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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Light O' The Morning, by L. T. Meade
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Light O' The Morning
+
+Author: L. T. Meade
+
+
+Release Date: January, 2005 [EBook #7231]
+This file was first posted on March 29, 2003
+Last Updated: March 16, 2018
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LIGHT O' THE MORNING ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Anne Folland, Tiffany Vergon,Charles Franks
+and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+LIGHT O' THE MORNING
+
+_The Story of an Irish Girl_
+
+
+By L. T. Meade
+
+
+
+CONTENTS.
+
+
+CHAPTER
+
+I. NORA
+
+II. “SOME MORE OF THE LAND MUST GO”
+
+III. THE WILD MURPHYS
+
+IV. THE INVITATION
+
+V. “I AM ASHAMED OF YOU”
+
+VI. THE CAVE OF THE BANSHEE
+
+VII. THE MURPHYS
+
+VIII. THE SQUIRE'S TROUBLE
+
+IX. EDUCATION AND OTHER THINGS
+
+X. THE INVITATION
+
+XI. THE DIAMOND CROSS
+
+XII. A FEATHER-BED HOUSE
+
+XIII. “THERE'S MOLLY”
+
+XIV. BITS OF SLANG
+
+XV. TWO LETTERS
+
+XVI. A CHEEKY IRISH GIRL
+
+XVII. TWO DESCRIPTIONS
+
+XVIII. A COMPACT
+
+XIX. “SHE WILL SOON TAME DOWN”
+
+XX. STEPHANOTIE
+
+XXI. THE ROSE-COLORED DRESS
+
+XXII. LETTERS
+
+XXIII. THE BOX OF BON-BONS
+
+XXIV. THE TELEGRAM
+
+XXV. THE BLOW
+
+XXVI. TEN POUNDS
+
+XXVII. ADVENTURES--AND HOME AGAIN
+
+XXVIII. THE WILD IRISH
+
+XXIX. ALTERATIONS
+
+XXX. THE LION IN His CAGE
+
+XXXI. RELEASE OF THE CAPTIVE
+
+XXXII. ANDY
+
+XXXIII. THE CABIN ON THE MOUNTAIN
+
+XXXIV. A DARING DEED
+
+XXXV. THE COT WHERE HE WAS BORN
+
+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.”
+
+“I came here,” said Nora, “for a short visit. I want to go back again
+soon. Time is flying. Already a month of the three months is over. In
+two months' time the blow will fall unless--unless you, Uncle George,
+avert it.”
+
+“The blow, dear? What blow?”
+
+“They are going,” said Nora--she held out both her hands--“the place,
+the sea, the mountains, the home of our ancestors, they are going
+unless--unless you help us, Uncle George.”
+
+“My dear Nora, you are very melodramatic; you must try and talk plain
+English. Do you mean to say that Castle O'Shanaghgan--”
+
+“Yes, that's it,” said Nora; “it is mortgaged. I don't quite know what
+mortgaged means, but it is something very bad; and unless father can get
+a great deal of money--I don't know how much, but a good deal--before
+two months are up, the man to whom Castle O'Shanaghgan is mortgaged will
+take possession of it. He is a horrid Englishman; but he will go there,
+and he will turn father out, and mother out, and me--oh, Terence doesn't
+matter. Terence never was an Irishman--never, never; but he will turn us
+out. We will go away. Oh, it does not greatly matter for me, because I
+am young; and it does not greatly matter for mother, because she is an
+English woman. Oh, yes, Uncle George, she is just like you--she likes
+comfort; she likes richly furnished rooms; but she is my mother, and of
+course I love her; she will stand it, for she will think perhaps we will
+come here to this country. But it is father I am thinking of, the old
+lion, the old king, the dear, grand old father. He won't understand,
+he'll be so puzzled. No other place will suit him; he won't say a word;
+it's not the way of the O'Shanaghgans to grumble. He won't utter a word;
+he will go away, and he will--die. His heart will be broken; he will
+die.”
+
+“Nora, my dear child!”
+
+“It is true,” said Nora. Her face was ghastly white; her words came out
+in broken sobs. “I see him, Uncle George; every night I see him, with
+his bowed head, and his broken heart, and his steps getting slower
+and slower. He'll be so puzzled, for he is such a true Irishman, Uncle
+George. You don't know what we are--happy one day, miserable the next.
+He thinks somehow, somehow, that the money will be paid. But, oh, Uncle
+George!--I suppose I have got a little bit of the English in me after
+all--I know it will not be paid, that no one will lend it to him, not
+any of his old friends and cronies; and he will have to go, and it
+will break his heart, unless, unless you help him. I thought of you;
+I guessed you must be rich. I see now that you are very rich. Oh, how
+rich!--rich enough for carriages, and thick carpets, and easy-chairs,
+and tables, and grand dresses, and--and all those sort of things; and
+you will help--won't you? Please, do! please, do! You'll be so glad some
+day that you helped the old king, and saved him from dying of a broken
+heart. Please, help him, Uncle George.”
+
+“My dear little girl!” said Mr. Hartrick. He was really affected by
+Nora's speech; it was wild; it was unconventional; there was a great
+deal of false sentiment about it; but the child herself was true, and
+her eyes were beautiful, and she looked graceful, and young, and full
+of passion, almost primeval passion, as she stood there before him. Then
+she believed in him. If she did not believe in anyone else in the house,
+she believed in him. She thought that if she asked him he would help.
+
+“Now, tell me,” he said after a pause, “does your mother know what you
+have come here for?”
+
+“Mother? Certainly not; I told you in my letter that you must not
+breathe a word of it to mother; and father does not know. No one knows
+but I--Nora, I myself.”
+
+“This has been completely your own idea?”
+
+“Completely.”
+
+“You are a brave girl.”
+
+“Oh, I don't know about being brave. I had to do something. If you
+belonged to Patrick O'Shanaghgan you would do something for him too.
+Have you ever seen him, Uncle George?”
+
+“Yes, at the time of my sister's wedding, but not since.”
+
+“And then?”
+
+“He was as handsome a fellow as I ever laid eyes on, and Irish through
+and through.”
+
+“Of course. What else would he be?”
+
+“I have not seen him since. My sister, poor Ellen, she was a beautiful
+girl when she was young, Nora.”
+
+“She is stately, like a queen,” said Nora. “We all admire her very, very
+much.”
+
+“And love her, my dear?”
+
+“Oh yes, of course I love mother.”
+
+“But not as well as your father?”
+
+“You could not, Uncle George, if you knew father.”
+
+“Well, I shall not ask any more. You really do want me to help?”
+
+“If you can; if it will not cost you too much money.”
+
+“And you mean that your father is absolutely, downright poor?”
+
+“Oh, I suppose so. I don't think that matters a bit. We wouldn't like to
+be rich, neither father nor I; but we do want to keep O'Shanaghgan.”
+
+“Even without carpets and chairs and tables?” said Mr. Hartrick.
