you.”

“Oh! wouldn't I just? Ain't I a-stharving, and aint the childer stharving,
and why should they turn us out of our bit of a cabin? Swear you'll do it;
swear you won't have me evicted; you has got to promise.”

“I wouldn't evict you—never, never!” said Nora. “Oh, never!”
she added, tears, not of fright, but of pity, filling her eyes. “But how
can I control my father?”

“That's for you to see to, missy; I must go back now, or we'll none of us
leave this cave alive. But you'll just shlip into that water, and you'll
never be heard of again unless you promises. I'll go back; they none of
'em will know I followed yez. You'll be drowned here in the deep pool, and
I'll go back to the boat, or you promises and we both goes back.”

“But, Andy, what am I to promise?”

“That you won't have me evicted. You say solemn here: 'Andrew Neil, I
would rather die myself or have my tongue cut out, and may the Holy Mother
cast me from her presence forever, and may the evil spirits take me, if I
don't save you, Andy.' You has to say that.”

“No, I won't,” said Nora with sudden spirit. “I am not afraid. I'll do my
very, very best for you; but I won't say words like those.”

The man looked at her attentively.

“I was a little frightened at first,” continued Nora; “but I am not now. I
would rather you pushed me into that pool, I would rather sink and die,
than take an awful vow like that. I won't take it. I'll do my very best to
save you, but I won't make a vow.”

“Faix, then, miss, it's you that has the courage; but now if I let yez off
this time, will ye do yer best?”

“Yes, I'll do my best.”

“If yer don't, bonny as you are, and the light of somebody's eyes, you'll
go out of the world. But, come, I trust yez, and we must be turning back.”

The man took the matches from his pocket, struck one, and lit the candle.
Then, Andy going in front of Nora, they both turned in the direction where
the boat was waiting for them.

CHAPTER VII. — THE MURPHYS.

It was between two and three in the morning when the girls found
themselves back again in the desolate mansion of Cronane. Biddy had left a
window open; they had easily got in by it and gone up to Biddy's big room
on the first floor. They were to sleep together in Biddy's small bed.
Personally, discomforts did not affect them; they had never been
accustomed to luxury, and rather liked the sense of hardship than
otherwise.

“I brought up a bit of supper beforehand,” said Biddy. “I am real hungry.
What do you say to cold bacon and taters—eh? I went down to the
larder and got a good few early this morning. I put them in the cupboard
in a brown bowl with a plate over it. You're hungry—aren't you,
Norrie?”

“No, not very,” answered Nora.

“What's come to you, you're so quiet? You have lost all your spirit. I
thought we would have a real rollicking time over our supper, laughing and
talking, and telling our adventures. Oh! it was awful in that cave; and
when you were away talking to the lady Banshee I did have a time of it. I
thought that awful Andy was going to murder me. I had a sort of feeling
that he was getting closer and closer, and I clutched hold of little Mike.
I think he was a bit surprised; I'll give him a penny to-morrow, poor
gossoon. But aren't you hungry, and won't you laugh, and shan't we have a
jolly spree?”

“Oh, I shall be very glad to eat something,” said Nora; “and I am a little
cold, too. I took a chill standing so long in that icy water.”

“Oh, dear, oh, dear! it's the rheumatics you'll be getting, and then
you'll lose your beautiful straight figure. I must rub your legs. There,
sit on the bed and I'll begin.”

Nora submitted to Biddy's ministrations. The room was lit by a small dip
candle, which was placed in an old tin candlestick on the mantelpiece.

“Dear, dear! the light will be coming in no time, and we can quench the
glim then,” said Biddy. “I've got to be careful about candles. We're
precious short of everything at Cronane just now. We're as poor as church
mice; it's horrid to be so desperately poor as that. But, hurrah for the
cold taters and bacon! We'll have a right good meal. That will warm you
up; and I have a little potheen in a black bottle, too. I'll put some
water to it and you shall have a drink.”

“I never touch it,” said Nora, shuddering.

“But you must tonight, or you'll catch your death of cold. There, the best
thing you can do is to get right into bed. Why, you're shivering, and your
teeth are chattering. It's a fine state Mrs. O'Shanaghgan will be in
tomorrow when you go back to her.”

“I must not get ill, Biddy; that would never do,” said Nora, pulling
herself together with an effort. “Yes, I'll get into bed; and I'll take a
little of your potheen—very, very weak, if you'll mix it for me—and
I'll have some of the bacon and potatoes. Oh! I would eat anything rather
than be ill. I never was really ill in my life; but now, of all times, it
would never do.”

“Well, then, here you go. Tumble into bed. I'll pile the blankets on you.
Now, isn't that better?”

Biddy bustled, intent on hospitality. She propped Nora up with pillows,
pulled a great rug over her shoulders, and heaped on more and more
blankets, which she pulled expeditiously from under the bed. “They always
stay here in the summer,” said Biddy. “That's to keep them aired; and now
they're coming in very handy. You have got four doubled on you now; that
makes eight. I should think you'd soon be warm enough.”

“I expect I shall soon be too hot,” said Nora; “but this is very nice.”

She sipped the potheen, ate a little bacon and cold potatoes, and
presently declared herself well again.

“Oh, I am perfectly all right!” she said; “it was coming home in the boat
in my wet things. I wish I had taken a pair of sculls again; then I
wouldn't even have been cold.”

“Now you'll tell me,” said Biddy, who sat on the edge of the bed munching
great chunks of bacon and eating her cold potatoes with extreme relish.
“Oh! it's hungry I am; but I want to hear all about the lady Banshee. Did
she come? Did you see her, Nora?”

“No, she didn't come,” said Nora very shortly.

“Didn't come? But they say she never fails when the moon is at the full.
She rises up out of that pool—the bottomless pool it is called—and
she floats over the water and waves her hand. It's awful to see her if you
don't belong to her; but to those who belong to her she is tender and
sweet, like a mother, they say; and her breath is like honey, and her kiss
the sweetest you ever got in all your life. You mean to say you didn't see
her? Why, Nora, what has come to you? You're trembling again.”

“I cannot tell you, Biddy; don't ask me any more. I didn't see the
Banshee. It was very, very cold standing up to my knees in the water. I
suppose I did wrong to go; but that's done and over now. Oh, I am so tired
and sleepy! Do get into bed, Biddy, and let us have what little rest we
can.”

Early the next morning Nora returned to O'Shanaghgan. All trace of ill
effects had vanished under Biddy's prompt treatment. She had lain under
her eight blankets until she found them intolerable, had then tossed most
of them off, and fallen into deep slumber. In the morning she looked much
as usual; but no entreaties on the part of Biddy, joined in very heartily
by Squire Murphy and also by Mrs. Murphy, could induce her to prolong her
visit.

“It's a message I'll take over myself to your father if you'll but stay,
Nora,” said the Squire.

“No, no; I must really go home,” answered Nora.

“It's too fine you are for us, Nora, and that's the truth; and don't go
for to be denying it,” said Mrs. Murphy.

“No; I hope I may never be too fine for my real friends,” said Nora a
little sadly. “I must go back. I believe I am wanted at home.”

“You're a very conceited colleen; there's no girl that can't be spared
from home sometimes,” said Mrs. Murphy. “I thought you would help Biddy
and me to pick black currants. There are quarts and quarts of 'em in the
garden, and the maids can't do it by themselves, poor things. Well, Biddy,
you have got to help me today.”

“Oh, mammy, I just can't,” answered Biddy. “I'm due down at the shore, and
I want to go a bit of the way back with Nora. You can't expect me to help
you today, mammy.”

“There she is, Nora—there she is!” exclaimed the good lady, her face
growing red and her eyes flashing fire; “not a bit of good, not worth her
keep, I tell her. Why shouldn't she stay at home and help her mother? Do
you hear me, Squire Murphy? Give your orders to the girl; tell her to stay
at home and help her mother.”

“Ah, don't be bothering me,” said Squire Murphy. “It's out I'm going now.
I have enough on my own shoulders without attending to the tittle-tattle
of women.”

He rose from the table, and the next moment had left the room.

“Dear, dear! there are bad times ahead for poor Old Ireland,” said Mrs.
Murphy. “Children don't obey their parents; husbands don't respect their
wives; it's a queer state of the country. When I was young, and lived at
my own home in Tipperary, we had full and plenty. There was a bite and a
sup for every stranger who came to the door, and no one talked of money,
nor thought of it neither. The land yielded a good crop, and the potatoes—oh,
dear! oh, dear! that was before the famine. The famine brought us a lot of
bad luck, that it did.”

“But the potatoes have been much better the last few years, and this year
they say we're going to have a splendid crop,” said Nora. “But I must go
now, Mrs. Murphy. Thank you so much for asking me.”

“You're looking a bit pale; but you're a beautiful girl,” said the good
woman admiringly. “I'd give a lot if Biddy could change places with you—that
is, in appearance, I mean. She's not a credit to anybody, with her bumpy
forehead and her cocked nose, and her rude ways to her mother.”

“Mammy, I really cannot help the way I am made,” said Biddy; “and as to
staying in this lovely day picking black currants and making jam, and
staining my fingers, it's not to be thought of. Come along out, Nora. If
you must be off back to O'Shanaghgan, I mean to claim the last few moments
of your stay here.”

The girls spent the morning together, and early in the afternoon Nora
returned to O'Shanaghgan. Terence met her as she was driving down the
avenue.

“How late you are!” he said; “and you have got great black shadows under
your eyes. You know, of course, that I have to catch the early train in
the morning?”

“To be sure I do, Terry; and it is for that very reason I have come back
so punctually. I want to pack your things my own self.”

“Ah, that's a good girl. You'll find most of them laid out on the bed. Be
sure you see that all my handkerchiefs are there—two dozen—and
all marked with my initials.”

“I never knew you had so many.”

“Yes; mother gave me a dozen at Christmas, and I have not used them yet. I
shall want every bit of decent clothing I possess for my visit to my rich
Uncle Hartrick.”

“How is mother, Terence?”

“Mother? Quite well, I suppose; she is fretting a bit at my going; you'll
have to comfort her. The place is very rough for her just now.”

“I don't see that it is any rougher than it has ever been,” said Nora a
little fiercely. “You're always running down the place, Terry.”

“Well, I can't help it. I hate to see things going to the dogs,” said the
young man. He turned on his heel, called a small fox-terrier, who went by
the name of Snap, to follow him, and went away in the direction of the
shore.

Nora whipped up her pony and drove on to the house. Here she was greeted
by her father. He was standing on the steps; and, coming down, he lifted
her bodily out of the dog-cart, strained her to his heart, and looked full
into her eyes.

“Ah, Light o' the Morning, I have missed you,” he said, and gave a great
sigh.

The girl nestled up close to him. She was trembling with excess of
feeling.

“And I have missed you,” she answered. “How is the mother?”

“I suppose she is all right, Nora; but there, upon my word, she does vex
me sometimes. Take the horse to the stables, and don't stand staring
there, Peter Jones.” The Squire said these latter words on account of the
fixed stare of a pair of bright black eyes like sloes in the head of the
little chap who had brought the trap for Nora. He whipped up the pony,
turned briskly round, and drove away.

“Come out for a bit with me round the grounds, Nora. It's vexed I am,
sometimes; I feel I cannot stand things. I wish my lady would not have all
those fine airs. But there, I have no right to talk against your mother to
you, child; and of course she is your mother, and I am desperately proud
of her. There never was her like for beauty and stateliness; but sometimes
she tries me.”

“Oh! I know, father; I know. But let's go round and look at the new calf
and the colt. We can spare an hour—can we not?”

“Yes; come along quick, Nora,” answered the Squire, all smiles and jokes
once more. “The mother doesn't know you have come back, and we can have a
pleasant hour to ourselves.”

CHAPTER VIII. — THE SQUIRE'S TROUBLE.

Nora and her father went slowly down a shady walk, which led in the
direction of the shore. Soon they found themselves in a hay-field. The
crop here was not particularly good. The hay had been spoiled by rains,
which had soaked down on the lands a fortnight ago. It was stunted in
height, and in some parts had that impoverished appearance which is so
painful to the heart of the good farmer.

Squire O'Shanaghgan, notwithstanding his somewhat careless ways, was
really a capital farmer. He had the best interests of the land at heart,
and did his utmost to get profit out of his many acres. He now shook his
head over the hay-crop.

“It's just like all the rest, Norrie—everything going to ruin—the
whole place going to the dogs; and yet—and yet, colleen, it's about
the sweetest bit of earth in all God's world. I wouldn't give O'Shanaghgan
for the grandest place in the whole of England; and I told your
lady-mother so this morning.”

“Why did you say it, father? Had mother been—”

“Oh, nothing, child—nothing; the old grumbles. But it's her way,
poor dear; she can't help herself; she was born so. It's not to be
expected that she who was brought up in that prim land over yonder, where
everything is cut and dry, and no one ever thinks of managing anything but
by the rule of three, would take to our wild ways. But there, Norrie, it's
the freedom of the life that suits me; when I am up and away on Black Bess
or on Monarch, I don't think there is a happier fellow in the world. But
there, when I come face to face with money, why, I'm bothered—I'm
bothered entirely, child.”

“Father,” said Nora, “won't you tell me what is worrying you?”

“How do you know I am worried about anything, colleen?”

“How do I know, father?” answered Nora a little playfully. She turned and
faced him. “I know,” she said; “that is enough; you are worried. What is
it?”

The Squire looked at her attentively. He was much the taller of the two,
and his furrowed face seemed to the girl, as she looked up at him, like a
great rock rising above her. She was wont to sun herself in his smile, and
to look to him always as a sure refuge in any perplexity. She did not love
anyone in the whole world as she loved her father. His manliness appealed
to her; his generous ways suited her; but, above all these things, he was
her father; he was Irish to his backbone, and so was she.

“You must tell me,” she said. “Something is troubling you, and Nora has to
know.”

“Ah, my Light o' the Morning! what would I do without you?” answered the
Squire.

“Prove that you trust me,” said Nora, “and tell me what worries you.”

“Well, Nora, you cannot understand; and yet if you could it would be a
relief to unburden my mind. But you know nothing about mortgages—do
you, little woman?”

“More than you think,” said Nora. “I am not a child—I am nearly
seventeen; and I have not lived at O'Shanaghgan all my life for nothing.
Of course we are poor! I don't know that I want to be rich.”

“I'll tell you what I want,” said the Squire; “I want to forget that there
is such a thing as money. If it were not for money I would say to myself,
'There's not a better lot than mine.' What air we have here!” He opened
his mouth and took in a great breath of the pure Atlantic breezes. “What a
place it is! Look at the beauty of it! Look round, Norrie, and see for
yourself; the mountains over there; and the water rolling up almost to our
doors; and the grand roar of the waves in our ears; and those trees
yonder; and this field with the sun on it; and the house, though it is a
bit of a barrack, yet it is where my forebears were born. Oh, it's the
best place on earth; it's O'Shanaghgan, and it's mine! There, Nora, there;
I can't stand it!”

The Squire dashed his hand to his brow. Nora looked up at him; she was
feeling the exposure and excitement of last night. Her pallor suddenly
attracted his attention.

“Why, what's the matter with you, colleen?” he said. “Are you well—are
you sure you're well?”

“Absolutely, perfectly well, father. Go on—tell me all.”

“Well, you know, child, when I came in for the estate it was not to say
free.”

“What does that mean, father?”

“It was my father before me—your grandfather—the best hunter
in the county. He could take his bottle of port and never turn a hair; and
he rode to hounds! God bless you, Nora! I wish you could have seen your
grandfather riding to hounds. It was a sight to remember. Well, he died—God
bless him!—and there were difficulties. Before he died those
difficulties began, and he mortgaged some of the outer fields and Knock
Robin Farm—the best farm on the whole estate; but I didn't think
anything of that. I thought I could redeem it; but somehow, child, somehow
rents have been going down; the poor folk can't pay, and I'm the last to
press them; and things have got worse and worse. I had a tight time of it
five years ago; I was all but done for. It was partly the fact of the
famine; we none of us ever got over that—none of us in this part of
Ireland, and many of the people went away. Half the cabins were deserted.
There's half a mile of 'em down yonder; every single one had a dead man or
woman in it at the time of the famine, and now they're empty. Well of
course, you know all about that?”

“Oh, yes, father; Hannah has told me of the famine many, many times.”

“To be sure—to be sure; but it is a dark subject, and not fit for a
pretty young thing like you. But there, let me go on. It was five years
ago I mortgaged some of the place, a good bit, to my old friend Dan
Murphy. He lent me ten thousand pounds—not a penny more, I assure
you. It just tided me over, and I thought, of course, I'd pay him back,
interest and all, by easy stages. It seemed so easy to mortgage the place
to Murphy, and there was nothing else to be done.”

The Squire had been walking slowly; now he stopped, dropped Nora's hand
from his arm, and faced her.

“It seemed so easy to mortgage the land to Dan Murphy,” he said, dropping
his voice, “so very easy, and that money was so handy, and I thought—”

“Yes, father?” said Nora in a voice of fear. “You said these words before.
Go on—it was so easy. Well?”