+
+“We don't care about carpets and chairs and tables,” said Nora. “We want
+to keep O'Shanaghgan, the place where father was born and I was born.”
+
+“Well, look here, Nora. I can make you no promises just now; but I
+respect you, my dear, and I will certainly do something--what I cannot
+possibly tell you, for I must look into this matter for myself. But I
+will do this: I will go to O'Shanaghgan this week and see my sister, and
+find out from the Squire what really is wrong.”
+
+“You will?” said Nora. She thought quickly. Her father would hate it;
+but, after all, it was the only chance. Even she had sufficient common
+sense to know that Mr. Hartrick could not help unless he went to the old
+place.
+
+“Oh, you will do it when you see it,” she said, with sudden rapture.
+“And you'll take me home with you?”
+
+“Well, I think not, Nora. Now that you are here you must stay. I am fond
+of you, my little girl, although I know very little about you; but I do
+think that you have very mistaken ideas. I want you to love your English
+cousins for your mother's sake, and to love their home for your mother's
+sake also; and I should like you to have a few lessons, and to take some
+hints from your Aunt Grace, for you are wild, and need training. If I go
+to O'Shanaghgan for you, will you stay at The Laurels for me?”
+
+“I will do anything, anything for you, if you save father,” said Nora.
+She fell on her knees before her uncle could prevent her, took his hand,
+and kissed it.
+
+“Then it is a compact,” said Mr. Hartrick; “but remember I only promise
+to go. I cannot make any promises to help your father until I have seen
+him.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIX.
+
+
+SHE WILL SOON TAME DOWN.
+
+“I am going to Ireland to-morrow, Grace,” said Mr. Hartrick to his wife
+that evening.
+
+“To Ireland!” she cried. “What for?”
+
+“I want to see my sister Ellen. I feel that I have neglected her too
+long. I shall run over to O'Shanaghgan, and stay there for two or three
+nights.”
+
+“Why are you doing this, George?” said Mrs. Hartrick very slowly.
+
+Mr. Hartrick was silent for a moment; then he said gravely:
+
+“I have heard bad news from that child.”
+
+“From Nora?”
+
+“Yes, from Nora.”
+
+“But Terence has never given us bad news.”
+
+“Terence is not a patch upon Nora, my dear Grace.”
+
+“There I cannot agree with you. I infinitely prefer Terence to Nora,”
+ was Mrs. Hartrick's calm reply.
+
+“But I thought you admired the child.”
+
+“Oh, I admire what the child may become,” was the cautious answer. “I
+cannot admire a perfectly wild girl, who has no idea of self-discipline
+or self-restraint. And remember one thing, George: whatever she says to
+you, you must take, to use a vulgarism, with a grain of salt. An
+Irish girl cannot help exaggerating. She has doubtless exaggerated the
+condition of things.”
+
+“I only pray God she has,” was Mr. Hartrick's reply.
+
+
+“If things are even half as bad as she represents them, it is high time
+that I should pay my sister a visit.”
+
+“Why? What does she say?”
+
+“She has given me a picture of the state of affairs at that house which
+wrings my heart, Grace. To think that my beautiful sister Ellen should
+be subjected to such discomforts, to such miseries, is intolerable. I
+intend to go to O'Shanaghgan to-morrow, and will see how matters are for
+myself.”
+
+Mrs. Hartrick was again silent for a moment or two; then she said
+gravely:
+
+“Doubtless you are right to do this; but I hope, while you are away, you
+will do nothing rash.”
+
+“What do you mean?”
+
+“I mean that, from the little I have seen of Nora, she is a very
+impetuous creature, and has tried perhaps to wring a promise from you.”
+
+“I will tell you quite simply what she has said, Grace, and then you
+will understand. She says her father has mortgaged the Castle evidently
+up to the hilt. The mortgagees will foreclose in a couple of months,
+unless money can be found to buy them off. Now, it has just occurred
+to me that I might buy Castle O'Shanaghgan for ourselves as a sort of
+summer residence, put it in order, and allow Patrick O'Shanaghgan to
+live there, and my sister. By and by the place can go to Terence, as
+we have no son of our own. I have plenty of money. What do you think of
+this suggestion, Grace?”
+
+“It might not be a bad one,” said Mrs. Hartrick; “but I could not
+possibly go to a place of that sort unless it were put into proper
+repair.”
+
+“It is, I believe, in reality a fine old place, and the grounds are
+beautiful,” said Mr. Hartrick. “A few thousand pounds would put it into
+order, and we could furnish it from Dublin. You could have a great many
+guests there, and--”
+
+“But what about the O'Shanaghgans themselves?”
+
+“Well, perhaps they would go somewhere else for the couple of months we
+should need to occupy the house during the summer. Anyhow, I feel that I
+must do something for Ellen's sake; but I will let you know more after I
+have been there.”
+
+Mrs. Hartrick asked a few more questions. After a time she said:
+
+“Is Nora to remain here?”
+
+“Yes. I was going to speak to you about that. It is a sad pity that so
+pretty a girl should grow up wild. We had better keep her with us for
+the next two or three years. She will soon tame down and learn our
+English habits; then, with her undeniable Irish charm and great beauty,
+she will be able to do something with her life.”
+
+“I shall be quite pleased to have her,” said Mrs. Hartrick in a cordial
+tone. “I like training young girls, and Nora is the sort who would do me
+credit if she really were willing to take pains.”
+
+“I am sure she will be; she is an honest little soul.”
+
+“Oh, I see you are bewitched by her.”
+
+“No, not bewitched; but I admire honesty and candor, and the child has
+got both.”
+
+“Well, well!” said Mrs. Hartrick, “if it is arranged that Nora is to
+stay here, I will go and see Miss Flowers at Linda's and Molly's school
+to-morrow, and ask if Nora can be admitted as a pupil. There is no use
+in losing time, and she may as well start her lessons next week. By all
+means, George, go and do your best for the poor things. Of course your
+sister ought not to be allowed to be in money difficulties.”
+
+“I should think not,” said Mr. Hartrick.
+
+The next day Mr. Hartrick bade Nora and his own family good-by,
+and started on his expedition to Ireland. Nora was quivering with
+impatience. When she had seen the last of him she turned back into the
+house, and was there met by her brother Terence.
+
+“Come here, Nora. I want to speak to you,” he said.
+
+She followed him into the nearest room. He closed the door behind them.
+
+“May I ask what you have been saying to Uncle George?”
+
+“You may ask, of course, Terry; but I don't mean to tell you,” answered
+Nora.
+
+“It is because of you he is going to Ireland?”
+
+“It is because of something I have said.”
+
+“How do you think our mother will like it? You know how proud she is;
+how all these years she has determined to put a good face on things, and
+not to allow her relations in England to know the truth. I have followed
+her cue, and have been careful to make the very best of things at Castle
+O'Shanaghgan.”
+
+“Oh, it is easy to tell lies,” said Nora, with scorn.
+
+“Nora, you talk in a very silly way, and I often have no patience with
+you,” answered her brother. “If I have regard to my mother's feelings,
+why should you despise me? You are supposed to consider our father's
+feelings.”
+
+“That is very different; the whole thing is different,” said Nora. She
+flushed, bit her lip, and then turned away.
+
+“You must hear me,” said Terence, looking at her with some impatience;
+“you must, you shall. You are quite intolerable with your conceit and
+your silly, silly Irish ways.”
+
+“Well, go on. What have you to say to me?”
+
+“That I think you were guilty of dishonor in talking as you did at
+dinner last night. You spoke of the place and the poverty in a way which
+quite put me to the blush. I hope in future, while you are here, you
+will cease to run the O'Shanaghgans down. It is not worthy of you, Nora,
+and I am ashamed of you.”
+
+“Run them down--I?” said poor Nora in astonishment.
+
+“Yes, you.”
+
+She was silent for a moment; she was making a great effort to recover
+her equanimity. Was Terence right? Had she done wrong to speak before
+her aunt and cousins as she had done? Of course her uncle was different;
+it was absolutely necessary that he at least should know the truth.
+A distressful sense of dismay at her own impetuosity came over her.
+Terence watched her narrowly. He was fond of Nora in his heart of
+hearts, and also proud of her; and now that he saw she was really sorry
+he went up to her, put his arm round her neck, and kissed her.
+
+“Never mind, little girl,” he said, “you are young. Try to be guided by
+me in future, and do not give yourself away. We Irish wear our hearts on
+our sleeves, and that sort of thing does not go down in England.”
+
+“Oh, how I hate this cold England!” said the Irish girl, with passion.
+
+“There you are again, all your feelings expressed too broadly. You will
+never endure life if you go on as you have begun, Nora.”
+
+“Terence,” said Nora, looking up at him, “when are you going home?”
+
+“When am I going home? Thank you, I am very comfortable here.”
+
+“Don't you think that just at present, when father is in trouble, his
+only son, the heir of O'Shanaghgan, ought to be with him?”
+
+“Poor old O'Shanaghgan,” said the lad, with impatience; “you think that
+it comprises the whole of the world. I tell you what it is, Nora, I am
+made differently, and I infinitely prefer England. My uncle has been
+kind enough to offer me a small post in his business. Did I not tell
+you?”
+
+“No, no; I never knew what my uncle's business was.”
+
+“He is a merchant prince, Nora; an enormously rich man. He owns
+warehouses upon warehouses. He has offered me a post in one--a very good
+post, and a certain income.”
+
+“And you mean to accept?” said Nora, her eyes flashing fire.
+
+“Well, I am writing to mother on the subject. I think it would be well
+to do so.”
+
+“You, an O'Shanaghgan, will descend to trade?” replied the girl.
+
+“Oh, folly! folly! Nora, your ideas are really too antiquated.”
+
+Nora did not speak at all for a moment; then she walked toward the door.
+
+“I cannot understand you,” she said. “I am awfully sorry. I was born
+different; I was made different. I cannot understand why you should
+bring dishonor to the old place.”
+
+“By earning a little money to keep us all from beggary,” retorted the
+lad in a bitter tone; but Nora did not hear him; she had left the
+room. Her eyes were smarting with unshed tears. She went out into the
+shrubbery in search of Molly.
+
+“But for Molly I should break my heart,” she thought.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XX.
+
+
+STEPHANOTIE.
+
+Mrs. Hartrick made all necessary arrangements, and on the following
+Monday Nora accompanied her cousin to school. Molly was much delighted.
+
+“Now I shall be able to work,” she said, “and I won't be guilty of slang
+when you are by. Don't whisper it to Linda. She would be in the seventh
+heaven of bliss, and I detest pleasing her; but I would do anything in
+the world for you, Nora creena.”
+
+Nora gave her cousin's arm an affectionate squeeze.
+
+“I have never been to school,” said Nora; “you must instruct me what I
+am to do.”
+
+“Oh, dear, dear!” said Molly, “you won't need instruction; you are as
+sharp and smart as any girl could be. You'll be a little puzzled at
+first about the different classes, and I'll give you hints about how to
+take notes and all that sort of thing. But you will quickly get into the
+way of it, and then you'll learn like a house on fire.”
+
+“I wish you two wouldn't whisper together so much,” said Linda in an
+annoyed voice. “I am going over my French parsing to myself, and you do
+interrupt me so.”
+
+“Then walk a little farther away from us,” said Molly rudely.
+
+She turned once more to her cousin.
+
+“I will introduce you to the very nicest girls in my form,” she said. “I
+do hope you'll be put into my form, for then in the evenings you and I
+can do our work together. I expect you know about as much as I do.”
+
+“But that's just it--I don't,” said Nora. “I have not learned a bit in
+the school way. I had a governess for a time, but she did not know
+a great deal. Of course mother taught me too; but I have not had
+advantages. I should not be surprised if I were put into the lowest
+form.”
+
+They now arrived at the school, and a few minutes later Nora found
+herself in a huge classroom in which about sixty other girls were
+assembled. Miss Flowers presently sent a pupil-teacher to ask Miss
+O'Shanaghgan to have an interview with her in her private room.
+
+Miss Flowers was about fifty years of age. She had white hair, calm,
+large, well-opened blue eyes, a steadfast mouth, and a gracious and at
+the same time dignified manner. She was not exactly beautiful; but she
+had the sort of face which most girls respected and which many loved.
+Nora looked earnestly at her, and in her wild, impulsive Irish fashion,
+gave her heart on the spot.
+
+“What is your name, my dear?” said the head-mistress kindly.
+
+Nora told it.
+
+“You are Irish, Mrs. Hartrick tells me.”
+
+“Yes, Miss Flowers, I have lived all my life in Ireland.”
+
+“I must find out what sort of instruction you have had. Have you ever
+been at school before?”
+
+“Never.”
+
+“How old are you?”
+
+“Sixteen, Miss Flowers.”
+
+“What things have you been taught?”
+
+“English subjects of different sorts,” replied Nora. “A little
+music--oh, I love music, I do love music!--and a little French; and I
+can speak Irish,” she added, raising her beautiful, dark-blue eyes, and
+fixing them on the face of the head-mistress. That winsome face touched
+Miss Flowers' heart.
+
+“I will do what I can for you,” she said. “For the present you had
+better study alone. At the end of a week or so I shall be able to
+determine what form to put you in. Now, go back to the schoolroom and
+ask Miss Goring to come to me.”
+
+Miss Goring was the English mistress. Miss Flowers saw her alone for a
+minute or two.
+
+“Do what you can for the Irish girl,” she said. “She is a very pretty
+creature; she is evidently ignorant; but I think she has plenty of
+talent.”
+
+Miss Goring went back, and during the rest of the morning devoted
+herself to Nora. Nora had varied and strange acquirements at her
+finger's ends. She was up in all sorts of folk lore; she could clothe
+her speech in picturesque and striking language. She could repeat
+poetry from Sir Walter Scott, from Shakspere, from the old Irish bards
+themselves; but her grammar was defective, although her reading aloud
+was very pretty and sweet. Her knowledge of history was vague, and might
+be best described by the expression, up and down. She knew all about
+the Waldenses; she had a vivid picture in her mind's eye of St.