“Well, a month ago, child, I got a letter from Murphy's lawyer in Dublin,
to say that the money must be paid up, or they would foreclose.”

“Foreclose, father. What is that?”

“Take possession, child—take possession.”

“A month ago you got that letter? They would take possession—possession
of the land you have mortgaged. Does that mean that it would belong to
Squire Murphy, father?”

“So I thought, my dear colleen, and I didn't fret much. The fact is, I put
the letter in the fire and forgot it. It was only three days ago that I
got another letter to know what I meant to do. I was given three months to
pay in, and if I didn't pay up the whole ten thousand, with the five
years' interest, they'd foreclose. I hadn't paid that, Nora; I hadn't paid
a penny of it; and what with interest and compound interest, it mounted to
a good round sum. Dan charged me six per cent, on the money; but there,
you don't understand figures, child, and your pretty head shan't be
worried. Anyhow, I was to pay it all up within the three months—I,
who haven't even fifty pounds in the bank. It was a bit of a staggerer.”

“I understand,” said Nora; “and that was why you went the day before
yesterday to see Squire Murphy. Of course, he'll give you time; though,
now I come to think of it, he is very poor himself.”

“He is that,” said the Squire. “I don't blame him—not a bit.”

“But what will you do, father?”

“I must think. It is a bit of a blow, my child, and I don't quite see my
way. But I am sure to, before the time comes; and I have got three
months.”

“But won't he let you off, father? Must you really pay it in three
months?”

“God help me, Norrie! I can't, not just now; but I will before the time
comes.”

“But what did he say, father? I don't understand.”

“It's this, Nora. Ah, you have a wise little head on your shoulders, even
though you are an Irish colleen. He said that he had sold my mortgage to
another man, and had got money on it; and the other man—he is an
Englishman, curse him!—and he wants the place, Nora, and he'll take
it in lieu of the mortgage if I don't pay up in three months.”

“The place,” said Nora; “O'Shanaghgan—he wants O'Shanaghgan?”

“Yes, yes; that's it; he wants the land, and the old house.”

“But he can't,” said Nora. “You have not—oh! you have not mortgaged
the house?”

“Bless you, Nora! it is I that have done it; the house that you were born
in, and that my father, and father before him, and father before him
again, were born in, and that I was born in—it goes, and the land
goes, the lake yonder, all these fields, and the bit of the shore; all the
bonny place goes in three months if we cannot pay the mortgage. It goes
for an old song, and it breaks my heart, Nora.”

“I understand,” said Nora very gravely. She did not cry out; the tears
pressed close to the back of her eyes, and scalded her with cruel pain;
but she would not allow one of them to flow. She held her head very erect,
and the color returned to her pale cheeks, and a new light shone in her
dark-blue eyes.

“We'll manage somehow; we must,” she said.

“I was thinking of that,” said the Squire. “Of course we'll manage.” He
gave a great sigh, as if a load were lifted from his heart. “Of course
we'll manage,” he repeated; “and don't you tell your mother, for the life
of you, child.”

“Of course I will tell nothing until you give me leave. But how do you
mean to manage?”

“I am thinking of going up to Dublin next week to see one or two old
friends of mine; they are sure to help me at a pinch like this. They would
never see Patrick O'Shanaghgan deprived of his acres. They know me too
well; they know it would break my heart. I was thinking of going up next
week.”

“But why next week, father? You have only three months. Why do you put it
off to next week?”

“Why, then, you're right, colleen; but it's a job I don't fancy.”

“But you have got to do it, and you ought to do it at once.”

“To be sure—to be sure.”

“Take me with you, father; let us go tomorrow.”

“But I have not got money for us both. I must go alone; and then your
mother must not be left. There's Terence gallivanting off to England to
visit his fine relations, and that will take a good bit. I had to give him
ten pounds this morning, and there are only forty now left in the bank.
Oh, plenty to tide us for a bit. We shan't want to eat much; and there's a
good supply of fruit and vegetables on the land; and the poor folk will
wait for their wages. Of course there will be more rents coming in, and
we'll scrape along somehow. Don't you fret, colleen. I declare it's light
as a feather my heart is since I told you the truth. You are a comfort to
me, Norrie.”

“Father,” said Nora suddenly, “there's one thing I want to say.”

“What is that, pet?”

“You know Andy Neil?”

“What! Andrew Neil—that scoundrel?” The Squire's brow grew very
black. “Yes, yes. What about him? You have not seen him, have you?”

“Yes, father, I have.”

“Over at Murphy's? He knew he dare not show his face here. Well, what
about him, Nora?”

“This,” said Nora, trembling very much; “he—he does not want you to
evict him.”

“He'll pay his rent, or he'll go,” thundered the Squire. “No more of this
at present. I can't be worried.”

“But, oh, father! he—he can't pay it any more than you can pay the
mortgage. Don't be cruel to him if you want to be dealt with mercifully
yourself; it would be such bad luck.”

“Good gracious, Nora, are you demented? The man pays his rent, or he goes.
Not another word.”

“Father, dear father!”

“Not another word. Go in and see your mother, or she'll be wondering what
has happened to you. Yes, I'll go off to Dublin to-morrow. If Neil doesn't
pay up his rent in a week, off he goes; it's men like Andrew Neil who are
the scum of the earth. He has put my back up; and pay his rent he will, or
out he goes.”

CHAPTER IX. — EDUCATION AND OTHER THINGS.

The next day the Squire and Terence went off together. Mrs. O'Shanaghgan
was very angry with her husband for going, as she expressed it, to amuse
himself in Dublin. Dirty Dublin she was fond of calling the capital of
Ireland.

“What do you want to go to Dirty Dublin for?” she said. “You'll spend a
lot of money, and God knows we have little enough at the present moment.”

“Oh, no, I won't, Ellen,” he replied. “I'll be as careful as careful can
be; the colleen can witness to that. There's a little inn on the banks of
the Liffey where I'll put up; it is called the 'Green Dragon,' and it's a
cozy, snug little place, where you can have your potheen and nobody be any
the wiser.”

“I declare, Patrick,” said his lady, facing him, “you are becoming
downright vulgar. I wish you wouldn't talk in that way. If you have no
respect for yourself and your ancient family, you ought to remember your
daughter.”

“I'm sure I'm not doing the colleen any harm,” said the Squire.

“That you never could, father,” replied Nora, with a burst of enthusiasm.

Mrs. O'Shanaghgan surveyed her coldly.

“Go upstairs and help Terence to pack his things,” she said; and Nora left
the room.

The next day the travelers departed. As soon as they were gone Mrs.
O'Shanaghgan sent for Nora to come and sit in the room with her.

“I have been thinking during the night how terribly neglected you are,”
she said; “you are not getting the education which a girl in your position
ought to receive. You learn nothing now.”

“Oh, mother, my education is supposed to be finished,” answered Nora.

“Finished indeed!” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan.

“Since Miss Freeman left I have had no governess; but I read a good bit
alone. I am very fond of reading,” answered Nora.

“Distasteful as it all is to me,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan, “I must take you
in hand myself. But I do wish your Uncle George would invite you over to
stay with them at The Laurels. It will do Terence a wonderful lot of good;
but you want it more, you are so unkempt and undignified. You would be a
fairly nice-looking girl if any justice was done to you; but really the
other day, when I saw you with that terrible young person Bridget Murphy,
it gave my heart quite a pang. You scarcely looked a lady, you were
laughing in such a vulgar way, and quite forgetting your deportment. Now,
what I have been thinking is that we might spend some hours together
daily, and I would mark out a course of instruction for you.”

“Oh, mammy,” answered Nora, “I should be very glad indeed to learn; you
know I always hated having my education stopped, but father said—”

“I don't want to hear what your father said,” interrupted Mrs.
O'Shanaghgan.

“Oh, but, mother dear, I really must think of father, and I must respect
what he says. He told me that my grandmother stopped her schooling at
fourteen, and he said she was the grandest lady, and the finest and
bonniest, in the country, and that no one could ever put her to shame;
for, although she had not much learning to boast of, she had a smart
answer for every single thing that was said to her. He said you never
could catch her tripping in her words, never—never; and he thinks,
mother,” continued Nora, sparkling and blushing, “that I am a little like
my grandmother. There is her miniature upstairs. I should like to be like
her. Father did love her so very, very much.”

“Of course, Nora, if those are your tastes, I have nothing further to
say,” answered Mrs. O'Shanaghgan; “but while you are under my roof and
under my tuition, I shall insist on your doing a couple of hours' good
reading daily.”

“Very well, mother; I am quite agreeable.”

“I suppose you have quite forgotten your music?”

“No, I remember it, and I should like to play very much indeed; but the
old piano—you must know yourself, mother dear, that it is impossible
to get any music out of it.”

Mrs. O'Shanaghgan uttered a groan.

“We seem to be beset with difficulties at every step,” she said. “It is
such a mistake your father going to Dublin now, and throwing away his
little capital. Has he said anything to you about the mortgage, by the
way, Nora?”

Nora colored.

“A little,” she answered in a low voice.

“Ah, I see—told it as a secret; so like the Irish, making mysteries
about everything, and then blabbing them out the next minute. I don't
want, my dear, to encroach upon your father's secrets, so don't be at all
afraid. Now, bring down your Markham's History of England and Alison's
History of Europe, and I will set you a task to prepare for me for
to-morrow.”

Nora went slowly out of the room. She hated Markham's History of England.
She had read it five or six times, and knew it by heart. She detested
George and Richard and Mary, and their conversations with their mother
were simply loathsome to her. Alison's History, however, was tougher
metal, and she thought she would enjoy a good stiff reading of it. She was
a very intelligent girl, and with advantages would have done well.

She returned with the books. Her mother carelessly marked about twenty
pages in each, told her to read them in the course of the day, and to come
to her the next morning to be questioned.

“You can go now,” she said. “I was very busy yesterday, and have a
headache. I shall lie down and go to sleep.”

“Shall I draw down the blind, mother?”

“Yes, please; and you can put that rug over me. Now, don't run shouting
all over the house; try to remember you are a young lady. Really and
truly, no one would suppose that you and Terence were brother and sister.
He will do great credit to my brother George; he will be proud of such a
handsome young fellow as his nephew.”

Nora said nothing; having attended to her mother's comforts, she left the
room. She went out into the sunshine. In her hand she carried the two
books. Her first intention was to take them down to one end of the
dilapidated garden and read them steadily. She was rather pleased than
otherwise at her mother's sudden and unlooked-for solicitude with regard
to her education. She thought it would be pleasant to learn even under her
mother's rather peculiar method of tutelage; but, as she stood on the
terrace looking across the exquisite summer scene, two of the dogs, Creena
and Cushla, came into view. They rushed up to Nora with cries and barks of
welcome. Down went the books on the gravel, and off ran the Irish girl,
followed by the two barking dogs. A few moments later she was down on the
shore. She had run out without her hat or parasol. What did that matter?
The winds and sea-breezes had long ago taken their own sweet will on
Nora's Irish complexion; they could not tan skin like hers, and had given
up trying; they could only bring brighter roses into her cheeks and more
sweetness into her dark-blue eyes. She forgot her troubles, as most Irish
girls will when anything calls off their attention, and ran races with the
dogs up and down the shore. Nora was laughing, and the dogs were barking
and gamboling round her, when the stunted form of Hannah Croneen was seen
approaching. Hannah wore her bedgown and her short blue serge petticoat;
her legs and feet were bare; the breezes had caught up her short gray
locks, and were tossing them wildly about. She looked very elfin and queer
as she approached the girl.

“Why, then, Miss Nora, it's a word I want with you, a-colleen.”

“Yes—what is it, Hannah?” answered Nora. She dropped her hands to
her sides and turned her laughing, radiant face upon the little woman.

“Ah, then, it's a sight for sore eyes you are, Miss Nora. Why, it is a
beauty you are, Miss Nora honey, and hondsomer and hondsomer you gets
every time I see yez. It's the truth I'm a-telling yez, Miss Nora; it's
the honest truth.”

“I hope it is, Hannah, for it is very pleasant hearing,” answered Nora.
“Do I really get handsomer and handsomer? I must be a beauty like my
grandmother.”

“Ah, she was a lady to worship,” replied Hannah, dropping a courtesy to
the memory; “such ways as she had, and her eyes as blue and dark as the
blessed night when the moon's at the full, just for all the world like
your very own. Why, you're the mortal image of her; not a doubt of it,
miss, not a doubt of it. But there, I want to say a word to yez, and we
need not spend time talking about nothing but mere looks. Looks is
passing, miss; they goes by and leaves yez withered up, and there are
other things to think of this blessed morning.”

“To be sure,” answered Nora.

“And it's I that forgot to wish yez the top of the morning,” continued the
little woman. “I hear the masther and Masther Terry has gone to foreign
parts—is it true, miss?”

“It is not true of my father,” replied Nora; “he has only gone to Dublin.”

“Ah, bless him! he's one in a thousand, is the Squire,” said Hannah. “But
what about the young masther, him with the handsome face and the ways?—aye,
but he aint got your nice, bonny Irish ways, Miss Nora—no, that he
aint.”

“He has gone to England for a time to visit some of my mother's
relations,” replied Nora. “I am, sure it will do him a great deal of good,
and dear mother is so pleased. Now, then, Hannah, what is it?”

Hannah went close to the girl and touched her on her arm.

“What about your promise to Andy Neil?” she asked.

“My promise to Andy Neil,” said Nora, starting and turning pale. “How do
you know about it?”

“A little bird told me,” replied Hannah. “This is what it said: 'Find out
if Miss Nora, the bonniest and handsomest young lady in the place, has
kept her word to Andy.' Have you done it, Miss Nora? for it's word I have
got to take the crayther, and this very night, too.”

“Where?” said Nora. “Where are you going to meet him?”

“In the haunted glen, just by the Druid's Stone,” replied the woman.

“At what hour?”

“Tin o'clock, deary. Aw, glory be to God! it's just when the clock strikes
tin that he'll be waiting for me there.”

“I have no message,” said Nora.

“Are you sure, Miss Nora?”

“Quite sure.”

“When will you have?”

“Never.”

“Miss Nora, you don't mane it?”

“Yes, I do, Hannah. I have nothing to do with Andy Neil. I did what I
could for him, but that little failed. You can tell him that if you like.”

“But is it in earnest you are, Miss Nora? Do you mane to say that you'll
let the poor crayther have the roof taken off his cabin? Do you mane it
miss?”

“I wouldn't have the roof taken off his cabin,” said Nora; “but father is
away, and he is Andy's landlord, and Andy has done something to displease
him. He had better come and talk to father himself. I kept my word, and
spoke; but I couldn't do anything. Andy had better talk to father himself;
I can do no more.”

“You don't guess as it's black rage is in the crayther's heart, and that
there's no crime he wouldn't stoop to,” whispered Hannah in a low,
awestruck voice.

“I can't help it, Hannah; I am not going to be frightened. Andy would not
really injure me, not in cold blood.”

“Oh, wouldn't he just? The man's heart is hot within him; it's the thought
of the roof being taken off his cabin. I have come as his messenger. You
had best send some sort of message to keep him on the quiet for a bit.
Don't you send a hard message of that sort, heart asthore; you'll do a
sight of mischief if you do.”

“I can only send him a true message,” replied the girl.

“Whisht now, Miss Nora! You wouldn't come and see him yourself tonight by
the Druid's Stone?”

Nora stood for a moment considering. She was not frightened; she had never
known that quality. Even in the cave, when her danger was extreme, she had
not succumbed to fear; it was impossible for her to feel it now, with the
sunlight filling her eyes and the softest of summer breezes blowing
against her cheeks. She looked full at Hannah.

“I won't go,” she said shortly.

“Miss Nora, I wouldn't ask yez if I could help myself. It's bothered I am
entirely, and frightened too. You'll come with me, Miss Nora—won't
yez?”

“I will not come,” answered Nora. “My mother is alone, and I cannot leave
her; but I tell you what I will do. Just to show Andy that I am not afraid
of him, when father returns I will come. Father will be back in a couple
of days; when he returns I will speak to him once more about Andy, and I
will bring Andy the message; and that is all I can promise. If that is all
you want to say to me, Hannah, I will go home now, for mother is all
alone.”

Hannah stood with her little, squat figure silhouetted against the sky;
she had placed both her arms akimbo, and was gazing at Nora with a
half-comical, half-frightened glance.

“You're a beauty,” she said, “and you has the courage of ten women. I'll
tell Andy what you say; but, oh, glory! there's mischief in that man's
eyes, or I'm much mistook.”

“You can't frighten me,” said Nora, with a laugh. “How are the children?”

“Oh, bless yez, they're as well and bonny as can be. Little Mike, he said
he'd stand and wait till you passed by the gate, he's that took up with
you, Miss Nora. You'd be concaited if you heard all he says about you.”

Nora thrust her hand into her pocket.