+Bartholomew's Eve. The French Revolution appalled and, at the same time,
+attracted her. The death of Charles I. drew tears from her eyes; but she
+knew nothing whatever of the chronological arrangements of history; and
+the youngest girl in the school could have put her to shame with regard
+to the Magna Charta. It was just the same with every branch of knowledge
+which Nora had even a smattering of.
+
+At last the great test of all came--could she play or could she not? She
+had spoken often of her passionate love for music. Miss Goring took her
+into the drawing room, away from the other girls.
+
+“I am not supposed to be musical,” she said, “but I think I know music
+when I hear it. If you have talent, you shall have plenty of advantages
+here. Now, sit down and play something for me.”
+
+“What! At that piano?” said Nora, her eyes sparkling. Miss Goring had
+opened a magnificent Broadwood grand.
+
+“Yes,” she said. “It is rather daring of me to bring you here; but I
+want you to have fair play.”
+
+“I never played on a really good piano in my life,” said Nora. “May I
+venture?”
+
+“Yes. I do not believe you will injure it.”
+
+“May I play as loud as I like, and as soft as I like?”
+
+“Certainly. You may play exactly as you please; only play with all your
+heart. You will be taught scientific music doubtless; but I want to know
+what you can do without education, at present.”
+
+Nora sat down. At first she felt a little shy, and all her surroundings
+were so strange, the piano was so big; she touched it with her small,
+taper fingers, and it seemed to her that the deep, soft notes were going
+to overpower her. Then she looked at Miss Goring and felt uncomfortable;
+but she touched the notes again, and she began to forget the room, and
+Miss Goring, and the grand piano; and the soul of music stood in
+her eyes and touched the tips of her fingers. The music was quite
+unclassical, quite unconventional; but it was music--a wild kind of
+wailing chant--the notes of the Banshee itself. Nora played on, and the
+tears filled her eyes and streamed down her cheeks.
+
+“Oh, it hurts so!” she said at last, and she looked full up at Miss
+Goring. Behold, the cold, gray eyes of the English teacher were also
+full of tears.
+
+“You terrify me,” she said. “Where did you hear anything like that?”
+
+“That is the wail of the Banshee. Shall I play any more?”
+
+“Nothing more so eerie.”
+
+“Then may I sing for you?”
+
+“Can you sing?”
+
+“I was never taught; but I think I can sing.” Nora struck a few chords
+again. She sang the pathetic words, “She is Far from the Land,” and Miss
+Goring felt the tears filling her eyes once more.
+
+“Upon my word!” she said, as she led her pupil back to the schoolroom,
+“you can play and you can sing; you have music in you. It would be worth
+while to give you good lessons.”
+
+Nora's musical education was now taken up with vigor. Miss Goring
+spoke to Miss Flowers about it, and Miss Flowers communicated with Mrs.
+Hartrick; and Mrs. Hartrick was extremely pleased to find that she had
+a musical genius in her midst, and determined to give that same musical
+genius every chance. Accordingly, the very best master in the school
+arranged to give Nora lessons, and a mistress of striking ability took
+her also in hand. Nora's wild music, the music that came from her heart,
+and the song that bubbled from her lips, were absolutely silenced. She
+must not sing at will; she must on no account play at will. The dullest
+of exercises were given to her for the purpose of molding her fingers,
+and the dullest of voice exercises were also given to her for the
+purpose of molding her voice. She struggled against the discipline, and
+hated it. She was essentially a child of nature, and this first putting
+on of the chains of education was the reverse of pleasant.
+
+“Oh, Molly,” she said, “what is the good of singing those hateful,
+screaming exercises, and those scales? They are too detestable, and
+those little twists and turns. My fingers absolutely feel quite nervous.
+What is the use? What is the use?”
+
+Molly also sighed and said, “What is the use?” But then the musical
+mistress and the great master looked at Nora all over when she made
+similar remarks, and would not even vouchsafe to answer.
+
+“Father would never be soothed with that sort of music,” she said. “I
+think he would be very glad we had not a good piano. Oh, Molly, what
+does it all mean?”
+
+“I don't know,” said Molly. “It's like all other education, nothing but
+grind, grind; but I suppose something will come of it in the long run.”
+
+“What are you talking about, girls?” said Mrs. Hartrick, who just then
+appeared upon the scene. “Nora, I am pleased; to get very good reports
+of your music.”
+
+“Oh!” said Nora, “I am glad you have come, Aunt Grace; and I shall be
+able to speak to you. Must I learn what takes all the music out of me?”
+
+“Silly child. There is only one road to a sound musical education, and
+that is the road of toil. At present you play by ear, and sing by ear.
+You have talent; but it must be cultivated. Just believe that your
+elders know what they are about.”
+
+Nora did not say anything. Mrs. Hartrick, after looking at her gravely
+for a moment, continued her gentle walk round the shrubbery. Molly
+uttered a sigh.
+
+“There's no good, Nora,” she said. “You'll have to go through with it. I
+suppose it is the only way; but it's hard to believe it.”
+
+“Well, at any rate, I enjoy other things in my school life,” said Nora.
+“Miss Goring is so nice, and I quite love Miss Flowers; and, after all,
+I am in your form, Molly, and we do like doing our lessons together.”
+
+“To be sure we do; life is quite a different thing for me since you have
+come here,” was Molly's retort.
+
+“And you have been very good indeed about your naughty words, you know,”
+ said Nora, nestling up to her cousin.
+
+“Have I? Well, it's owing to you. You see, now, I have someone to help
+me--someone to understand me.”
+
+“Ah!” said Nora; “but I won't be here very long.”
+
+“Not here very long! Why, you must. What is the use of beginning school
+and then stopping it?”
+
+“School or no school, my place is by father's side. It is a long, long
+time since we heard from Uncle George. As soon as ever he comes back I
+go.”
+
+“Father has been a whole month in Ireland now,” said Molly. “I cannot
+imagine what he is doing. I think mother fidgets rather. She has very
+long letters from him, and----”
+
+“And, do you know,” said Nora, “that father has not written to me
+once--no, not once since Uncle George went over? I am absolutely in the
+dark.”
+
+“I wonder you stand it,” said Molly. “You are so impetuous. I cannot
+imagine why you don't fly back.”
+
+“I could not,” said Nora.
+
+“Could not? What is there to hinder you?”
+
+“I have given my word.”
+
+“Your word? To whom?”
+
+“To your father. He went to Ireland to please me.”
+
+“Oh, did he? That's exciting,” said Molly. “Father went to Ireland to
+please a little chit like you. Now, what does this mean?”
+
+“It means exactly what I have said. He went because I begged him to;
+because I explained things to him, and he said he would go. But he made
+a condition, and I am bound to stick to my part of it.”
+
+“And that was----How your eyes shine, Nora!”
+
+“That was, that I am to stay patiently here, and get as English as ever
+I can. Oh! I must stick to my part of the bargain.”
+
+“Well, I cannot say you look very happy,” said Molly, “although you are
+such a favorite at the school. If I was not very fond of you myself I
+should be jealous. If I had a friend whom I really worshiped, before you
+appeared on the scene, it was Stephanotie Miller, the American girl.”
+
+“Oh, isn't she charming?” said Nora. “She makes me laugh. I am sure she
+has Irish blood in her.”
+
+“Not a bit of it; she's a Yankee of the Yankees.”
+
+“Well, she has been sent to school to get tame, just as I have been,”
+ said Nora; “but I don't want you to lose her friendship. After all,
+I care very little for anyone in the school but you, Molly; only
+Stephanotie makes me laugh.”
+
+“We'll have her to tea tomorrow. I'll run in now and ask mother. I
+shan't mind a bit if you are not going quite to take her from me. After
+all, she can be friends with both of us. I'll run into the house this
+moment, and ask mother if we may have Stephanotie to tea.”
+
+Molly rushed into the house. Her mother was seated in the morning room,
+busily writing.
+
+“Well, my dear, well?” she said. “I hear you--you need not bang the
+door. What is it, Molly?”
+
+“Oh, mother! do look up and listen.”
+
+Mrs. Hartrick raised her head slowly.
+
+“Yes, dear?” she said.
+
+“I have behaved a great deal better lately--have I not, mother?”
+
+“You certainly have, Molly; and I am pleased with you. If you would
+restrain some of your impetuosity, I should be glad to tell you how
+pleased I am.”
+
+“It is all owing to Nora.”
+
+“To Nora, my dear! Nora is as wild as you are.”
+
+“All the same, it is owing to Nora; and she is not as wild as I am. I
+mean that I have been downright vulgar; but if you think there is one
+trace of that in little Nora, it is because you do not know her a bit.”
+
+“What is your special request, Molly? I am very busy just now, and
+cannot discuss your cousin's character. You have improved, and I am
+pleased with you.”
+
+“Then, if you are pleased with me, mother, will you do me a favor?”
+
+“What is that?”
+
+“Stephanotie Miller has never been at our house.”
+
+“Stephanotie Miller. What an outlandish name! Who is she?”
+
+“She is a dear, jolly, sweet, handsome American girl. She came to school
+last term, and she is in the same form with Nora and me; and we both
+adore her, yes we do. Whatever she does, and whatever she says, we think
+simply perfection; and we want to ask her here. She is staying with a
+rather tiresome aunt, in a little house in the village, and she has come
+over to be Englishized. May she have tea with us tomorrow?”
+
+“I will inquire about her from Miss Flowers; and if she seems to be a
+nice girl I shall have no objection.”
+
+“But we want her to come tomorrow,” said Molly. “It is Saturday, you
+know, and a whole holiday. We thought she might come to lunch, or, if
+you objected to that, immediately after lunch.”
+
+“And what about Linda? Does Linda like her?”
+
+“Holy Moses, no!” said Molly.
+
+“Molly!”
+
+“Oh, mother! do forgive me, and don't say she mustn't come because I
+said 'Holy Moses.' It's all Linda; she excites the vulgar in me always.
+But may Stephie come, mother? You are always having Linda's friends
+here.”
+
+“I will not be reproved by you, Molly.”
+
+“But, please, dear mother, let her come. Nora and I want her so badly.”
+
+“Well, dear, I will try and see Miss Flowers tomorrow morning.”
+
+“Won't you judge of her for yourself, mother? There never was a better
+judge than you are.”
+
+This judicious flattery had its effect on Mrs. Hartrick, She sat quite
+still for a moment, pondering. After all, to be a pupil at Mrs. Flowers'
+school was in itself a certificate of respectability, and Molly had been
+very good lately--that is, for her; and if she and Nora wanted a special
+friend to spend the afternoon with them, it would be possible for Mrs.
+Hartrick quickly to decide whether the invitation was to be repeated.
+
+“Very well,” she said, looking at her daughter, “for this once you may
+have her; and as you have wisely expressed it, Molly, I can judge for
+myself.”
+
+“Oh, thank you, thank you, mother!”
+
+Molly rushed out of the room. She was flying headlong down the passage,
+when she came plump up against Linda.
+
+“Now, what is up?” said that young person. “Really, Molly!”
+
+“Oh, hurrah! I have won my way for once,” said Molly. “Stephanotie is
+coming tomorrow to spend the whole afternoon.”
+
+“Stephanotie--that horrid Yankee?” said Linda.
+
+“Horrid Yankee yourself!” was Molly's vulgar retort.
+
+“But she cannot come. I have asked Mabel and Rose Armitage, and you know
+they cannot stand Stephanotie.”
+
+“Well, you, and your Mabel and Rose, can keep away from
+Stephanotie--that's all,” said Molly. “Anyhow, she is coming. Don't keep
+me. I must tell Nora.”
+
+Linda made way for her sister to fly past her, as she afterward
+expressed it, like a whirlwind. She stood still for a moment in deep
+consideration. Stephanotie was a daring, bright, go-ahead young person,
+and had she ever taken, in the very least, to Linda, Linda would have
+worshiped her. Stephanotie was extremely rich, and the bouquets she
+brought to school, and the bon-bons she kept in her pocket, and the
+pretty trinkets she wore, and the dresses she exhibited had fascinated
+Linda more than once. For, rich as the Hartricks were, Mrs. Hartrick
+had far too good taste to allow her daughters more pocket-money, or more
+trinkets, or more bon-bons than their companions. Linda, in her heart
+of hearts, had greatly rebelled against her mother's rule in this
+particular, and had envied Stephanotie what she called her free life.
+But Stephanotie had never taken to Linda, and she had taken to Molly,
+and still more had she taken to Nora; and, in consequence, Linda
+pretended to hate her, and whenever she had an opportunity used to run
+her down.
+
+Linda and her friends, Rose and Mabel Armitage, with several other
+girls, formed quite a clique in the school against Stephanotie and what
+she termed her “set”; and now to think that this very objectionable
+American girl was to spend the next day at The Laurels because Molly,
+forsooth! wished it, was quite intolerable.
+
+Linda thought for a moment, then went into the room where her mother was
+busy writing. Mrs. Hartrick had just finished her letter. She looked up
+when Linda approached.
+
+“Well, darling?” she said. Mrs. Hartrick was very fond of Linda, and
+petted her a great deal more than Molly.
+
+“Oh, mother! I am vexed,” said Linda. “Is it quite settled?”
+
+“Is what settled, my dear?”
+
+“Is it quite settled that Stephanotie is to come to-morrow?”
+
+“By the way, I was going to ask you about her, Linda. What sort of girl
+is she?”
+
+“I do not wish to say anything against my schoolfellows, mother; but if
+you could only see her--”
+
+Mrs. Hartrick raised her eyebrows in alarm.