“Here,” she said, “is a bright halfpenny; give it to Mike, and tell him
that Nora loves him very much. And now I am going home. Hannah, you'll
remember my message to Andy, and please let him understand that he is not
going to frighten me into doing anything I don't think right.”

CHAPTER X. — THE INVITATION.

Squire O'Shanaghgan came home in a couple of days. He entered the house in
noisy fashion, and appeared to be quite cheerful. He had a great deal to
say about Dublin, and talked much of his old friends during the evening
that followed. Nora, however, try as she would, could never meet his eye,
and she guessed, even before he told her, that his mission had been a
failure. It was early the next morning that he gave her this information.

“I tried them, one and all, colleen,” he said, “and never were fellows
more taken aback. 'Is it you to lose your property, O'Shanaghgan?' they
said. They wouldn't believe me at first.”

“Well, father, and will they help?” said Nora.

“Bless you, they would if they could. There's not a better-natured man in
the length and breadth of Ireland than Fin O'Hara; and as to John
Fitzgerald, I believe he would take us all into his barrack of a house;
but they can't help with money, Nora, because, bedad, they haven't got it.
A man can't turn stones into money, even for his best and dearest
friends.”

“Then what is to be done, father?”

“Oh, I'll manage somehow,” said Squire O'Shanaghgan; “and we have three
months all but a week to turn round in. We'll manage by hook or by crook.
Don't you fret your pretty little head. I wouldn't have a frown on the
brow of my colleen for fifty O'Shanaghgans, and that's plain enough. I
couldn't say more, could I?”

“No, father dear,” answered Nora a little sadly.

“And tell me what you were doing while I was away,” said the Squire.
“Faith! I thought I could never get back fast enough, I seemed to pine so
for you, colleen; you fit me down to the ground.”

Nora began to relate the small occurrences which had taken place. The
Squire laughed at Mrs. O'Shanaghgan's sudden desire that Nora should be an
educated lady.

“I don't hold with these new fashions about women,” he said; “and you are
educated enough for me.”

“But, father, I like to read, I like to learn,” said the girl. “I am very,
very anxious to improve myself. I may be good enough for you, dear father,
for you love me with all my faults; but some day I may pine for the
knowledge which I have not got.”

“Eh! is it that way with you?” said the Squire, looking at her anxiously.
“They say it's a sort of a craze now amongst women, the desire to beat us
men on our own ground; it's very queer, and I don't understand it, and I
am sorry if the craze has seized my girleen.”

“Oh! never mind, father dear; I wouldn't fret you for all the learning in
Christendom.”

“And I wouldn't fret you for fifty estates like O'Shanaghgan,” said the
Squire, “so it strikes me we are both pretty equal in our sentiments.” He
patted her cheek, she linked her hand in his, and they walked together
down one of the sunny meadows.

Nora thought of Neil, but determined not to trouble her father about him
just then. Notwithstanding her cheerfulness, her own heart was very heavy.
She possessed, with all her Irish ways, some of the common sense of her
English ancestors, and knew from past experience that now there was no
hope at all of saving the old acres and the old house unless something
very unexpected turned up. She understood her father's character too well;
he would be happy and contented until a week before the three months were
up, and then he would break down utterly—go under, perhaps, forever.
As to turning his back on the home of his ancestors and the acres which
had come to him through a long line, Nora could not face such a
possibility.

“It cannot be; something must happen to prevent it,” she thought.

She thought and thought, and suddenly a daring idea came into her mind.
All her life long her mother's relations had been brought up to her as the
pink of propriety, the souls of wealth. Her uncle, George Hartrick, was,
according to her mother, a wealthy man. Her mother had often described
him. She had said that he had been very angry with her for marrying the
Squire, but had confessed that at times he had been heard to say that the
O'Shanaghgans were the proudest and oldest family in County Kerry, and
that some day he would visit them on their own estate.

“I have prevented his ever coming, Nora,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan; “it
would be such a shock to him. He thinks we live in a castle such as
English people live in, with suites of magnificent rooms, and crowds and
crowds of respectably dressed servants, and that we have carriages and
horses. I have kept up this delusion; he must never come over to see the
nakedness of the land.”

But now the fact that her Uncle George had never seen the nakedness of the
land, and that he was attached to her mother, and proud of the fact that
she had married an Irish gentleman of old descent, kept visiting Nora
again and again. If she could only see him! If she could only beg of him
to lend her father a little money just to avert the crowning disgrace of
all—the O'Shanaghgans leaving their home because they could not
afford to stop there, Nora thought, and the wild idea which had crept into
her head gathered strength.

“There is nothing for it; something desperate must be done,” she thought.
“Father won't save himself, because he does not know how. He will just
drift on until a week of the fatal day, and then he will have an illness.
I cannot let father die; I cannot let his heart be broken. I, Nora, will
do something.”

So one day she locked herself in her room. She stayed there for a couple
of hours, and when she came out again a letter was thrust into her pocket.
Nora was not a good letter-writer, and this one had taken nearly two hours
to produce. Tears had blotted its pages, and the paper on which it was
written was of the poorest, but it was done at last. She put a stamp on it
and ran downstairs. She went to Hannah's cabin. Standing in front of the
cabin was her small admirer Mike. He was standing on his head with the
full blaze of the sunlight all over him, his ragged trousers had slipped
down almost to his knees, and his little brown bare legs and feet were
twinkling in the sun. His bright sloe-black eyes were fixed on Nora as she
approached.

“Come here, Mike,” said the girl. Mike instantly obeyed, and gave a
violent tug to one of his front locks by way of salutation. He then stood
with his legs slightly apart, watching Nora.

“Mike, I want you to go a message for me.”

“To be sure, miss,” answered Mike.

“Take this letter to the post-office; put it yourself into the little slit
in the wall. I will give you a penny when you have done it.”

“Yes, miss,” answered Mike.

“Here is the letter; thrust it into your pocket. Don't let anyone see it;
it's a secret.”

“A saycret, to be sure, miss,” answered Mike.

“And you shall have your penny if you come up to the Castle tonight. Now
good-by; run off at once and you will catch the mail.”

“Yes, to be sure,” said Mike. He winked at Nora, rolled his tongue in his
cheek, and disappeared like a flash down the dusty road.

The next few days seemed to drag themselves somehow. Nora felt limp, and
not in her usual spirits. The Squire was absent a good deal, too. He was
riding all over the country trying to get a loan from his different
friends. He was visiting one house after another. Some of the houses were
neat and well-to-do, but most of them sadly required funds to put them in
order. At every house Squire O'Shanaghgan received a hearty welcome, an
invitation to dinner, and a bed for the night; but when he made his
request the honest face that looked into his became sorrowful, the hands
stole to the empty pockets, and refusals, accompanied by copious
apologies, were the invariable result.

“There's no one in all the world I would help sooner, Pat, if I could,”
said Squire O'Grady; “but I have not got it, my man. I am as hard pressed
as I can be myself. We don't get in the rents these times. Times are bad—very
bad. God help us all! But if you are turned out, what an awful thing it
will be! And your family the oldest in the place. You're welcome, every
one of you, to come here. As long as I have a bite and sup, you and yours
shall share it with me.” And Squire Malone said the same thing, and so did
the other squires. There was no lack of hospitality, no lack of good will,
no lack of sorrow for poor Squire O'Shanaghgan's calamities; but funds to
avert the blow were not forthcoming.

The Squire more and more avoided Nora's eyes; and Nora, who now had a
secret of her own, and a hope which she would scarcely dare to confess
even to herself, avoided looking at him.

Mrs. O'Shanaghgan was a little more fretful than usual. She forgot all
about the lessons she had set her daughter in her laments over her absent
son, over the tattered and disgraceful state of the Castle, and the ruin
which seemed to engulf the family more and more.

Nora, meanwhile, was counting the days. She had made herself quite au
fait with postal regulations during these hours of waiting. She knew
exactly the very time when the letter would reach Mr. Hartrick in his
luxurious home. She thought she would give him, perhaps, twelve hours,
perhaps twenty-four, before he replied. She knew, then, how long the
answer would take on its way. The night before she expected her letter she
scarcely slept at all. She came down to breakfast with black shadows under
her eyes and her face quite wan.

The Squire, busy with his own load of trouble, scarcely noticed her. Mrs.
O'Shanaghgan took her place languidly at the head of the board. She poured
out a cup of tea for her daughter and another for her husband.

“I must send to Dublin for some better tea,” she said, looking at the
Squire. “Can you let me have a pound after breakfast, Pat? I may as well
order a small chest while I am about it.”

The Squire looked at her with lack-luster eyes. Where had he got one pound
for tea? But he said nothing.

Just then the gossoon Mike was seen passing the window with the post-bag
hung over his shoulder. Mike was the postman in general for the
O'Shanaghgan household for the large sum of twopence a week. He went daily
to fetch the letters, and received his money proudly each Saturday night.
Nora now jumped up from the table.

“The letters!” she gasped.

Mrs. O'Shanaghgan surveyed her daughter critically.

“Sit down again, Nora,” she said. “What is the matter with you? You know I
don't allow these manners at table.”

“But it is the post, mammy,” said the girl.

“Well, my dear, if you will be patient, Margaret will bring the post in.”

Nora sat down again, trembling. Mrs. O'Shanaghgan gave her a cold stare,
and helped herself languidly to a small snippet of leathery toast.

“Our cook gets worse and worse,” she said as she broke it. “Dear, dear! I
think I must make a change. I have heard of an excellent cook just about
to leave some people of the name of Wilson in the town. They are English
people, which accounts for their having a good servant.”

At that moment the redoubtable Pegeen did thrust in her head, holding the
post-bag at arm's length away from her.

“Here's the post, Miss Nora,” she said; “maybe you'll fetch it, miss. I'm
a bit dirty.”

Nora could not restrain herself another moment. She rushed across the
room, seized the bag, and laid it by her father's side. As a rule, the
post-bag was quickly opened, and its small contents dispersed. These
consisted of the local paper for the Squire, which was always put up with
the letters, a circular or two, and, at long intervals, a letter for Mrs.
O'Shanaghgan, and perhaps one from an absent friend for the Squire. No one
was excited, as a rule, about the post at the Castle, and Nora's
ill-suppressed anxiety was sufficiently marked now to make even her father
look at her in some surprise. To the girl's relief, her mother
unexpectedly came to the rescue.

“She thinks, perhaps, Terence will write,” she said; “but I told him not
to worry himself writing too often. Stamps cost money, and the boy will
need every penny to keep up a decent appearance at my brother's.”

“All the same, perhaps he will be an Irish boy enough to write a letter to
his own sister,” said the Squire. “So here goes; we'll look and see if
there is anything inside here for you, my little Norrie.”

The Squire unlocked the bag and emptied the contents on the table. They
were very meager contents; nothing but the newspaper and one letter. The
Squire took it up and looked at it.

“Here we are,” he said; “it is for you, my dear.”

“For me,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan, holding out her hand. “Pass it across,
Nora.”

“No, it is not for you, my lady, as it happens. It is for Nora. Here,
Norrie, take it.”

Nora took it up. She was shivering now, and her hand could scarcely hold
it. It was addressed to her, beyond doubt: “Miss O'Shanaghgan, Castle
O'Shanaghgan,” etc.

“Read it at once, Nora,” said her mother. “I have not yet had any letter
to speak of from Terry myself. If you read it aloud it will entertain us.
It seems to be a thick letter.”

“I don't think—I don't think it—it is from Terence,” answered
Nora.

“Nonsense, my dear.”

“Open it, Norrie, and tell us,” said the Squire. “It will be refreshing to
hear a bit of outside news.”

Nora now opened the envelope, and took a very thick sheet of paper out.
The contents of the letter ran as follows:

“My Dear Nora—Your brother Terence came here a week ago, and has
told us a great deal about you. We are enjoying having him extremely; but
he has made us all anxious to know you also. I write now to ask if you
will come and pay us a visit at once, while your brother is here. Ask your
mother to spare you. You can return with Terence whenever you are tired of
us and our ways. I have business at Holyhead next Tuesday, and could meet
you there, if you could make it convenient to cross that day. I inclose a
paper with the hours that the boats leave, and when they arrive at
Holyhead. I could then take you up with me to London, and we could reach
here that same evening. Ask my sister to spare you. You will be heartily
welcome, my little Irish niece.—Your affectionate uncle,

“George Hartrick.”

Nora could scarcely read the words aloud. When she had finished she let
the sheet of paper flutter to the floor, and looked at her mother with
glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes.

“I may go? I must go,” she said.

“My dear Nora,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan, “why that must?”

“Oh, mammy! oh, daddy! don't disappoint me,” cried the girl. “Do—do
let me go, please, please.”

“Nora,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan again, “I never saw you so unreasonable in
your life; you are quite carried away. Your uncle, after long years, has
condescended to send you an invitation, and you speak in this impulsive,
unrestrained fashion. Of course, it would be extremely nice for you to go;
but I doubt for a single moment if it can be afforded.”

“Oh, daddy, daddy! please take my part!” cried Nora. “Please let me go,
daddy—oh, daddy!” She rushed up to her father, flung her arms round
his neck, and burst into tears.

Mrs. O'Shanaghgan rose from the table in cold displeasure. “Give me your
uncle's letter,” she said.

Nora did not glance at her; she was past speaking. So much hung on this;
all the future of the O'Shanaghgans; the Castle, the old Castle, the home
of her ancestors, the place in which she was born, the land she loved, the
father she adored—all, all their future hung upon Nora's accepting
the invitation which she had asked her uncle to give her. Oh! if they ever
found out, what would her father and mother say? Would they ever speak to
her again? But they must not find out, and she must go; yes, she must go.

“What is it, Nora? Do leave her alone for a moment, wife,” said the
Squire. “There is something behind all this. I never saw Light o' the
Morning give way to pure selfishness before.”

“It isn't—it isn't,” sobbed Nora, her head buried on the Squire's
shoulder.

“My darling, light of my eyes, colleen asthore, acushla machree!” said the
Squire. He lavished fond epithets upon the girl, and finally took her into
his arms, and clasped her tight to his breast.

Mrs. O'Shanaghgan, after staring at the two in speechless indignation for
a moment, left the room. When she reached the door she turned round.

“I cannot stand Irish heroics,” she said. “This is a disgraceful scene.
Nora, I am thoroughly ashamed of you.”

She carried her brother's letter away with her, however, and retired into
the drawing room. There she read it carefully.

How nice it would be if Nora could go! And Nora was a beauty, too—an
Irish beauty; the sort of girl who always goes down in England. She would
want respectable dress; and then—with her taking ways and those
roguish, dark-blue eyes of hers, with that bewitching smile which showed a
gleam of the whitest and most pearly teeth in the world, with the light,
lissome figure, and the blue-black hair—what could not Irish Nora
achieve? Conquests innumerable; she might make a match worthy of her race
and name; she might—oh, she might do anything. She was only a child,
it is true; but all the same she was a budding woman.

Mrs. O'Shanaghgan sat and pondered.

“It seems a great pity to refuse,” she said to herself. “And Nora does
need discipline badly; the discipline of England and my brother's
well-ordered home will work wonders with her. Poor child, her father will
miss her. I really sometimes think the Squire is getting into his dotage.
He makes a perfect fool of that girl; to see her there speaking in that
selfish way, and he petting her, and calling her ridiculous names, with no
meaning in them, and folding her in his arms as if she were a baby, and
all for pure, downright selfishness, is enough to make any sensible person
sick. Nora, too, who has always been spoken of as the unselfish member of
the family, who would not spend a penny to save her life if she thought
the Squire was going to suffer. Now she wants him to put his hand into his
pocket for a considerable amount; for the child cannot go to my brother
without suitable clothes—that is a foregone conclusion. But, dear
me! all women are selfish when it comes to mere pleasure, and Nora is no
better than the rest. For my part, I admire dear Terence's downright
method of asking for so-and-so, and getting it. Nora is deceitful. I am
much disappointed in her.”

CHAPTER XI. — THE DIAMOND CROSS.

But although Mrs. O'Shanaghgan spoke of her daughter to herself as
deceitful, she did not at all give up the idea of her accepting her
uncle's invitation. George Hartrick had always had an immense influence
over his sister Ellen. He and she had been great friends long ago, when
the handsome, bright girl had been glad to take the advice of her elder
brother. They had almost quarreled at that brief period of madness in
Ellen Hartrick's life, when she had fallen in love with handsome Squire
O'Shanaghgan; but that quarrel had long been made up. Mrs. O'Shanaghgan
had married the owner of O'Shanaghgan Castle, and had rued her brief
madness ever since. But her pride had prevented her complaining to her
brother George. George still imagined that she kept her passionate love
intact for the wild Irishman. Only one thing she had managed ever since
their parting, many years ago, and that was, that her English brother
should not come to see her in her Irish home. One excuse after the other
she had offered, and at last she had told him frankly that the ways of the
Irish were not his ways; and that, when he really wanted to see his
sister, he must invite her to come to England to visit him.