+
+“Molly has taken so violently to her,” she answered, “and so has Nora;
+and I thought that just for once--”
+
+“So you have given leave, mother?”
+
+“Yes; I have.”
+
+“And my friends are coming--those two charming girls, the Armitages.”
+
+“Yes, dear; I greatly admire both the Armitage girls. I am glad they are
+coming; but why should not Miss Miller come also?”
+
+“Only, she is not in their 'set,' mother--that is all. I wish--I do wish
+you would ask her to postpone her visit. If she must come, let her come
+another Saturday.”
+
+
+“I will think about it,” said Mrs. Hartrick. “I have certainly promised
+and----But I will think about it.”
+
+Linda saw that she could not press her mother any further. She went away
+in great disquietude.
+
+“What is to be done?” she thought. “If only mother would speak to Molly
+at once; but Molly is so impetuous; and once Stephanotie is asked, there
+will be no getting out of it. She is just the sort of girl to tell that
+unpleasant story about me, too. If mother knew that, why, I should at
+last be in her black books. Well, whatever happens, Stephanotie must not
+be asked to spend the afternoon here to-morrow. I must somehow contrive
+to put some obstacle in the way.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXI.
+
+
+THE ROSE-COLORED DRESS.
+
+Meanwhile Molly rushed off to Nora. “Linda means mischief, and I must
+put my foot down immediately,” she said.
+
+“Why, Molly, what is up?”
+
+“Put on your hat, darling, and come with me as fast as ever you can.”
+
+“Where to?”
+
+“Mother has given in about Stephanotie. Linda will put her finger in the
+pie if she possibly can. I mean Stephanotie to get her invitation within
+the next five minutes. Now, then, come along, Nora. Do be quick.”
+
+Mrs. Hartrick never allowed the girls to go out except very neatly
+dressed; but on this occasion they were seen tearing down the road with
+their garden hats on and minus their gloves. Had anyone from The Laurels
+observed them, good-by to Molly's liberty for many a long day. No one
+did, however. Linda during the critical moment was closeted with her
+mother. When she reappeared the girls were halfway to the village. They
+reached it in good time, and arrived at the house of Miss Truefitt,
+Stephanotie's aunt.
+
+Miss Truefitt was an old-fashioned and precise little lady. She had
+gone through a great deal of trouble since the arrival of her niece, and
+often, as she expressed it, did not know whether she stood on her head
+or her heels; but she was fond of Stephanotie, who, notwithstanding her
+wild ways, was very affectionate and very taking. And now, when she saw
+Molly and Nora appearing, she herself entered the hall and opened the
+door for them.
+
+“Well, my dears,” she said, “Stephie is in her bedroom; she has a
+headache, and wanted to lie down for a little.”
+
+“Oh, just let me run up to her. I won't keep her a minute,” said Molly.
+
+“Come in here with me,” said Miss Truefitt to Nora. She opened the
+door of her neat little parlor. Nora entered. The room was full of gay
+pictures and gay books, and scattered here and there were very large
+boxes of bon-bons.
+
+“How she can eat them all is what puzzles me,” said Miss Truefitt;
+“she seems to live on them. The quantity she demolishes would wreck the
+health of any English girl. Ah, here comes Molly.”
+
+But Molly did not come downstairs alone; the American girl was with her.
+Stephanotie rushed into the room.
+
+“I am going to The Laurels to-morrow, auntie. I am going quite early;
+this dear old Molly has asked me. You guess I'll have a good time. There
+will be a box of bon-bons for Nora, sweet little Irish Nora; and a box
+for dear little Molly, a true native of England, and a fine specimen to
+boot. Oh, we shall have a nice time; and I am so glad I am asked!”
+
+“It is very kind of Mrs. Hartrick to send you an invitation, Stephie,”
+ said her aunt.
+
+“Oh, bother that, Aunt Violet! You know perfectly well she would not ask
+me if Molly and Nora had not got it out of her.”
+
+“Well, we did try our best and most conoodling ways,” said Nora in a
+soft voice.
+
+“Ah, didn't you, you little Irish witch; and I guess you won, too. Well,
+I'm going; we'll have a jolly lark with Linda. If for no other reason, I
+should be glad to go to upset her apple cart.”
+
+“Dear me, Stephie! you are very coarse and vulgar,” said Miss Truefitt.
+
+“Not a bit of it, auntie. Have a bon-bon, do.” Stephanotie rushed across
+the room, opened a big box of bon-bons, and presented one, as if it were
+a pistol, full in Miss Truefitt's face.
+
+“Oh, no, thank you, my dear!” said that lady, backing; “the indigestion
+I have already got owing to the way you have forced your bon-bons upon
+me has almost wrecked my health. I have lost all appetite. Dear me,
+Stephie! I wish you would not be so dreadfully American.”
+
+“The process of Englishizing me is a slow one,” said Stephanotie. She
+turned, walked up to the glass, and surveyed herself. She was dressed in
+rich brown velveteen, made to fit her lissome figure. Her hair was of
+an almost fiery red, and surrounded her face like a halo; her eyes were
+very bright china-blue, and she had a dazzlingly fair complexion. There
+were people who thought Stephanotie pretty; there were others who did
+not admire her at all. She had a go-ahead, very independent manner, and
+was the sort of girl who would be idolized by the weaker members of the
+school. Molly, however, was by no means a weak member of the school,
+nor, for that matter, was Nora, and they both took great pleasure out of
+Stephanotie.
+
+“My bark is worse than my bite,” said that young person. “I am something
+like you, Molly. I am a bit of a scorcher; but there, when I am trained
+in properly I'll be one of the best of good creatures.”
+
+“Well, you are booked for to-morrow now,” said Molly; “and Jehoshaphat!
+if you don't come in time--”
+
+“Oh, Molly!” whispered Nora.
+
+“There, I won't say it again.”
+
+Poor Miss Truefitt looked much shocked. Molly and Nora bade her good-by,
+and nodded to Stephanotie, who stood upon the doorstep and watched them
+down the street; then she returned to her aunt.
+
+“I did think,” said Miss Truefitt slowly, “that the girls belonging to
+your school were ladylike; but to come here without gloves, and that
+eldest girl, Miss Hartrick, to use such a shocking expression.”
+
+“Oh, bless you, Aunt Vi! it's nothing to the expressions she uses at
+school. She's a perfect horror of a girl, and I like her for that very
+reason. It is that horrid little Linda would please you; and I must say
+I am sorry for your taste.”
+
+Stephanotie went upstairs to arrange her wardrobe for the next day.
+She had long wished to visit Molly's home. The Laurels was one of
+the prettiest places in the neighborhood, and Molly and Linda were
+considered as among the smartest girls at the school. Stephanotie wished
+to be hand-and-glove with Molly, not because she was supposed to be
+rich, or respectable, or anything else, but simply because her nature
+fitted to that of the wild, enthusiastic American girl. But, all the
+same, now that she had got the _entrée_, as she expressed it, of the
+Hartricks' home, she intended to make a sensation.