Hartrick was hurt at Ellen's behavior, and as he himself had married about
the same time, and his own young family were growing up around him, and
the making of money and the toil of riches were claiming him more and
more, he did not often think of the sister who was away in the wilds of
Ireland. She had married one of the proud old Irish chiefs. She had a very
good position in her way; and when her son and daughter required a little
peep into the world, Hartrick resolved that they should have it. He had
invited Terence over; and now Nora's letter, with its perplexity, its
anguish, its bold request, and its final tenderness, had come upon him
with a shock of surprise.

George Hartrick was a much stronger character than his sister. He was a
very fine man, indeed, with splendid principles and downright ways; and
there was something about this outspoken and queer letter which touched
him in spite of himself. He was not easily touched; but he respected the
writer of that letter. He felt that if he knew her he could get on with
her. He resolved to treat her confidence with the respect it seemed to him
it deserved; and, without hesitation, he wrote her the sort of letter she
had asked him to write. She should pay him a visit, and he would find out
for himself the true state of things at Castle O'Shanaghgan. Whether he
would help the Squire or not, whether there was any need to help him, he
could not say, for Nora had not really revealed much of the truth in her
passionate letter. She had hinted at it, but she had not spoken; she would
wait for that moment of outpouring of her heart until she arrived at The
Laurels.

Now, Mrs. O'Shanaghgan, standing alone in her big, empty drawing room, and
looking out at the summer landscape, thought of how Nora might enter her
brother's house. Fond as Mrs. O'Shanaghgan was of Terence—he was in
truth a son after her own heart—she had a queer kind of pride about
her with regard to Nora. Wild and untutored as Nora looked, her mother
knew that few girls in England could hold a candle to her, if justice were
done her. There was something about the expression in Nora's eyes which
even Mrs. O'Shanaghgan could scarcely resist at times, and there were
tones and inflections of entreaty in Nora's voice which had a strange
power of melting the hearts of those who listened to her.

After about an hour Mrs. O'Shanaghgan went very slowly upstairs. Her
bedroom was over the drawing room. It was just as large as the drawing
room—a great bare apartment. The carpet which covered the floor was
so threadbare that the boards showed through in places; the old, faded
chintz curtains which hung at the windows were also in tatters; but they
were perfectly clean, for Mrs. O'Shanaghgan did her best to retain that
English cleanliness and order which she felt were so needed in the land of
desolation, as she was pleased to call Ireland.

A huge four-post bedstead occupied a prominent place against one of the
walls; there was an enormous mahogany wardrobe against another; but the
whole center of the room was bare. The dressing-table, however, which
stood right in the center of the huge bay, was full of pretty things—silver
appointments of different kinds, brushes and combs heavily mounted in
silver, glass bottles with silver stoppers, perfume bottles, pretty
knick-knacks of all sorts. When Nora was a little child she used to stand
fascinated, gazing at her mother's dressing-table. It was the one spot
where any of the richness of the Englishwoman's early life could still be
found. Mrs. O'Shanaghgan went up now and looked at her dressing-table,
sweeping her eyes rapidly over its contents. The brushes and combs, the
bottles of scent, the button-hooks, the shoe-horns, the thousand-and-one
little nothings, polished and bright, stood upon the dressing-table; and
besides these there was a large, silver-mounted jewel-case.

Mrs. O'Shanaghgan was not at all afraid to leave this jewel-case out,
exposed to view day after day, for no one all round the place would have
touched so much as a pin which belonged to the Squire's lady. The people
were poor, and would think nothing of stealing half a bag of potatoes, or
helping themselves to a good sack of fruit out of the orchard; but to take
the things from the lady's bedroom or anything at all out of the house
they would have scorned. They had their own honesty, and they loved the
Squire too much to attempt anything of the sort.

Mrs. O'Shanaghgan now put a key into the lock of the jewel-case and opened
it. When first she was married it was full of pretty things—long
strings of pearls, a necklet of very valuable diamonds, a tiara of the
same, rings innumerable, bracelets, head ornaments of different kinds,
buckles for shoes, clasps for belts, pins, brooches. Mrs. O'Shanaghan,
when Nora was a tiny child, used on every one of the little girl's
birthdays to allow her to overhaul the jewel case; but of late years Nora
had never looked inside it, and Mrs. O'Shanaghgan had religiously kept it
locked. She opened it now with a sigh. The upper tray was quite empty; the
diamonds had long ago been disposed of. They had gone to pay for Terence's
schooling, for Terence's clothes, for one thing and another that required
money. They had gone, oh! so quickly; had melted away so certainly. That
first visit of her son's to England had cost Mrs. O'Shanaghgan her long
string of pearls, which had come to her as an heirloom from her mother
before her. They were very valuable pearls, and she had sold them for a
tenth, a twentieth part of their value. The jeweler in Dublin, who was
quite accustomed to receiving the poor lady's trinkets, had sent her a
check for fifty pounds for the pearls, knowing well that he could sell
them himself for at least three hundred pounds.

Mrs. O'Shanaghgan now once more rifled the jewel case. There were some
things still left—two or three rings and a diamond cross. She had
never wanted to part with that cross. She had pictured over and over how
it would shine on Nora's white neck; how lovely Nora would look when
dressed for her first ball, having that white Irish cross, with its
diamonds and its single emerald in the center, shining on her breast. But
would it not be better to give Nora the chance of spending three or four
months in England, the chance of educating herself, and let the cross go
by? It was so valuable that the good lady quite thought that she ought to
get seventy pounds for it. With seventy pounds she could fit Nora up for
her English visit, and have a little over to keep in her own pocket. Only
Nora must not go next Tuesday; that was quite impossible.

Mrs. O'Shanaghgan quickly determined to make the sacrifice. She could
still supply Nora with a little, very simple pearl necklet, to wear with
her white dress during her visit; and the cross would have to go. There
would be a few rings still left; after that the jewel case would be empty.

Mrs. O'Shanaghgan packed the precious cross into a little box, and took it
out herself to register it, and to send it off to the jeweler who always
bought the trinkets she sent him. She told him that she expected him to
give her, without the smallest demur, seventy pounds for the cross, and
hoped to have the money by the next day's post.

Having done this and dispatched her letter, she walked briskly back to the
Castle. She saw Nora wandering about in the avenue. Nora, hatless and
gloveless, was playing with the dogs. She seemed to have forgotten all
about her keen disappointment of the morning. When she saw her mother
coming up the avenue she ran to meet her.

“Why, mammy,” she said, “how early you are out! Where have you been?”

“I dislike extremely that habit you have, Nora, of calling me mammy;
mother is the word you should address your parent with. Please remember in
future that I wish to be called mother.”

“Oh, yes, mother!” answered Nora. The girl had the sweetest temper in the
world, and no amount of reproof ever caused her to answer angrily. “But
where have you been?” she said, her curiosity getting the better of her
prudence.

“Again, Nora, I am sorry to say I must reprove you. I have been to the
village on business of my own. It is scarcely your affair where I choose
to walk in the morning.”

“Oh, of course not, mam—I mean mother.”

“But come with me down this walk. I have something to say to you.”

Nora eagerly complied. There was something in the look of her mother's
eyes which made her guess that the usual subject of conversation—her
own want of deportment, her ignorance of etiquette—was not to be the
theme. She felt her heart, which had sunk like lead within her, rise again
to the surface. Her eyes sparkled and smiles played round her rosy lips.

“Yes, mother,” she said; “yes.”

“All impulse,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan—she laid her hand on Nora's
arm—“all impulse, all Irish enthusiasm.”

“I cannot help it, you know,” said Nora. “I was born that way. I am Irish,
you know, mammy.”

“You are also English, my dear,” replied her mother. “Pray remember that
fact when you see your cousins.”

“My cousins! My English cousins! But am I to see them? Mother, mother, do
you mean it?”

“I do mean it, Nora. I intend you to accept your uncle's invitation. No
heroics, please,” as the girl was about to fling her arms round her
mother's neck; “keep those for your father, Nora; I do not wish for them.
I intend you to go and behave properly; pray remember that when you give
way to pure Irishism, as I may express your most peculiar manners, you
disgrace me, your mother. I mean you to go in order to have you tamed a
little. You are absolutely untamed now, unbroken in.”

“I never want to be broken in,” whispered Nora, tears of mingled
excitement and pain at her mother's words brimming to her eyes. “Oh,
mother!” she said, with a sudden wail, “will you never, never understand
Nora?”

“I understand her quite well,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan, her voice assuming
an unwonted note of softness; “and because I do understand Nora so well,”
she added—and now she patted the girl's slender arm—“I want
her to have this great advantage, for there is much that is good in you,
Nora. But you are undisciplined, my dear; wild, unkempt. Little did I
think in the old days that a daughter of mine should have to have such
things said to her. Our more stately, more sober ways will be a revelation
to you, Nora. To your brother Terence they will come as second nature; but
you, my dear, will have to be warned beforehand. I warn you now that your
Uncle George will not understand the wild excitement which you seem to
consider the height of good breeding at O'Shanaghgan.”

“Mother, mother,” said Nora, “don't say anything against O'Shanaghgan.”

“Am I doing so?” said the poor lady. She stood for a moment and looked
around her. Nora stopped also and when she saw her mother's eyes travel to
the rambling old house, to the neglected lawn, the avenue overgrown with
weeds, it seemed to her that a stab of the cruelest pain was penetrating
her heart.

“Mother sees all the ugliness; she is determined to,” thought Nora; “but I
see all the beauty. Oh! the dear, dear old place, it shan't go if Nora can
save it.” Then, with a great effort, she controlled herself.

“How am I to go?” she said. “Where is the money to come from?”

“You need not question me on that point,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan. “I will
provide the means.”

“Oh, mother!” said Nora; “no, I would rather stay.” But then she
remembered all that this involved; she knew quite well that her mother had
rifled the jewel-case; but as she had done so over and over again just for
Terence's mere pleasure, might she not do so once more to save the old
place?

“Very well,” she said demurely; “I won't ask any questions.”

“You had better not, for I have not the slightest idea of replying to
them,” answered Mrs. O'Shanaghgan. “I shall write to your uncle to-day.
You cannot go next week, however.”

“Oh! why not? He said Tuesday; he would meet me at Holyhead on Tuesday.”

“I will try and provide a fit escort for you to England; But you cannot go
next Tuesday; your wardrobe forbids it,” answered Mrs. O'Shanaghgan.

“My wardrobe! Oh, mother, I really need not bother about clothes!”

“You may not bother about them, Nora; but I intend to,” replied Mrs.
O'Shanaghgan. “I must buy you some suitable dress.”

“But how will you do it?”

“I have not been away from Castle O'Shanaghgan for a long time,” said Mrs.
O'Shanaghgan, “and it will be a nice change for me. I shall take you to
Dublin, and get you what things are necessary. I will then see you off on
board the steamer.”

“But would not father be best?”

“Your father can come with us or not, just as he pleases; but I am the
person who will see to your wardrobe for your English visit,” replied her
mother.

Nora, excited, bewildered, charmed, had little or nothing to oppose to
this plan. After all, her mother was coming out in a new light. How
indifferent she had been about Nora's dress in the past! For Terence were
the fashionable coats and the immaculate neckties and the nice gloves and
the patent-leather boots. For Nora! Now and then an old dress of her
mother's was cut down to fit the girl; but as a rule she wore anything she
could lay hands on, made anyhow. It is true she was never grotesque like
Biddy Murphy; but up to the present dress had scarcely entered at all as a
factor into her life.

The next few days passed in a whirl of bewildered excitement. Mrs.
O'Shanaghgan received, as she expected, by return of post, seventy pounds
from the Dublin jeweler for her lovely diamond cross. This man was rapidly
making his fortune out of poor Mrs. O'Shanaghgan, and he knew that he had
secured a splendid bargain for himself when he bought the cross.

Mrs. O'Shanaghgan, therefore, with a full purse, could give directions to
her household during her brief absence, and altogether was much brightened
and excited at the thought of Nora's visit. She had written herself to her
brother, saying that she would be very glad to spare her daughter, and
giving him one or two hints with regard to Nora's manners and bringing up.

“The Irish have quite different ideas, my dear brother,” she wrote, “with
regard to etiquette to those which were instilled into us; but you will
bear patiently with my little wild Irish girl, for she has a very true
heart, and is also, I think you will admit, nice-looking.”

Mr. Hartrick, who read between the lines of his sister's letter, wrote to
say that business would bring him to Holyhead on the following Tuesday
week also, and, therefore, it would be quite convenient for him to meet
Nora on that day.

The evening before she was to depart arrived at last. The Squire had spent
a busy day. From the moment when Nora had told him that her mother had
provided funds, and that she was to go to England, he had scarcely
reverted to the matter. In truth, with that curious Irish phase in his
character which is more or less the inheritance of every member of his
country, he contrived to put away the disagreeable subject even from his
thoughts. He was busy, very busy, attending to his farm and riding round
his establishment. He was still hoping against hope that some money would
come in his way long before the three months were up, when the mortgagee
would foreclose on his property. He was not at all unhappy, and used to
enter his house singing lustily or whistling loudly. Nora sometimes
wondered if he also forgot how soon she was going to leave him. His first
call when he entered the house had always been “Light o' the Morning,
where are you? Come here, asthore; the old dad has returned,” or some such
expression. It came to the excited girl's heart with a pang how he would
miss her when she was no longer there; how he would call for her in vain,
and feel bewildered for a moment, and then remember that she was far away.

“But I shan't be long away,” she thought; “and when I come back and save
him and the old place, oh, how glad he will be! He will indeed then think
me his Light o' the Morning, for I shall have saved him and the old home.”

But the last evening came, and Nora considered whether she ought to recall
the fact that she was going away, perhaps for a couple of months, to her
father. He came in as usual, sat down heavily on the nearest settee, and
stretched out his long legs.

“I wonder if I am getting old?” he said. “I declare I feel a bit tired.
Come along here, Nora, and cheer me up. What news have you this evening,
little woman?”

“Oh, father! don't you know?”

“Well, your eyes look bright enough. What is it, girleen?”

“I am going away to Dublin to-morrow.”

“You? Bless you! so you are,” said the Squire, with a hearty laugh. “Upon
my soul I forgot all about it. Well, and you are going to have a good
time, and you'll forget the old dad—eh?—you'll forget all
about the old dad?”

“Father, father, you know better,” said Nora—she flung her arms
round his neck and laid her soft cheek against his—“as if I could
ever forget you for a single moment,” she said.

“I know it, a-colleen; I know it, heart's asthore. Of course you won't. I
am right glad you are going; it will be a nice change for you. And what
about the bits of duds—eh?—and the pretty trinkets? Why,
you'll be going into grand society; you'll be holding your little head
like a queen. Don't you forget, my pet, that you're Irish through and
through, and that you come of a long line of brave ancestors. The women of
your house never stooped to a shabby action, Nora; and never one of them
sacrificed her honor for gold or anything else; and the men were brave,
girleen, very brave, and had never fear in one of them. You remember that,
and keep yourself upright and brave and proud, and come back to the old
dad with as pure and loving a heart as you have now.”

“Oh, father, of course, of course. But you will miss me? you will miss
me?”

“Bedad! I expect I shall,” said the Squire; “but I am not going to fret,
so don't you imagine it.”

“Have you,” said Nora in a low whisper—“have you done anything
about-about the mortgage?”

“Oh, you be aisy,” said the Squire, giving her a playful poke; “and if you
can't be aisy, be as aisy as you can,” he continued, referring to the old
well-known saying. “Things will come right enough. Why, the matter is
weeks off yet. It was only yesterday I heard from an old friend, Larry
M'Dermott, who has been in Australia, and has made a fine pile. He is back
again, and I am thinking of seeing him and settling up matters with him.
Don't you have an uneasy thought in your head, my child. I'll write to you
when the thing is fixed up, as fixed it will be by all that's likely in a
week or fortnight from now. But look here, Norrie, you'll want something
to keep in your pocket when you are away. I had best give you a five-pound
note.”

“No, no,” said Nora. “I wouldn't touch it; I don't want it.”

“Why not? Is it too proud you are?”

“No; mother is helping me to this visit. I don't know how she has got
money. I suppose in the old way.”

“Poor soul!” said the Squire. “To tell you the truth, Norrie, I can't bear
to look at that jewel-case of hers. I believe, upon my word, that it is
nearly empty. She is very generous, is your mother. She's a very fine
woman, and I am desperate proud of her. When M'Dermott helps me to tide
over this pinch I'll have all those jewels back again by hook or by crook.
Your mother shan't suffer in the long run, and I'll do a lot to the old
place—the old house wants papering and painting. We'll dance a merry
jig at O'Shanaghgan at your wedding, my little girl; and now don't keep
me, for I have got to go out to meet Murphy. He said he would look around
about this hour.”

Nora left her father, and wandered out into the soft summer gloaming. She
went down the avenue, and leaned for a time over the gate. The white gate
was sadly in need of paint, but it was not hanging off its hinges as the
gate was which led to the estate of Cronane. Nora put her feet on the last
rung, leaned her arms on the top one, and swayed softly, as she thought of
all that was about to happen, and the glorious adventures which would in
all probability be hers during the next few weeks. As she thought, and
forgot herself in dreams of the future, a low voice calling her name
caused her to start. A man with shaggy hair and wild, bright eyes had come
up to the other side of the gate.

“Why, then, Miss Nora, how are ye this evening?” he said. He pulled his
forelock as he spoke.

Nora felt a sudden coldness come over all her rosy dreams; but she was too
Irish and too like her ancestors to feel any fear, although she could not
help remembering that she was nearly half a mile away from the house, and
that there was not a soul anywhere within call.

“Good-evening, Andy,” she said. “I must be going home now.”

“No, you won't just yet,” he answered. He came up and laid his dirty hand
on her white sleeve.

“No, don't touch me,” said Nora proudly. She sprang off the gate, and
stood a foot or two away. “Don't come in,” she continued; “stay where you
are. If you have anything to say, say it there.”

“Bedad! it's a fine young lady that it is,” said the man. “It aint
afeared, is it?”

“Afraid!” said Nora. “What do you take me for?”

“Sure, then, I take yez for what you are,” said the man—“as fine and
purty a slip of a girleen as ever dwelt in the old Castle; but be yez
twice as purty, and be yez twice as fine, Andy Neil is not the man to
forget his word, his sworn word, his oath taken to the powers above and
the powers below, that if his bit of a roof is taken off his head, why,
them as does it shall suffer. It's for you to know that, Miss Nora. I
would have drowned yez in the deep pool and nobody would ever be the
wiser, but I thought better of that; and I could here—yes, even now—I
could choke yez round your pretty soft neck and nobody would be any the
wiser, and I'd think no more of it than I'd think of crushing a fly. I
won't do it; no I won't, Miss Nora; but there's thim as will have
to suffer if Andy Neil is turned out of his hut. You spake for me, Miss
Nora; you spake up for me, girleen. Why, the Squire, you're the light of
his eyes; you spake up, and say, 'Lave poor Andy in his little hut; lave
poor Andy with a roof over him. Don't mind the bit of a rint.' Why, then,
Miss Nora, how can I pay the rint? Look at my arrum, dear.” As the man
spoke he thrust out his arm, pushing up his ragged shirt sleeve. The arm
was almost like that of a skeleton's; the skin was starting over the
bones.

“Oh, it is dreadful!” said Nora, all the pity in her heart welling up into
her eyes. “I am truly, truly sorry for you, Andy, I would do anything in
my power. It is just this: you know father?”

“Squire? Yes, I guess I know Squire,” said the man.

“You know,” continued Nora, “that when he takes what you might call the
bit between his teeth nothing will move him. He is set against you, Andy.
Oh, Andy! I don't believe he will listen.”

“He had betther,” said the man, his voice dropping to a low growl; “he had
betther, and I say so plain. There's that in me would stick at nothing,
and you had best know it, Miss Nora.”

“Can you not go away, Andy?”

“I—and what for?”

“But can you?”

“I could, but I won't.”

“I don't believe father will yield. I will send you some money from
England if you will promise to go away.”

“Aye; but I don't want it. I want to stay on. Where would my old bones lie
when I died if I am not in my own counthry? I'm not going to leave my
counthry for nobody. The cot where I was born shall see me die; and if the
roof is took off, why, I'll put it back again. I'll defy him and his
new-fangled ways and his English wife to the death. You'll see mischief if
you don't put things right, Miss Nora. It all rests with yez, alannah.”

“I am awfully sorry for you, Andy; but I don't believe you would seriously
injure father, for you know what the consequences would be.”

“Aye; but when a man like me is sore put to it he don't think of
consequences. It's just the burning wish to avenge his wrongs; that's what
he feels, and that's what I feel, Miss Nora, and so you had best take
warning.”

“Well, I am going away to-morrow,” said the girl. “My father is in great
trouble, and wants money very badly himself, and I am going to England.”

“To be out of the way when the ruin comes. I know,” said the man, with a
loud laugh.

“No; you are utterly mistaken. Andy, don't you remember when I was a
little girl how you used to let me ride on your shoulder, and once you
asked me for a tiny bit of my hair, that time when it was all in curls,
and I gave you just the end of one of my curls, and you said you would
keep it to your dying day? Would you be cruel to Nora now, and just when
her heart is heavy?”

“Your heart heavy? You, one of the quality—'taint likely,” said the
man.

“It is true; my heart is very heavy. I am so anxious about father; you
won't make me more anxious—will you? You won't do anything—anything
wrong—while I am away? Will you make me a promise that you will let
me go with an easy mind?”

“You ask your father to give me three months' longer grace, and then we'll
see.”

“I will speak to him,” said Nora very slowly. “I am sorry, because he is
worried about other things, and he does not take it kindly when I
interfere in what he considers his own province; but I'll do my best. I
cannot stay another moment now, Andy. Good-by.”

She waved her hand to him, and ran down the avenue, looking like a white
wraith as she disappeared into the darkness.

CHAPTER XII. — A FEATHER-BED HOUSE.

Before she went to sleep that night Nora wrote a tiny note to her father:

“DEAREST DAD:

“For the sake of your Light o' the Morning, leave poor Andy Neil in his
little cottage until I come back again from England. Do, dear dad; this is
the last wish of Nora before she goes away.

“YOUR COLLEEN.”

She thought and thought, and felt that she could not have expressed
herself better. Fear would never influence the Squire; but he would do a
good deal for Nora. She laid the letter just where she knew he would see
it when he entered his ramshackle study on the following day; and the next
morning, with her arms clasped round his neck and her kisses on his
cheeks, she gave him one hearty hug, one fervent “God bless you, dad,” and
rushed after her mother.

The outside car was ready at the door. Mrs. O'Shanaghgan was already
mounted. Nora sprang up, and they were rattling off into the world, “to
seek my fortune,” thought the girl, “or rather the fortune of him I love
best.”

The Squire, with his grizzled locks and his deep-set eyes, stood in the
porch to watch Nora and her mother as they drove away.

“I'll be back in a twinkling, father; never you fret,” called out his
daughter, and then a turn in the road hid him from view.

“Why, Nora, what are you crying for?” said her mother, who turned round at
that moment, and encountered the full gaze of the large dark-blue eyes
swimming in tears.

“Oh, nothing. I'll be all right in a moment,” was the answer, and then the
sunshine broke all over the girl's charming face; and before they reached
the railway station Nora was chatting to her mother as if she had not a
care in the world.

Her first visit to Dublin and the excitement of getting really pretty
dresses made the next two or three days pass like a flash. Mrs.
O'Shanaghgan with money in her pocket was a very different woman from Mrs.
O'Shanaghgan without a penny. She enjoyed making Nora presentable, and had
excellent taste and a keen eye for a bargain. She fitted up her daughter
with a modest but successful wardrobe, bought her a proper trunk to hold
her belongings, and saw her on board the steamer for Holyhead.

The crossing was a rough one, but the Irish girl did not suffer from
seasickness. She stood leaning over the taffrail chatting to the captain,
who thought her one of the most charming passengers he ever had to cross
in the Munster; and when they arrived at the opposite side, Mr.
Hartrick was waiting for his niece. He often said since that he would
never forget his first sight of Nora O'Shanaghgan. She was wearing a gray
tweed traveling dress, with a little gray cap to match; the slender young
figure, the rippling black hair, and the brilliant face flashed for an
instant on the tired vision of the man of business; then there came the
eager outstretching of two hands, and Nora had kissed him because she
could not help herself.

“Oh, I am so glad to see you, Uncle George!” The words, the action, the
whole look were totally different from what his daughters would have said
or done under similar circumstances. He felt quite sure that his sister's
description of Nora was right in the main; but he thought her charming.
Drawing her hand through his arm, he took her to the railway station,
where the train was already waiting to receive its passengers. Soon they
were flying in The Wild Irish Girl to Euston. Nora was provided
with innumerable illustrated papers. Mr. Hartrick took out a little basket
which contained sandwiches, wine, and different cakes, and fed her with
the best he could procure. He did not ask her many questions, not even
about the Castle or her own life. He was determined to wait for all these
things. He read something of her story in her clear blue eyes; but he
would not press her for her confidence. He was anxious to know her a
little better.

“She is Irish, though, and they all exaggerate things so dreadfully,” was
his thought. “But I'll be very good to the child. What a contrast she is
to Terence! Not that Terence is scarcely Irish; but anyone can see that
this child has more of her father than her mother in her composition.”

They arrived at Euston; then there were fresh changes; a cab took them to
Waterloo, where they once again entered the train.

“Tired, my dear niece?” said her uncle as he settled her for the final
time in another first-class compartment.

“Not at all. I am too excited to be tired,” was her eager answer. And then
he smiled at her, arranged the window and blind to her liking, and they
started once more on their way.

Mr. Hartrick lived in a large place near Weybridge, and Nora had her first
glimpse of the lovely Surrey scenery. A carriage was waiting for the
travelers when they reached their destination—a carriage drawn by a
pair of spirited grays. Nora thought of Black Bess, and secretly compared
the grays to the disadvantage of the latter. But she was determined to be
as sweet and polite and English as her mother would desire. For the first
time in her whole existence she was feeling a little shy. She would have
been thoroughly at home on a dog cart, or on her favorite outside car, or
on the back of Black Bess, who would have carried her swift as the wind;
but in the landau, with her uncle seated by her side, she was altogether
at a loss.

“I don't like riches,” was her inward murmur. “I feel all in silken
chains, and it is not a bit pleasant; but how dear mammy—oh, I must
think of her as mother—how mother would enjoy it all!”

The horses were going slowly uphill, and now they paused at some handsome
iron gates. These were opened by a neatly dressed woman, who courtesied to
Mr. Hartrick, and glanced with curiosity at Nora. The carriage bowled
rapidly down a long avenue, and drew up before a front door. A large
mastiff rose slowly, wagged his tail, and sniffed at Nora's dress as she
descended.

“Come in, my dear; come in,” said her uncle. “We are too late for dinner,
but I have ordered supper. You will want a good meal and then bed. Where
are all the others? Where are you, Molly? Where are you, Linda? Your Irish
cousin Nora has come.”

A door to the left was quickly opened, and a graceful-looking lady, in a
beautiful dress of black silk and quantities of coffee lace, stood on the
threshold.

“Is this Nora?” she said. “Welcome, my dear little girl.” She went up to
Nora, laid one hand on her shoulder, and kissed her gravely on the
forehead. There was a staid, sober sort of solemnity about this kiss which
influenced Nora and made a lump come into her throat.

This gracious English lady was very charming, and she felt at once that
she would love her.

“The child is tired, Grace,” said her husband to Mrs. Hartrick. “Where are
the girls? Why are they not present?”

“Molly has been very troublesome, and I was obliged to send her to her
room,” was her reply; “but here is Terence. Terence, your sister has
come.”

“Oh, Terry!” cried Nora.

The next moment Terence, in full evening dress, and looking extremely
manly and handsome, appeared upon the scene. Nora forgot everything else
when she saw the familiar face; she ran up to her brother, flung her arms
round his neck, and kissed him over and over.

“Oh, it is a sight for sore eyes to see you!” she cried. “Oh, Terry, how
glad, how glad I am that you are here!”

“Hush! hush! Nonsense, Nora. Try to remember this is an English house,”
whispered Terence; but he kissed her affectionately. He was glad to see
her, and he looked at her dress with marked approval. “She will soon tame
down, and she looks very pretty,” was his thought.

Just then Linda was seen coming downstairs.

“Has Nora come?” called out her sweet, high-bred voice. “How do you do,
Nora? I am so glad to see you. If you are half as nice as Terence, you
will be a delightful addition to our party.”

“Oh, but I am not the least bit like Terence,” said Nora. She felt rather
hurt; she did not know why.

Linda was a very fair girl. She could not have been more than fifteen
years of age, and was not so tall as Nora; but she had almost the manners
of a woman of the world, and Nora felt unaccountably shy of her.

“Now take your cousin up to her room. Supper will be ready in a quarter of
an hour,” said Mrs. Hartrick. “Come, George; I have something to say to
you.”

Mr. and Mrs. Hartrick disappeared into the drawing-room. Linda took Nora's
hand. Nora glanced at Terence, who turned on his heel and went away.

“See you presently, sis,” he called out in what he considered a very manly
tone; and Nora felt her heart, as she expressed it, sink down into her
boots as she followed Linda up the richly carpeted stairs. Her feet sank
into the velvety pile, and she hated the sensation.

“It is all a sort of feather-bed house,” she said to herself, “and I hate
a feather-bed house. Oh, I can understand my dad better than ever
to-night; but how mother would enjoy this!”

CHAPTER XIII. — “THERE'S MOLLY.”

As they were going upstairs Linda suddenly turned and looked full at her
cousin.

“How very grave you are! And why have you that little frown between your
brows? Are you vexed about anything?”

“Only I thought Terry would be more glad to see me,” replied Nora.

“More glad!” cried Linda. “I saw you hugging him as I ran downstairs. He
let you. I don't know how any one could show gladness more. But come
along; this is your room. It is next to Molly's and mine. Isn't it pretty?
Molly and I chose it for you this morning, and we arranged those flowers.
You will have such a lovely view, and that little peep of the Thames is so
charming. I hope you will like your room.”

Nora entered one of the prettiest and most lovely bedrooms she had ever
seen in her life. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined anything so
cozy. The perfectly chosen furniture, the elegant appointments of every
sort and description, the view from the partly opened windows, the view of
winding river and noble trees—all looked rich and cultivated and
lovely; and the Irish girl, as she gazed around, found suddenly a great,
fierce hatred rising up in her heart against what she called the mere
prettiness. She turned and faced Linda, who was watching her with
curiosity in her somewhat small blue eyes Linda was essentially English,
very reserved and quiet, very self-possessed, quite a young lady of the
world. She looked at Nora as if she meant to read her through.

“Well, don't you think the view perfect?” she said.

“Have you ever been in Ireland?” was Nora's answer.

“Never. Oh, dear me! have you anything as pretty as this in Ireland?”

“No,” said Nora fiercely—“no.” She left the window, turned back, and
began to unpin her hat.

“You look as if you did not care for your room.”

“It is a very, very pretty room,” said Nora, “and the view is very, very
pretty, but I am tired to-night. I did not know it; but I am. I should
like to go to bed soon.”

“So you shall, of course, after you have had supper. Oh, how awfully
thoughtless of me not to know that you must be very tried and hungry!
Molly and I are glad you have come.”

“But where is Molly? I should like to see her.”

Linda went up to Nora and spoke in a low whisper.

“She is in disgrace.”

“In disgrace? Has she done anything naughty?”

“Yes, fearfully naughty. She is in hot water as usual.”

“I am sorry,” said Nora. She instantly began to feel a strong sensation of
sympathy for Molly. She was sure, in advance, that she would like her.

“But is she in such dreadful disgrace that I may not see her?” she asked
after a pause.

“Oh, I don't know. I don't suppose so.”

Just then there was heard at the room door a gay laugh and a kind of
scamper. A knock followed, but before Nora could answer the door was burst
open, and a large, heavily made, untidy-looking girl, with a dark face and
great big black eyes, bounded into the apartment.

“I have burst the bonds, and here I am,” she said. “How do you do, Nora?
I'm Molly. I am always and always in hot water. I like being in hot water.
Now, tell-tale-tit, you can go downstairs and acquaint mother with the
fact that I have burst the bonds, for kiss little Irish Nora I will.”

“Oh, I am glad to see you,” said Nora. Her depression vanished on the
spot. She felt that, naughty as doubtless Molly was, she could get on with
her.

“Come, let's take a squint at you,” said the eldest Miss Hartrick; “come
over here to the light.”

Molly took Nora by both hands over to the window.

“Now then, let's have a category of your charms. Terence has been telling
us that you are very pretty. You are. Come, Linda; come and look at her.
Did you ever see such black hair? And it's as soft as silk.”

Molly put up a rather large hand and patted Nora somewhat violently on the
head.

“Oh, don't!” said Nora, starting back.

“My dear little cousin, I am a very rough specimen, and you must put up
with me if you mean to get on at The Laurels. We are all stiff and staid
here; we are English of the English. Everything is done by rule of thumb—breakfast
to the minute, lunch to the minute, afternoon tea to the minute, dinner to
the minute, even tennis to the minute. Oh! it's detestable; and I—I
am expected to be good, and you know there's not a bit of goodness in me.
I am all fidgets, and you can never be sure of me for two seconds at a
time. I am a worry to mother and a worry to father; and as to Terence—oh,
my dear creature, I am so truly thankful you are not like Terence! Here I
drop a courtesy to his memory. What an awfully precise man he will make by
and by! I did not know you turned out that kind of article in Ireland.”

Nora's face, over which many emotions had been flitting, now looked grave.

“You know that Terence is my brother?” she said slowly.

Molly gazed at her; then she burst into a fit of hearty laughter.