+
+ “When I do the thing I may as well do it properly,” she said to
+herself. “I will make them open their eyes. I have watched Mrs. Hartrick
+in church; and, oh dear me! have not I longed to give her a poke in the
+back. And as to Linda, she thinks a great deal of her dress. She
+does not know what mine will be when I take out my very best and most
+fascinating gown.”
+
+Accordingly Stephanotie rifled her trunk, and from its depths she
+produced a robe which would, as she said, make the members of The
+Laurels sit up. It was made of rose-colored silk, and trimmed with
+quantities of cream lace. The skirt had many little flounces on it, and
+each was edged with lace. The bodice was cut rather low in the neck, and
+the sleeves did not come down anything like as far as the wrists. The
+rose-colored silk with its cream lace trimmings was altogether the sort
+of dress which might be worn in the evening; but daring Stephanotie
+intended to appear in it in the morning. She would encircle her waist
+with a cream-colored sash, very broad, and with much lace upon it; and
+would wear many-colored beads round her neck, and many bracelets on her
+arms.
+
+“The whole will have a stylish effect, and will at any rate distinguish
+me from everyone else,” was her inward comment. She shook out the dress,
+and then rang the bell. One of the servants appeared.
+
+“I want to have this robe ironed and made as presentable as possible,”
+ said Stephanotie; “see you have it all done and put in my wardrobe ready
+for wear tonight. I guess it will fetch 'em,” she added, and then she
+rushed like a whirlwind into the presence of Miss Truefitt.
+
+“Auntie,” she said, “would you like to see me done up in style?”
+
+“I don't know, I am sure, my dear,” said Miss Truefitt, looking at her
+with nervous eyes.
+
+“Oh, dear, Aunt Vi! if you were to see mother now you wouldn't know her;
+she is wonderfully addicted to the pleasures of the toilet. There is
+nothing so fascinating as the pleasures of the toilet when once you
+yield to its charms. She rigged me up pretty smart before I left New
+York, and I am going to wear my rose-colored silk with the cream lace
+to-morrow.”
+
+“But you are not going to an evening party, my dear.”
+
+“No; but I shall stay all the evening, and I know I'll look killing. The
+dress suits me down to the ground. It is one of my fads always to be in
+something red; it seems to harmonize with my hair.”
+
+Miss Truefitt uttered a deep sigh.
+
+“What are you sighing for, Aunt Vi?”
+
+“Nothing, dear; only please don't offer me a bon-bon. The mere sight of
+those boxes gives me a feeling of nausea.”
+
+“But you have not tried the crystallized figs,” cried Stephanotie; “they
+are wonderfully good; and if you feel nausea a peppermint-drop will set
+you right. I have a kind of peppermint chocolate in this box which is
+extremely stimulating to the digestive organs.”
+
+“No, no, Stephie. I beg--I really do beg that you will take all the
+obnoxious boxes out of the room.”
+
+“Very well, auntie; but you'll come up to-morrow to see me in my dress?”
+
+The next day was Saturday, a holiday of course. Stephanotie had put her
+hair into Hinde's curlers the night before, and, in consequence, it was
+a perfect mass of frizzle and fluff the next morning. Miss Truefitt,
+who wore her own neat gray locks plainly banded round her head, gave a
+shudder when she first caught sight of Stephanotie.
+
+“I was thinking, dear, during the night,” she said, “of your pink silk
+dress, and I should very much prefer you to wear the gray cashmere
+trimmed with the neat velvet at the cuffs and collar. It would tone down
+your--”
+
+“Oh, don't say it,” said Stephanotie; “my hair is a perfect glory this
+morning. Come yourself and look at it--here; stand just here; the sun is
+shining full on me. Everyone will have to look twice at me with a head
+like this.”
+
+“Indeed, that is true,” said Miss Truefitt; “and perhaps three times;
+and not approve of you then.”
+
+“Oh, come, auntie, you don't know how bewitching I look when I am got up
+in all my finery.”
+
+“She is hopelessly vulgar,” thought poor Miss Truefitt to herself; “and
+I always supposed Agnes would have such a nice, proper girl, such as she
+was herself in the old days; but that last photograph of Agnes shows
+a decided falling off. How truly glad I am that I was never induced to
+marry an American! I would rather have my neat, precise little house and
+a small income than go about like a figure of fun. That poor child will
+never be made English; it is a hopeless task. The sooner she goes back
+to America the better.”
+
+Meanwhile Stephanotie wandered about the house, thinking over and over
+of the happy moment when she would appear at The Laurels. She thought
+it best to put on her rose-colored dress in time for early dinner.
+It fitted her well, but was scarcely the best accompaniment to her
+fiery-red hair.
+
+“Oh, lor', miss!” said Maria, the servant, when she first caught sight
+of Stephanotie.
+
+“You may well say, 'Oh, lor'!' Maria,” replied Stephanotie, “although it
+is not a very pretty expression. But have a bon-bon; I don't mean to be
+cross.”
+
+She whirled across the room, snatched hold of one of her boxes of
+bon-bons, and presented it to Maria. Maria was not averse to a chocolate
+peppermint, and popped one into her mouth. The next instant Miss
+Truefitt appeared. “Now, Stephanotie,” she said, “do you think for a
+single moment--Oh, my dear child, you really are too awful! You don't
+mean to say you are going to The Laurels like that?”
+
+“Have a bon-bon?” was Stephanotie's response.
+
+“You are downright rude. I will not allow you to offer me bon-bons
+again.”
+
+“But a fresh box of them has just arrived. I got them by the eleven
+o'clock post to-day,” was Stephanotie's reckless answer; “and, oh, such
+beauties! And I had a letter from mother to say that I might order as
+many as ever I liked from Fuller's. I mean to write to them to ask them
+to send me ten shillings' worth. I'll ask for the newest varieties.
+There surely must be bon-bons which would not give you indigestion, Aunt
+Vi.”
+
+“I must ask you to take off that dress, Stephanotie. I forbid you to go
+to The Laurels in such unsuitable attire.”
+
+“Oh, lor'! and it's lovely!” said Maria, _sotto voce_, as she was
+leaving the room.
+
+“What an unpleasant smell of peppermint!” said Miss Truefitt, sniffing
+at that moment. “You know, Stephanotie, how I have begged of you not to
+eat those unpleasant sweets in the dining room.”
+
+“I didn't,” said Stephanotie; “it was only Maria.”
+
+Maria backed out of the room with another violent “Oh, lor'!” and ran
+down to the kitchen.
+
+“I'll have to give notice,” she said. “It's Miss Stephanotie; she's the
+most dazzlingly brilliant young lady I ever set eyes on; but mistress
+will never forgive me for eating that peppermint in her presence.”
+
+“Rinse the mouth out, and take no notice,” was the cook's somewhat
+heartless rejoinder. “How do you say she was dressed, Maria?”
+
+“Pink, the color of a rose, and that ravishing with lace. I never see'd
+such a dress,” said Maria. “She's the most beautiful young lady and the
+queerest I ever set eyes on.”