“You and I will get on,” she said. “I like you for sticking up for your
brother. But now, my dear, I must go back. I am supposed to stay in my
bedroom until to-morrow morning. Linda, if you tell—well, you'll
have to answer to me when we are going to bed, that's all. By-by, Nora.
I'll see you in the morning. Do get her some hot water, Linda. She's worth
waiting on; she's a very nice sort of child, and very, very pretty. If
that is the Irish sort of face, I for one shall adore it. Good-by, Nora,
for the present.”

Molly banged herself away—her mode of exit could scarcely be called
by any other name. As soon as the door had closed behind her Linda
laughed.

“I ought to tell, you know,” she said in her precise voice; “it is very,
very wrong of Molly to leave her bedroom when mother is punishing her.”

“But what has she done wrong?” asked Nora.

“Oh, went against discipline. She is at school, you know, and she would
write letters during lessons. It is really very wrong of her, and Miss
Scott had to complain; so mother said she should stay in her room, instead
of being downstairs to welcome you. She is a good soul enough; but we none
of us can discipline her. She is very funny; you'll see a lot of her queer
cranks while you are here.”

“How old is she?” asked Nora.

“Between sixteen and seventeen; too old to be such a romp.”

“Only a little older than I am,” said Nora. “And how old are you, Linda?”

“Fifteen; they all tell me I look more.”

“You do; you look eighteen. You are very old for your age.”

“Oh, thank you for the compliment. Now, then, do brush your hair and wash
your hands; there's the supper-gong. Mother will be annoyed if we are not
down in a jiffy. Now, do be quick.”

Nora washed her hands, brushed her hair, and ran downstairs with her
cousin. As she ate during the somewhat stiff meal that followed she
thought many times of Molly. She felt that, naughty as Molly doubtless
was, she would make the English house tolerable. Terence sat near her at
supper, by way of extending to her brotherly attentions; but all the time
he was talking on subjects of local interest to his aunt and uncle.

Mr. Hartrick evidently thought Terence a very clever fellow, and listened
to his remarks with a deference which Nora thought by no means good for
him.

“He wants one of the dear old dad's downright snubs,” was her inward
comment. “I must have a talk with him to-morrow. If he progresses at this
rate toward English refinement he will be unbearable at O'Shanaghgan when
he returns; quite, quite unbearable. Oh, for a sniff of the sea! oh, for
the wild, wild wind on my cheeks! and oh, for my dear, darling, bare
bedroom! I shall be smothered in that heavily furnished room upstairs. Oh,
it is all lovely, I know—very lovely; but I'm not made to enjoy it.
I belong to the free, and I don't feel free here. The silken chains and
the feather-bed life won't suit me; of that I am quite sure. Thank
goodness, however, there's Molly; she is in a state of rebellion, too. I
must not sympathize with her; but I am truly glad she is here.”

CHAPTER XIV. — BITS OF SLANG.

Early the next morning Nora was awakened from a somewhat heavy sleep by
someone pulling her violently by the arm.

“Wake up! wake up!” said a voice; and then Nora, who had been dreaming of
her father, and also of Andy Neil, started up, crying as she did so, “Oh,
don't, Andy! I know father will let you stay a little longer in the cot.
Don't, don't, Andy!”

“Who, in the name of fortune, is Andy?” called the clear voice of Molly
Hartrick. “Do wake up, Nora, and don't look so dazed. You really are a
most exciting person to have staying in the house. Who is Andy, and what
cot are you going to turn him out of? Is he a baby?”

Nora now began to laugh.

“I quite forgot that I was in England,” she said. “Am I really in England?
Are you—are you——Oh, now I remember everything. You are
Molly Hartrick. What is the hour? Is it late? Have I missed breakfast?”

“Bless you, child! lie down and keep quiet; it's not more than six
o'clock. I wanted to see some more of you all by myself. I am out of
punishment now; it ended at midnight, and I am as free as anybody else;
but as it is extremely likely I shall be back in punishment by the
evening, I thought we would have a little chat while I was able to have
it. Just make way for me in your bed; I'll nestle up close to you, and
we'll be ever so jolly.”

“Oh, do,” said Nora, in a hearty tone.

Molly scrambled in, taking the lion's share of the bed, Nora lay on the
edge.

“I am glad you are facing the light, for I can examine your features
well,” said Molly. “You certainly are very nice-looking. How prettily your
eyebrows are arched, and what white teeth you have! And, although you have
that wonderful black hair, you have a fair skin, and your cheeks have just
enough color; not too much. I hate florid people; but you are just
perfect.”

“I wish you would not flatter me, Molly,” said Nora; “nobody flatters me
in Ireland.”

“They don't? But I thought they were a perfect nation of flatterers. I am
sure it is always said of them.”

“Oh, if you mean the poor people,” said Nora; “they make pretty speeches,
but nobody thinks anything about that. Everybody makes pretty speeches to
everybody else, except when we are having a violent scold by way of a
change.”

“How delicious!” said Molly. “And what sort of house have you? Like this?”

“No, not the least like this,” answered Nora.

“With what emphasis you speak. Do you know that father told me you lived
in a beautiful place, a castle hanging over the sea, and that your
mountains and your sea and your old castle were things to be proud of?”

“Did he? Did your father really say that?” asked Nora. She sat up on her
elbow; her eyes were shining; they assumed a look which Nora's eyes often
wore when she was, as she expressed it, “seeing things out of her head.”
Far-off castles in the clouds would Nora look at then; rainbow-tinted were
they, and their summits reached heaven. Molly gazed at her with deepening
interest.

“Yes, Nora,” she said; “he did say it. He told me so before Terence came;
but I—do forgive me—I don't care for Terence.”

“You must not talk against him to me,” said Nora, “because he happens to
be my brother; but I'll just whisper one thing back to you, Molly—if
he was not my brother he would not suit me.”

“How nice of you to say that! We shall get on splendidly. Of course, you
must stick up for him, being your brother; he stuck up for you before you
came. It is very nice and loyal of you, and I quite understand. But, dear
me! I am not likely to see much of you while you are here.”

“Why not? Are you not going to stay here?”

“Oh, my dear, yes; I'll stay. School has just begun over again, you know,
and I am always in hot water. I cannot help it; it is a sort of way of
mine. This is the kind of way I live. Breakfast every morning; then a
lecture from mother or from father. Off I go in low spirits, with a great,
sore heart inside me; then comes the hateful discipline of school; and
every day I get into disgrace. I have a lot of lessons returned, and am
low down in my class, instead of high up, and am treated from first to
last as a naughty child. By the middle of the day I am a very naughty
child indeed.”

“But you are not a child at all, Molly; you are a woman. Why, you are
older than I.”

“Oh, what have years to do with it?” interrupted Molly. “I shall be a
child all my days, I tell you. I shall never be really old. I like
mischief and insubordination, and—and—let me whisper it to
you, little Nora—vulgarity. Yes, I do love to be vulgar. I like
shocking mother; I like shocking father. Since Terence came I have had
rare fun shocking him. I have learned a lot of slang, and whenever I see
Terence I shout it at him. He has got quite nervous lately, and avoids me.
He likes Linda awfully, but he avoids me. But, to go on with my day. I am
back from school to early dinner, generally in disgrace. I am not allowed
to speak at dinner. Back again I go to school, and I am home, or supposed
to be home, at half-past four; but not a bit of it, my dear; I don't get
home till about six, because I am kept in to learn my lessons. It is
disgraceful, of course; but it is a fact. Then back I come, and mother has
a talk with me. However busy mother may be, and she is a very busy woman,
Nora—you will soon find that out—she always has time to find
out if I have done anything naughty; and, as fibs are not any of my
accomplishments, I always tell her the truth; and then what do you think
happens? An evening quite to myself in my bedroom; my dinner sent up to me
there, and I eating it in solitary state. They are all accustomed to it.
They open their eyes and almost glare at me when by a mere chance I do
come down to dinner. They are quite uncomfortable, because, you see, I am
waiting my opportunity to fire slang at one of them. I always do, and
always will. I never could fit into the dull life of the English.”

“You must be Irish, really,” said Nora.

“You don't say so! But I am afraid I am not. I would give all the world to
be, but am quite certain I am not. There, now, of course I'd be awfully
scolded if it was found out that I had awakened you at this hour, and had
confided my little history to you. I am over sixteen. I shall be seventeen
in ten months' time. And that is my history, insubordination from first to
last. I don't suppose anybody really likes me, unless it is poor Annie
Jefferson at school.”

“Who is Annie Jefferson, Molly?”

“A very shabby sort of girl, who is always in hot water too. I have taken
to her, and she just adores me. There is no one else who loves me; and
she, poor child, would not be admitted inside these walls; she is not
aristocratic enough. Dear me, Nora! it is wrong of me to give you all this
information so soon; and don't look anxious about me, little goose, for I
have taken an enormous fancy to you.”

“I will tell you one thing,” said Nora after a pause, “if you will never
tell again.”

“Oh, a secret!” said Molly. “Tell it out, Nora. I love secrets. I'll never
betray; I have no friends to betray them to. You may tell me with all the
heart in the world.”

“Well, it is this,” said Nora; “we are not at all rich at home. We are
poor, and have no luxuries and the dear old house is very bare; and, oh!
but, Molly, there is no place like it—no place like it. It's worth
all the world to me; and when I came here last night, and saw your great,
rich, beautiful house, I—I quite hated it, and I almost hated Linda
too; and even my uncle, who has been so kind, I could not get up one
charitable thought for him, nor for your mother, who is such a beautiful,
gracious lady; and even Terence—oh! Terry seemed quite English. Oh,
I was miserable! But when I saw you, Molly, I said to myself, 'There is
one person who will fit me'; and—oh, don't Molly! What is it?”

“Only, if you say another word I shall squeeze you to death in the hug I
am giving you,” said Molly. Her arms were flung tightly round Nora's neck.
She kissed her passionately three or four times.

“We'll be friends. I'll stick up for you through thick and thin,” said
Molly. “And now I'm off; for if Linda caught me woe betide me.”

“One word before you go, Molly,” called out Nora.

“Yes,” said Molly, standing at the door.

“Try to keep straight to-day, for my sake, for I shall want to say a great
deal to you to-night.”

“Oh, yes, so I will,” answered Molly. “Now then, off I go.”

The door was banged behind her. It awoke Mrs. Hartrick, who turned slowly
on her pillow, and said to herself, “I am quite certain that wicked girl
Molly has been disturbing our poor little traveler.” But she fell asleep,
and Nora lay thinking of Molly. How queer she was! And yet—and yet
she was the only person in the English home who had yet managed to touch
Nora's warm Irish heart.

The rest of the day passed somewhat soberly. Molly and Linda both started
for school immediately after an early breakfast. Terence went to town with
his uncle, and Nora and her aunt were left alone. She had earnestly hoped
that she might have had one of her first important talks with Mr. Hartrick
before he left that morning; but he evidently had no idea of giving her an
opportunity. He spoke to her kindly, but seemed to regard her already as
quite one of the family, and certainly was not disposed to alter his plans
or put out his business arrangements on her account. She resolved, with a
slightly impatient sigh, to abide her time, and followed her aunt into the
morning-room, where the good lady produced some fancywork, and asked Nora
if she would like to help her to arrange little squares for a large
patchwork quilt which was to be raffled for at a bazar shortly to be held
in the place.

Nora gravely took the little bits of colored silk, and, under her aunt's
supervision, began to arrange them in patterns. She was not a neat worker,
and the task was by no means to her taste.

“What time ought I to write in order to catch the post?” she said,
breaking the stillness, and raising her lovely eyes to Mrs. Hartrick's
face.

“The post goes out many times in the day, Nora; but if you want to catch
the Irish mail, you must have your letter in the box in the hall by
half-past three. There is plenty of time, my dear, and you will find
notepaper and everything you require in the escritoire in the study. You
can always go there if you wish to write your letters.”

“Thank you,” answered Nora.

“When you are tired of work, you can go out and walk about the grounds. I
will take you for a drive this afternoon. I am sorry that you have arrived
just when the girls have gone back to school; but you and Linda can have a
good deal of fun in the evenings, you know.”

“But why not Molly too?” asked Nora. She felt rather alarmed at mentioning
her elder cousin's name.

Mrs. Hartrick did not speak at all for a moment; then she gave a sigh.

“I am sorry to have to tell you, Nora, that Molly is by no means a good
girl. She is extremely rebellious and troublesome; and if this state of
things goes on much longer her father and I will be obliged to send her to
a very strict school as a boarder. We do not wish to do that, as my
husband does not approve of boarding-schools for girls. At present she is
spending a good deal of her time in punishment.”

“I hope she won't be in punishment to-night,” said Nora. “I like her so
much.”

“Do you, my dear? I hope she won't influence you to become insubordinate.”

Nora felt restless, and some of the bits of colored silk fluttered to the
floor.

“Be careful, my dear Nora,” said her aunt in a somewhat sharp voice;
“don't let those bits of silk get about on the carpet. I am most
particular that everything in the house should be kept neat and in order.
I will get you a little work-basket to keep your things in when next I go
upstairs.”

“Thank you, Aunt Grace,” answered Nora.

“And now, as we are alone,” continued the good lady, “you might tell me
something of your life. Your uncle is very anxious that your mother should
come and pay us a visit. He is very much attached to his sister, and it
seems to me strange that they should not have met for so many years. You
have a beautiful place at home, Nora—have you not?”

“Yes,” said Nora; “the place is”—she paused, and her voice took an
added emphasis—“beautiful.”

“How emphatically you say it, dear! You have a pretty mode of speech,
although very, very Irish.”

“I am Irish, you see, Aunt Grace,” answered Nora.

“Yes, dear, you need scarcely tell me that; your brogue betrays you.”

“But mother was always particular that I should speak correctly,”
continued the girl. “Does my accent offend you, Aunt Grace?”

“No, dear; your uncle and I both think it quite charming. But tell me some
more. Of course you are very busy just now with your studies, Nora. A girl
of your age—how old did you say you were—sixteen?—a girl
of your age has not a moment to lose in acquiring those things which are
essential to the education of an accomplished woman of the present day.”

“I am afraid I shall shock you very much indeed, Aunt Grace, when I tell
you that my education is supposed to be finished.”

“Finished!” said Mrs. Hartrick. She paused for a moment and stared full at
Nora. “I was astonished,” she continued, “when your uncle suggested that
you should pay us a visit now. I said, as September had begun, you would
be going back to school; but you accepted the invitation, or rather your
mother did for you, without any allusion to your school. You must have got
on very well, Nora, to be finished by now. How many languages do you
know?”

“I can chatter in Irish after a fashion,” said Nora; “and I am supposed,
after a fashion also, to know my own tongue.”

“Irish!” said Mrs. Hartrick in a tone of quivering scorn. “I don't mean
anything of that sort. I allude to your acquaintance with French, German,
and Italian.”

“I do know a very little French,” said Nora; “that is, I can read one or
two books in French. Mother taught me what I know; but I do not know any
German or any Italian. I don't see that it matters,” she continued, a
flush coming into her cheeks. “I should never talk German or Italian in
Ireland. I wouldn't be understood if I did.”

“That has nothing to do with it, Nora; and your tone, my dear, without
meaning it, of course, was just a shade pert just now. It is essential in
the present day that all well-educated women should be able to speak at
least in three languages.”

“Then I am sorry, Aunt Grace, for I am afraid you will despise me. I shall
never be well educated in that sense of the word.”

Mrs. Hartrick was silent.

“I will speak to your uncle,” she said after a pause. “While you are here
you can have lessons. It would be possible to arrange that you went to
school with Linda and Molly, and had French and German lessons while
there.”

“But I don't expect to be very long in England,” said Nora, a note of
alarm in her voice.

“Oh, my dear child, now that we have got you, we shall not allow you to go
in a hurry. It is such a nice change for you, too; this is your first
visit to England, is it not?”

“Yes, Aunt Grace.”

“We won't let you go for some time, little Nora. Your brother is a dear
fellow; your uncle and I admire him immensely, and he is quite well
educated and so adaptable; and I am sure you would be the same, my dear,
when you have had the many chances which will be offered to you here. You
must look upon me as your real aunt, dear, and tell me anything that you
wish. Don't be shy of me, my love; I can quite understand that a young
girl, when she first leaves her mother, is rather shy.”

“I never felt shy at home,” answered Nora; “but then, you know, I was more
with father than with mother.”

“More with your father! Does he stay at home all day, then?”

“He is always about the place; he has nothing else to do.”

“Of course he has large estates.”

“They are not so very large, Aunt Grace.”

“Well, dear, that is a relative term, of course; but from your uncle's
description, and to judge from your mother's letters, it must be a very
large place. By the way, how does she manage her servants? She must have a
large staff at Castle O'Shanaghgan.”

“I don't think we manage our servants particularly well,” said Nora. “It
is true they all stay with us; but then we don't keep many.”

“How many, dear?”

“There's Pegeen—she is the parlor-maid—and there's the cook—we
do change our cook sometimes, for mother is rather particular; then there
is the woman who attends to the fowls, and the woman who does the washing,
and—I think that is about all. Oh, there's the post-boy; perhaps you
would consider him a servant, but I scarcely think he ought to be called
one. We give him twopence a week for fetching the letters. He is a very
good little boy. He stands on his head whenever he sees me; he is very
fond of me, and that is the way he shows his affection. It would make you
laugh, Aunt Grace, if you saw Michael standing on his head.”

“It would make me shudder, you mean,” said Mrs. Hartrick. “Really, Nora,
your account of your mother's home is rather disparaging; two or three
very rough servants, and no more. But I understood you lived in castle.”

“Oh, a castle may mean anything; but it is not fair for you and Uncle
George to think we are rich, for we are very poor. And,” continued Nora,
“for my part, I love to be poor.” She stood up abruptly. In her excitement
all her bits of silk tumbled to the floor. “May I go out and have a run,
Aunt Grace?” she said. “I feel quite stiff. I am not accustomed to being
indoors for so long at a time.”

“You can go out, Nora, if you like,” said her aunt in a displeased tone;
“but, first, have the goodness to pick up all those bits you have
dropped.”

Nora, with flushed cheeks, stooped and picked up the bits of silk. She
wrapped them in a piece of paper and put them on the table.

“You can stay out for an hour, my dear; but you are surely not going
without a hat.”

“I never wear a hat at home,” said Nora.

“You must run upstairs and fetch your hat,” said Mrs. Hartrick.

Poor Nora never felt more tried in the whole course of her life.

“I shall get as bad as Molly if this goes on,” she thought to herself.

CHAPTER XV. — TWO LETTERS.

“DEAR MOTHER [wrote Nora O'Shanaghgan later on that same morning]: I
arrived safely yesterday. Uncle George met me at Holyhead, and was very
kind indeed. I had a comfortable journey up to town, and Uncle George saw
that I wanted for nothing. When we got to London we drove across the town
to another station, called Waterloo, and took a train on here. A carriage
met us at the station with a pair of beautiful gray horses. They were not
as handsome as Black Bess, but they were very beautiful; and we arrived
here between eight and nine o'clock. This is just the sort of place you
would like, mother; such thick carpets on the stairs, and such large,
spacious, splendidly furnished rooms; and Aunt Grace has meals to the
minute; and they have lots and lots of servants; and my bedroom—oh,
mother! I think you would revel in my bedroom. It has such a terribly
thick carpet on the floor—I mean it has a thick carpet on the floor;
and there is a view from the window, the sort you have so often described
to me—great big trees, and a lawn like velvet, and four or five
tennis-courts, and a shrubbery with all the trees cut so exact and round
and proper, and a peep of the River Thames just beyond. My cousins keep a
boat on the river, and they often go out in the summer evenings. They are
going to take me for a row on Saturday, when the girls have a holiday.

“I saw Terence almost immediately after I arrived. He looked just as you
would like to see him, so handsome in his evening dress. He was a little
stiff—at least, I mean he was very correct in his manner. We had
supper when we arrived. I was awfully hungry, but I did not like to eat
too much, for Terence seemed so correct—nice in his manner, I mean—and
everything was just as you have described things when you were young.
There are two girls, my cousins—Linda, a very pretty girl, fair, and
so very neatly dressed; and Molly, who is not the least like the others.
You would not like Molly; she is rather rough; but of course I must not
complain of her. I have been sitting with Aunt Grace all the morning,
until I could bear it no longer—I mean, until I got a little stiff
in my legs, and then I had a run in the garden. Now I am writing this
letter in Aunt Grace's morning-room, and if I look round I shall see her
back.

“Good-by, dear mother. I will write again in a day or two.—Your
affectionate daughter,

“NORA O'SHANAGHGAN.”

“There,” said Nora, under her breath, “that's done. Now for daddy.”

She took out another sheet of paper, and began to scribble rapidly.

“Darling, darling, love of my heart! Daddy, daddy, oh! but it's I that
miss you. I am writing to you here in this could, could country. Oh,
daddy, if I could run to you now, wouldn't I? What are you doing without
your Light o' the Morning? I am pent up, daddy, and I don't think I can
stand it much longer. It's but a tiny visit I'll pay, and then I'll come
back again to the mountains and the sea, and the old, old house, and the
dear, darling dad. Keep up your heart, daddy; you'll soon have Light o'
the Morning home. Oh! it's so proper, and I'm wrapped up in silk chains;
they are surrounding me everywhere, and I can't quite bear it. Aunt Grace
is sitting here; I am writing in her morning-room. Oh! if I could,
wouldn't I scream, or shout, or do something awfully wicked; but I must
not, for it is the English way. They have got the wild bird Nora into the
English cage; and, darling dad asthore, it's her heart that will be broke
if she stays here long. There's one comfort I have—or, bedad! I
don't think I could bear it—and that's Molly. She's a bit of a romp
and a bit of a scamp, and she has a daring spirit of her own, and she
hates the conventionalities, and she would like to be Irish too. She
can't, poor colleen; but she is nice and worth knowing, and she'll just
keep my heart from being broke entirely.

“How are they all at home? Give them lashins and lavins of love from Nora.
Tell them it's soon I'll be back with them. You go round and give a
message to each and all; and don't forget Hannah Croneen, and little Mike,
and Bridget Murphy, and Squire Murphy, and the rest—all and every
one who remembers Nora O'Shanaghgan. Tell them it's her heart is
imprisoned till she gets back to them; and she would rather have one bit
of her own native soil than all the gold in the whole of England. I
declare it's rough and wild I am getting, and my heart is bleeding. I have
written a correct letter to mother, and given her the news; but I am
telling you a bit of my true, true heart. Send for me if you miss me too
much, and I'll fly back to you. Oh! it's chains wouldn't keep me, for go I
must if this state of things continues much longer.—Your

“LIGHT O' THE MORNING.”

The two letters were written, the last one relieving Nora's feelings not a
little. She put them into separate envelopes and stamped them.

Mrs. Hartrick rose, went over to her desk, and saw Nora's letters.

“Oh, you have written to your parents,” she said. “Quite right, my dear.
But why put them into separate envelopes? They could go nicely in one.
That, really, is willful waste, Nora, which we in England never permit.”

“Oh, please, don't change them, Aunt Grace,” said Nora, as Mrs. Hartrick
took the two letters up and paused before opening one of the envelopes.
“Please, please, let them go as they are. It's my own stamp,” she
continued, losing all sense of grammar in her excitement.

“Well, my dear, just as you please. There, don't excite yourself, Nora. I
only suggested that, when one stamp would do, it was rather wasteful to
spend two.”

“Oh, daddy does like to get his own letters to his own self,” said Nora.

“Your father, you mean. You don't, surely, call him by the vulgar word
daddy?”

“Bedad! but I do,” answered Nora.

Mrs. Hartrick turned and gave her niece a frozen glance. Presently she
laid her hand on the girl's shoulder.

“I don't want to complain or to lecture you,” she said; “but that
expression must not pass your lips again while you are here.”

“It shan't. I am ever so sorry,” said the girl.

“I think you are, dear; and how flushed your cheeks are! You seem quite
tired. Now, go upstairs and wash your hands; the luncheon-gong will ring
in five minutes, and we must be punctual at meals.”

Nora slowly left the room.

“Oh! but it's like lead my heart is,” she said to herself.

The day passed very dismally for the wild Irish girl. After lunch she and
her aunt had a long and proper drive. They drove through lovely country;
but Nora was feeling even a little bit cross, and could not see the
beauties of the perfectly tilled landscape, of the orderly fields, of the
lovely hedgerows.

“It is too tidy,” she said once in a choking sort of voice.

“Tidy!” answered Mrs. Hartrick. She looked at Nora, tittered a sigh, and
did not speak of the beauties of the country again.

When they got back from their drive things were a little better, for Linda
and Molly had returned from school; and, for a wonder, Molly was not in
disgrace. She looked quite excited, and darting out of the house, took
Nora's hand and pulled it inside her arm.

“Come and have a talk,” she said. “I am hungering for a chat with you.”

“Tea will be ready in fifteen minutes, Molly,” called out Mrs. Hartrick,
then entered the house accompanied by Linda.

Meanwhile Molly and Nora went round to the shrubbery at the back of the
house.

“What is the matter with you?” said Molly. She turned and faced her
companion.

Nora's eyes filled with sudden tears.

“It is only that I am keeping in so much,” she said; “and—and, oh! I
do wish you were not all quite so tidy. I am just mad for somebody to be
wild and unkempt. I feel that I could take down my hair, or tear a rent in
my dress—anything rather than the neatness. Oh! I hate your
landscapes, and your trim hedges, and your trim house, and your—”

“Go on,” said Molly; “let it out; let it out. I'll never repeat it. You
must come in, in about a quarter of an hour, to a stiff meal. You will
have to sit upright, let me tell you, and not lounge; and you will have to
eat your bread and butter very nicely, and sip your tea, and not eat
overmuch. Mother does not approve of it. Then when tea is over you will
have to leave the room and go upstairs and get things out for dinner.”

“My things out for dinner?” gasped Nora. “What do you mean?”

“Your evening-dress. Do you suppose you will be allowed to dine in your
morning-dress?”

“Oh, to be sure,” said Nora, brightening; “now I understand. Mother did
get me a white frock, and she had it cut square in the neck, and the
sleeves are a little short.”

“You will look sweet in that,” said Molly, gazing at her critically; “and
I will bring you in a bunch of sweet-peas to put in your belt, and you can
have a little bunch in your hair, too, if you like. You know you are
awfully pretty. I am sure Linda is just mad with jealousy about it; I can
see it, although she does not say anything. She is rather disparaging
about you, is Linda; that is one of her dear little ways. She runs people
down with faint praise. She was talking a lot about you as we were going
to school this morning. She began: 'You know, I do think Nora is a pretty
girl; but it is such a pity that—'”

“Oh, don't,” said Nora, suddenly putting out her hand and closing Molly's
lips.

“What in the world are you doing that for?” said Molly.

“Because I don't want to hear; she did not mean me to know that she said
these things.”

“What a curiosity you are!” said Molly. “So wild, so defiant, and yet—oh,
of course, I like you awfully. Do you know that the vision of your face
kept me good all day? Isn't that something to be proud of? I didn't answer
one of my teachers back, and I did have a scolding, let me tell you. Oh,
my music; you don't know what I suffer over it. I have not a single
particle of taste. I have not the faintest ghost of an ear; but mother
insists on my learning. I could draw; I could sketch; I can do anything
with my pencil; but that does not suit mother. It must be music. I must
play; I must play well at sight; I must play all sorts of difficult
accompaniments for songs, because gentlemen like to have their songs
accompanied for them; and I must be able to do this the very moment the
music is put before me. And I must not play too loud; I must play just
right, in perfect time; and I must be ready, when there is nothing else
being done, to play long pieces, those smart kind of things people do play
in the present day; and I must never play a wrong note. Oh, dear! oh,
dear! and I simply cannot do these things. I don't know wrong notes from
right. I really don't.”

“Oh, Molly!” cried Nora.

“There you are; I can see that you are musical.”

“I think I am, very. I mean I think I should always know a wrong note from
a right one; but I have not had many opportunities of learning.”

“Oh, good gracious me! what next?” exclaimed Molly.

“I don't understand what you mean,” said Nora.

“My dear, I am relieving my feelings, just as you relieved yours a short
time ago. Oh, dear! my music. I know I played atrociously; but that
dreadful Mrs. Elford was so cross; she did thump so herself on the piano,
and told me that my fingers were like sticks. And what could I do? I
longed to let out some of my expressions at her. You must know that I am
feared on account of my expressions—my slang, I call them. They do
shock people so, and it is simply irresistible to see them shudder, and
close their eyes, and draw themselves together, and then majestically walk
out of the room. The headmistress is summoned then, and I—I am
doomed. I get my pieces to do out of school; and when I come home mother
lectures me, and sends me to my bedroom. But I am free to-night. I have
been good all day; and it is on account of you, Nora; just because you are
a little Irish witch; and I sympathize with you to the bottom of my soul.”

“Molly! Molly!” here called out Linda's voice; “mother says it's time for
you and Nora to come in to wash your hands for tea.”

“Oh, go to Jericho!” called out Molly.

Linda turned immediately and went into the house.

“She is a tell-tale-tit,” said Molly. “She will be sure to repeat that to
mother; and do you think I shall be allowed any cake? There is a very nice
kind of rice-cake which cook makes, and I am particularly fond of it.
You'll see I am not to have any, just because I said 'Go to Jericho!' I am
sure I wish Linda would go.”

“But those kind of things are rather vulgar, aren't they?” said Nora.
“Father wouldn't like them. We say all kinds of funny things at home, but
not things like that. I wish you would not.”

“You wish I would not what?”

“Use words like 'Go to Jericho!' Father would not like to hear you.”

“You are a very audacious kind of girl, let me tell you, Nora,” said
Molly. She colored, and looked annoyed for a moment, then burst into a
laugh. “But I like you all the better for not being afraid of me,” she
continued. “Come, let's go into the house; we can relieve our feelings
somehow to-night; we'll have a lark somehow; you mark my words. In the
meantime mum's the word.”

CHAPTER XVI. — A CHEEKY IRISH GIRL.

At tea the girls were very stiff. Molly and Nora were put as far as
possible asunder. They did not have tea in the drawing room, but in the
dining room, and Mrs. Hartrick presided. There was jam on the table, and
two or three kinds of cake, and, of course, plenty of bread and butter.

As Molly had predicted, however, the news of her expression “Go to
Jericho!” had already reached Mrs. Hartrick's ears, and the fiat had gone
forth that she was only to eat bread and butter. It was handed to her, in
a marked way, by her mother, and Linda's light-blue eyes flashed with
pleasure. Nora felt at that moment that she almost hated Linda. She
herself ate resignedly, and without much appetite. Her spirits were down
to zero. It seemed far less likely than it did before she left
O'Shanaghgan that she could help her father out of his scrape. It was
almost impossible to break through these chains of propriety, of neatness,
of order. Would anybody in this trim household care in the very least
whether the old Irishman broke his heart or not? whether he and the Irish
girl had to go forth from the home of their ancestors? whether the wild,
beautiful, rack-rent sort of place was kept in the family or not?

“They none of them care,” thought Nora. “I don't believe Uncle George will
do anything; but all the same I have got to ask him. He was nice about my
letter, I will own that; but will he really, really help?”

“A penny for your thoughts, Nora, my dear,” said Mrs. Hartrick at this
moment.

Nora glanced up with a guilty flush.

“Oh, I was only thinking,” she began.

“Yes, dear, what about?”

“About father.” Nora colored as she spoke, and Linda fixed her eyes on her
face.

“Very pretty indeed of you, my dear, to think so much of your father,”
said Mrs. Hartrick; “but I cannot help giving you a hint. It is not
considered good manners for a girl to be absent-minded while she is in
public. You are more or less in public now; I am here, and your cousins,
and it is our bounden duty each to try and make the others pleasant, to
add to the enjoyment of the meal by a little graceful conversation.
Absent-mindedness is very dull for others, my dear Nora; so in future try
not to look quite so abstracted.”

Nora colored again. Molly, at the other end of the table, bit her lip
furiously, and stretched out her hand to help herself to another thick
piece of bread and butter. In doing so she upset a small milk-jug; a
stream of milk flowed down the tablecloth, and Mrs. Hartrick rose in
indignation.

“This is the fourth evening running you have spilt something on the
tablecloth, Molly. Go to your room immediately.”

Molly rose, dropped a mocking courtesy to her mother, and left the room.

“Linda dear, run after your sister, and tell her that, for her
impertinence to me, she is to remain in her room until dinner-time.”

“Oh! please forgive her this time; she didn't mean it really,” burst from
Nora's lips.

“Nora!” said Mrs. Hartrick.

“Oh! I am sorry for her; please forgive her.”

“Nora!” repeated her aunt again.

“It is because you do not understand her that she goes on like that; she
is such a fine girl, twice—twice as fine as Linda. Oh, I do wish you
would forgive her!”

“Thank you,” said Linda in a mocking voice. She had got as far as the
door, and had overheard Nora's words. She now glanced at her mother, as
much as to say, “I told you so,” and left the room.

Nora had jumped to her feet. She had forgotten prudence; she had forgotten
politeness; her eyes were bright with suppressed fire, and her glib Irish
tongue was eager to enter into the fray.

“I must speak out,” she said. “Molly is more like me than anybody else in
this house, and I must take her part. She would be a very, very good girl
if she were understood.”

“What are your ideas with regard to understanding Molly?” said Mrs.
Hartrick in that very calm and icy voice which irritated poor Nora almost
past endurance. She was speechless for a moment, struggling with fresh
emotion.

“Oh! I wish——” she began.

“And I wish, my dear Nora, that you would remember the politeness due to
your hostess. I also wish that you would consider how very silly you are
when you speak as you are now doing. I do not know what your Irish habits
are; but if it is considered in Ireland rather a virtue than otherwise to
spill a milk jug, and allow the contents to deface the tablecloth, I am
sorry for you, that is all.”

“You cannot understand. I—I am sorry I came,” said Nora.

She burst into sudden tears, and ran out of the room. In a few moments
Linda came back.

“Molly is storming,” she said; “she is in an awful rage.”

“Sit down, Linda, and don't tell tales of your sister,” answered Mrs.
Hartrick in an annoyed voice.

“Dear me, mother!” said Linda; “and where is Nora?”

“Nora is a very impertinent little girl. She is wild, however, and
unbroken. We must all have patience with her. Poor child! it is terrible
to think that she is your father's niece. What a contrast to dear Terence!
He is a very nice, polite boy. I am sorry for Nora. Of course, as to
Molly, she is quite different. She has always had the advantage of my
bringing-up; whereas poor Nora—well, I must say I am surprised at my
sister-in-law. I did not think your father's sister would have been so
remiss.”

“There is one thing I ought to say,” said Linda.

“What is that, dear? Linda, do sit up straight, and don't poke your head.”

Linda drew herself up, and looked prettily toward her mother.

“What do you wish to say?”

“It is this. I think Nora will be a very bad companion for Molly. Molly
will be worse than ever that Nora is in the house.”

“Well, my dear Linda, it is your duty to be a good deal with your cousin.
You are too fond of poking holes in others; you are a little hard upon
your sister Molly. I do not wish to excuse Molly; but it is not your place
as her younger sister to, as it were, rejoice in her many faults.”

“Oh, I don't, mother,” said Linda, coloring.

“Linda dear, I am afraid you do. You must try and break yourself of that
very unchristian habit. But, on the whole, my dear, I am pleased with you.
You are careful to do what I wish; you learn your lessons correctly; I
have good reports of you from your schoolmistresses; and if you are
careful, my dear, you will correct those little habits which mar the
perfect whole.”

“Thank you, dear mother,” said Linda. “I will try to do what you wish.”

“What I particularly want you to do just now is to be gentle and patient
with your cousin; you must remember that she has never had your
advantages. Be with her a good deal; talk to her as nicely as you can;
hint to her what I wish. Of course, if she becomes quite incorrigible, it
will be impossible for me to have her long with you and Molly; but the
child is much to be pitied; she is a very pretty creature, and with a
little care could be made most presentable. I by no means give her up.”

“Dear mother, how sweetly Christian-like and forgiving you are!” said
Linda.

“Oh, hush, my dear; hush! I only do my duty; I hope I shall never fail in
that.”

Mrs. Hartrick rose from the tea-table, and Linda soon afterward followed
her. Mr. Hartrick was seen coming down the avenue. He generally walked
from the station. He came in now.

“What a hot day it is!” he said. “Pour me out a cup of tea, Linda. I am
very thirsty.”

He flung himself into an easy chair, and Linda waited on him.

“Well,” he said, “where are the others? Where is the little Irish witch,
and where is Molly?”

“I am sorry to say that Molly is in disgrace, as usual,” said Mrs.
Hartrick.

“Oh, dear, dear!” said Mr. Hartrick; “we ought to send her to school, poor
child! I am sorry for her.”

“And I intended to give her quite a pleasant evening,” said Mrs. Hartrick,
“in honor of her cousin's arrival. She was in disgrace yesterday when Nora
arrived; and I had thought of giving the girls a delightful evening. I had
it all planned, and was going to ask the Challoners over; but really Molly
is so incorrigible. She was very pert to me, although she did bring a
better report from school; she used some of her objectionable language to
Linda, and was more awkward even than usual.”

“Look at the tablecloth, father,” said Linda.

“I think, Linda, you had better run out of the room,” said Mr. Hartrick.
He spoke in an annoyed voice.

“Certainly, father, I will go; but don't you want another cup of tea
first?”

“Your mother shall pour it out for me. Go, my dear—go.”

“Only, mother, is it necessary that we should not ask the Challoners
because Molly is naughty? The rest of us would like to have them.”

“I will let you know presently, Linda,” said her mother; and Linda was
obliged, to her disgust, to leave the room.

“Now, then, my dear,” said Mr. Hartrick, “I don't at all like to call you
over the coals; but I think it is a pity to speak against Molly so much as
you do in her sister's presence. Linda is getting eaten up with conceit;
she will be an intolerable woman by and by, so self-opinionated, and so
pleased with herself. After all, poor Molly may have the best of it in the
future; she is a fine child, notwithstanding her naughtiness.”

“I thought it likely you would take her part, George; and I am sorry,”
answered Mrs. Hartrick in a melancholy tone; “but I am grieved to tell you
that there is something else to follow. That little Irish girl is quite as
cheeky, even more cheeky than Molly. I fear I must ask you to say a word
to her; I shall require her to be respectful to me while she is here. She
spoke very rudely to me just now, simply because I found it my duty to
correct Molly.”

“Oh, that won't do at all,” said Mr. Hartrick. “I must speak to Nora.”

“I wish you would do so.”

“I will. By the way, Grace, what a pretty creature she is!”

“She is a beautiful little wildflower,” said Mrs. Hartrick. “I have taken
a great fancy to her, notwithstanding her rudeness. She has never had the
smallest care; she has simply been allowed to grow up wild.”

“Well, Nature has taken care of her,” said Mr. Hartrick.

“Yes, dear, of course; but you yourself know the advantage of bringing up
a girl nicely.”

“And no one is more capable of doing that than you are,” said Mr.
Hartrick, giving his wife an admiring glance.

“Thank you, dear, for the compliment; but I should be glad if you would
speak to Nora. Now that she is here, I have no doubt that we shall soon
discipline her; and I should like her to pay quite a long visit—that
is, of course, if she becomes conformable to my ways.”

“She will be sure to do that, Grace,” replied the husband. “I am glad you
mean to be good to her, and to take her in hand, poor little lass!”

“I thought she might have some good masters and get some valuable lessons
while she is here,” said Mrs. Hartrick. “Would you believe it, George?—that
little girl of sixteen calmly informed me that her education was finished.
At the same time, she said she knew no language but her own, and just a
smattering of that dead tongue, Irish. She cannot play; in short, she has
no accomplishments whatever, and yet her education is finished. I must say
I do not understand your sister. I should have thought that she was a
little more like you.”

“There never was a more particular girl than Ellen used to be,” said Mr.
Hartrick; “but I must have a long talk with Nora. I'll see her this
evening. I know she has a good deal she wants to talk to me about.”

“A good deal she wants to talk to you about, George?”

“Oh, yes, my dear; but I will explain presently. She is a proud little
witch, and must not be coerced; we must remember that her spirit has never
been broken. But I'll talk to her, I'll talk to her; leave the matter in
my hands, Grace.”

“Certainly, dear; she is your niece, remember.”

CHAPTER XVII. — TWO DESCRIPTIONS.

Some of Nora's words must have sunk into Mrs. Hartrick's heart, for,
rather to Molly's own astonishment, she was allowed to dress nicely for
dinner, and to come down. Her somewhat heavy, dark face did not look to
the best advantage. She wore a dress which did not suit her; her hair was
awkwardly arranged; there was a scowl on her brow. She felt so sore and
cross, after what she considered her brave efforts to be good during the
morning, that she would almost rather have stayed up in her room. But Nora
would not hear of that. Nora had rushed into Molly's room, and had begged
her, for her sake, to come downstairs. Nora was looking quite charming in
that pretty white frock which Mrs. O'Shanaghgan had purchased for her in
Dublin. Her softly rounded figure, her dazzlingly fair complexion, were
seen now for the first time to the best advantage. Her thick black hair
was coiled up becomingly on her graceful little head, and, with a bunch of
sweet peas at her belt, there could scarcely have been seen a prettier
maiden. When she appeared in the drawing room, even Terence was forced to
admit that he had seldom seen a more lovely girl than his sister. He went
up to her and began to take notice of her.

“I am sorry I was obliged to be out all day. I am studying the different
museums very exhaustively,” said Terence in that measured tone of his
which drove poor Nora nearly wild. She replied to him somewhat pertly, and
he retired once more into his shell.

“Pretty as my sister is,” he soliloquized, “she really is such an ignorant
girl that few fellows would care to speak to her. It is a sad pity.”

Terence, the last hope of the house of O'Shanaghgan, was heard to sigh
profoundly. His aunt, Mrs. Hartrick, and his cousin Linda would,
doubtless, sympathize with him.

“Dinner was announced, and the meal went off very well. Molly was
absolutely silent; Nora, taking her cue from her, hardly spoke; and Linda,
Terence, and Mrs. Hartrick had it all their own way. But just as dessert
was placed on the table, Mr. Hartrick looked at Nora and motioned to her
to change seats and to come to one close to him.

“Come now,” he said, “we should like to hear your account of Castle
O'Shanaghgan. Terence has told us all about it; but we should like to hear
your version.”

“And a most lovely place it must be,” said Mrs. Hartrick from the other
end of the table. “Your description, Terence, makes me quite long to see
it; and if it were not that I am honestly very much afraid of the Irish
peasantry, I should be glad to go there during the summer. But those
terrible creatures, with their shillalahs, and their natural aptitude for
firing on you from behind a hedge, are quite too fearful to contemplate. I
could not run the risk of assassination from any of them. They seem to
have a natural hatred for the English and—why, what is the matter,
Nora?”

“Only it's not true,” said Nora, her eyes flashing. “They are not a bit
like that; they are the most warmhearted people in the whole world.
Terence, have you been telling lies about your country? If you have, I am
downright ashamed of you.”

“But I have not. I don't know what you mean,” answered Terence.

“Oh, come, come, Nora!” said her uncle, patting her arm gently; but Nora's
eyes blazed with fire.

“It's not a bit true,” she continued. “How can Aunt Grace think of that?
The poor things have been driven to desperation, because—because
their hearts have been trampled on.”

“For instance,” said Terence in a mocking voice, which fell like ice upon
poor Nora's hot, indignant nature—“for instance, Andy Neil—he's
a nice specimen, is he not?”

“Oh,” said Nora, “he—he is the exception. Don't talk of him,
please.”

“That's just it,” said Terence, laughing. “Nora wants to give us all the
sweets, and to conceal all the bitters. Now, I am honest, whatever I am.”

“Oh, are you?” said Nora, in indignation. “I should like to know,” she
continued, “what kind of place you have represented Castle O'Shanaghgan to
be.”

“I don't know why I should be obliged to answer to you for what I say,
Nora,” cried her brother.

“You describe it now, Nora. We will hear your description,” said her
uncle.

Nora sat quite still for a moment; then she raised her very dark-blue
eyes.

“Do you really want me to tell you about O'Shanaghgan?” she said slowly.

“Certainly, my dear.”

“Certainly, Nora. I am sure you can describe things very well,” said her
aunt, in an encouraging voice, from the other end of the table.

“Then I will tell you,” said Nora. She paused for a moment, then, to the
astonishment and disgust of Mrs. Hartrick, rose to her feet.

“I cannot talk about it sitting down,” she said. “There's the sea, you
know—the wild, wild Atlantic. In the winter the breakers are—oh!
I have sometimes seen them forty feet high.”

“Come, come, Nora!” said Terence,

“It is true, Terry; the times when you don't like to go out.”

Terence retired into his shell.

“I have seen the waves like that; but, oh! in the summer they can be so
sweet and conoodling.”

“What in the world is that?” said Mrs. Hartrick.

“Oh, it is one of our Irish words; there's no other way to express it. And
then there are the cliffs, and the great caves, and the yellow, yellow
sands, and the shells, and the seaweeds, and the fish, and the boating,
and—and—”

“Go on, Nora; you describe the sea just like any other sea.”

“Oh, but it is like no other sea,” said Nora. “And then there are the
mountains, their feet washed by the waves.”

“Quite poetical,” said Mrs. Hartrick.

“It is; it is all poetry,” said Nora. “You are not laughing at me, are
you, Aunt Grace? I wish you could see those mountains and that sea, and
then the home—O'Shanaghgan itself.”

“Yes, Nora; tell us,” said her uncle, who did not laugh, and was much
interested in the girl's description.

“The home,” cried Nora; “the great big, darling, empty house.”

“Empty! What a very peculiar description!” said Mrs. Hartrick.

“Oh, it is so nice,” said Nora. “You don't knock over furniture when you
walk about; and the dining-room table is so big that, even if you did
spill a jug of milk, father would not be angry.”

Mrs. Hartrick uttered a sigh.

“Oh, we are wild over there,” continued Nora; “we have no
conventionalities. We share and share alike; we don't mind whether we are
rich or poor. We are poor—oh! frightfully poor; and we keep very few
servants; and—and the place is bare; because it can be nothing but
bare; but there's no place like O'Shanaghgan.”

“But what do you mean by bare?” said Mrs. Hartrick.

“Bare?” said Nora. “I mean bare; very few carpets and very little
furniture, and—and——But, oh! it's the hearts that are
warm, and that is the only thing that matters.”

“It must be a right-down jolly place; and, by Jehoshaphat! I wish I was
there,” interrupted Molly.

“Molly!” said her mother.

“Oh, leave her alone for the present,” said Mr. Hartrick. “But do you
mean,” he continued, looking at Nora in a distressed way, “that—that
my sister lives in a house of that sort?”

“Mother?” said Nora. “Of course; she is father's wife, and my mother; she
is the lady of O'Shanaghgan. It is a very proud position. We don't want
grand furniture nor carpets to make it a proud position. She is father's
wife, and he is O'Shanaghgan of Castle O'Shanaghgan. He is a sort of king,
and he is descended from kings.”

“Well, Terence, I must say this does not at all coincide with your
description,” said his uncle, turning and looking his nephew full in the
face.

“I didn't wish to make things too bad, sir. Of course, we are not very
rich over there; but still, Nora does exaggerate.”

“Look here, Nora,” said her uncle, suddenly turning and pulling her down
to sit beside him, “you and I must have a little chat. We will just go and
have it right away. You shall tell me your version of the story quite by
ourselves.” He then rose and drew her out of the room.

“Where shall we go?” he said when they stood for a moment in the
conservatory, into which the big dining room opened.

“Do you really mean it?” said Nora.

“Mean what, dear?”

“To talk to me about—about my letter? Do you mean it?”

“Certainly I do, and there is no time like the present. Come—where
shall we go?”

“Where we can be alone; where none of the prim English can interrupt.”

“Nora, you must not be so prejudiced. We are not so bad as all that.”

“Oh, I know it. I wish you were bad; it's because you are so awfully good
that I hate—I mean, that I cannot get on with any of you.”

“Poor child! you are a little wild creature. Come into my study; we shall
be quite safe from interruption there.”

CHAPTER XVIII. — A COMPACT.

Mr. Hartrick, still holding Nora's hand, took her down a corridor, and the
next moment they found themselves in a large room, with oak bookcases and
lined with oak throughout; but it was a stately sort of apartment, and it
oppressed the girl as much as the rest of the house had done.

“I had thought,” she murmured inwardly, “that his study would be a little
bare. I cannot think how he can stand such closeness, so much furniture.”
She sighed as the thought came to her.

“More and more sighs, my little Irish girl,” said Mr. Hartrick. “Why, what
is the matter with you?”

“I cannot breathe; but I'll soon get accustomed to it,” said Nora.

“Cannot breathe? Are you subject to asthma, my dear?”

“Oh, no, no; but there is so much furniture, and I am accustomed to so
little.”

“All right, Nora; but now you must pull yourself together, and try to be
broad-minded enough to take us English folk as we are. We are not wild; we
are civilized. Our houses are not bare; but I presume you must consider
them comfortable.”

“Oh, yes,” said Nora; “yes.”

“Do you dislike comfortable houses?”

“Hate them!” said Nora.

“My dear, dear child!”

“You would if you were me—wouldn't you, Uncle George?”

“I suppose if I were you I should feel as you do, Nora. I must honestly
say I am very thankful I am not you.”

Nora did not reply at all to that.

“Ah, at home now,” she said, “the moon is getting up, and it is making a
path of silver on the waves, and it is touching the head of Slieve
Nagorna. The dear old Slieve generally keeps his snow nightcap on, and I
dare say he has it by now. In very hot weather, sometimes, it melts and
disappears; but probably he has got his first coat of snow by now, just on
his very top, you know. Then, when the moon shines on it and then on the
water—why, don't you think, Uncle George, you would rather look at
Slieve Nagorna, with the snow on him and the moon touching his forehead,
and the path of silver on the water, than—than be just comfortable?”

“I don't see why I should not have both,” said Mr. Hartrick after a pause;
“the silver path on the water and the grand look of Slieve Nagorna (I can
quite fancy what he is like from your description, Nora), and also have a
house nicely furnished, and good things to eat, and——. But I
see we are at daggers drawn, my dear niece. Now, please tell me what your
letter means.”

“Do you really want me to tell you now?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know why I have really come here?”

“You said something in your letter; but you did not explain yourself very
clearly.”