+
+Stephanotie and her aunt were having a battle upstairs, and in the end
+the elder lady won. Stephanotie was obliged to take off the unsuitable
+dress and put on the gray cashmere. As subsequent events proved, it was
+lucky for her that she did do so.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXII.
+
+
+LETTERS.
+
+By the post on the following morning there came two letters for Nora.
+She hailed them with a cry of delight.
+
+“At last!” she said.
+
+Mrs. Hartrick was not in the room; she had a headache, and did not get
+up to breakfast. Terence had already started for town. He had secured
+the post he desired in his uncle's office, and thought himself a very
+great man of business. Linda did not count for anything.
+
+Nora flung herself into an easy-chair, and opened the first of her
+letters. It was from her mother. She was soon lost in its contents.
+
+“MY DEAR NORA [wrote Mrs. O'Shanaghgan]: Be prepared for very great,
+startling, and at the same time gratifying, news. Your dear Uncle
+George, who has been spending the last three weeks with us, has made
+an arrangement which lifts us, my dear daughter, out of all pecuniary
+embarrassments. I will tell you as briefly as possible what has taken
+place. He had a consultation with your father, and induced him, at my
+suggestion, to unburden his mind to him. You know the Squire's ways.
+He pooh-poohed the subject and fought shy of it; but at last I myself
+brought him to task, and the whole terrible and disgraceful state of
+things was revealed. My dear Nora, my dear little girl, we were, it
+appears, on the brink of bankruptcy. In a couple of months O'Shanaghgan
+would no longer have been ours.
+
+I cannot say that I should ever have regretted leaving this ramshackle
+and much-dilapidated place, but of course I should have shrunk from the
+disgrace, the exposure, the feeling that I was the cynosure of all eyes.
+That, indeed, would have cut me to the quick. Had your father consented
+to sell O'Shanaghgan and live in England, it would have been a moment
+of great rejoicing for me; but the place to be sold up over his head
+was quite a different matter. This, my dear Nora, seems to have been the
+position of affairs when your dear uncle, like a good providence or a
+guardian angel, appeared on the scene. Your uncle, my dearest Nora, is
+a very rich man. My dear brother has been careful with regard to money
+matters all his life, and is now in possession of a very large supply
+of this world's goods. Your dear uncle was good enough to come to the
+rescue, and has bought O'Shanaghgan from the man to whom your father
+owed the mortgage. O'Shanaghgan now belongs to your Uncle George.”
+
+“Never!” cried Nora, springing to her feet.
+
+“What is the matter, Nora?” said Linda.
+
+“Don't talk to me for the present, or I'll say something you won't like
+to hear,” replied Nora.
+
+“Really, I must say you are copying Molly in your manner.”
+
+“Don't speak to me,” said Nora. Her face was crimson; she had never felt
+such a wild, surging sense of passion in the whole of her existence.
+Linda's calm gray eyes were upon her, however. She managed to suppress
+any more emotion, saw that her cousin was burning with curiosity, and
+continued the letter.
+
+“Although, my dearest Nora, Castle O'Shanaghgan now belongs to your
+Uncle George, don't suppose for a single moment that he is going to be
+unkind to us. Far from it. To all appearance the place is still ours;
+but with, oh! such a difference. Your father is still, in the eyes of
+the tenants and of the country round, the owner of Castle O'Shanaghgan;
+but, after consulting with me, your Uncle George felt that he must not
+have the reins. His Irish nature, my dear--But I need not discuss that.
+You know as well as I do how reckless and improvident he is.”
+
+“Oh, mother!” gasped Nora. She clenched her little white teeth, and
+had great difficulty in proceeding with her letter. Linda's curiosity,
+however, acted as a restorative, and she went on with her mother's
+lengthy epistle.
+
+“All things are now changed, and I may as well say that a glorious era
+has begun. Castle O'Shanaghgan is now your uncle's property, and it will
+soon be a place to be proud of. He is having it refurnished from attic
+to cellar; carpets, curtains, mirrors, furniture of all sorts have
+already begun to arrive from one of the most fashionable shops in
+Dublin. Gardeners have been got to put the gardens to rights, the weeds
+have been removed from the avenue, the grass has been cut, the lawns
+have been mown; the whole place looks already as if it had undergone a
+resurrection. My bedroom, dear Nora, is now a place suitable for your
+mother to sleep in; the bare boards are covered with a thick Brussels
+carpet. The Axminster stair carpets arrived yesterday. In the dining
+room is one of the most magnificent Turkey carpets I have ever seen;
+and your uncle has insisted on having the edge of the floor laid with
+parquetry. Will you believe me, Nora?--your father has objected to
+the sound of the hammering which the workmen make in putting in the
+different pieces of wood. You can scarcely believe it possible; but I
+state a fact. The stables are being filled with suitable horses;
+and with regard to that I am glad to say your father does take some
+interest. A victoria has arrived for me, and a pony-trap for you, dear;
+for it seems your Uncle George has taken a great fancy to you, my little
+Nora. Well, dear, all this resurrection, this wonderful restoration of
+Castle O'Shanaghgan has occurred during your absence. You will come back
+to a sort of fairyland; but it is one of your uncle's stipulations
+that you do not come back at present; and, of course, for such a fairy
+godfather, such a magician, no promise is too great to give. So I have
+told him, dear Nora, that you will live with your kind and noble Aunt
+Grace, and with your charming cousin Linda, and your cousin Molly--about
+whom I do not hear so much--as long as he wishes you to do so. You will
+receive the best of educations, and come back at Christmas to a suitable
+home. You must have patience until then. It is your uncle's proposal
+that at Christmas-time you and your cousins also come to O'Shanaghgan,
+and that we shall have a right good old-fashioned Christmas in this
+place, which at last is beautiful and worthy of your ancient house. You
+must submit patiently, therefore, dear Nora, to remaining in England.
+You will probably spend the greater portion of your time there for the
+next few years, until you are really accomplished. But the holidays you,
+with your dear cousins and your uncle and aunt, will always spend at
+O'Shanaghgan. You must understand, dear, that the house really belongs
+to your uncle; the place is his, and we are simply his tenants, from
+whom he nobly asks no rent. How proud I am of my dear brother, and how I
+rejoice in this glorious change!--Your affectionate mother,
+
+“ELLEN O'SHANAGHGAN.”.
+
+The letter dropped from Nora's fingers.
+
+“And was it I who effected all this?” she said to herself. “And I
+thought I was doing good.”
+
+The other letter lay unopened on her lap. She took it up with trembling
+hands, and broke the seal. It was a short letter compared to her
+mother's, but it was in the handwriting she loved best on earth.
+
+“LIGHT O' THE MORNING [it began]: Why, then, my darling, it's done--it
+is all over. The place is mine no longer; it belongs to the English. To
+think I, O'Shanaghgan of Castle O'Shanaghgan, should live to write the
+words. Your mother put it to me, and I could not refuse her; but, oh,
+Nora asthore, heart of my life, I can scarcely bear to live here now.
+What with the carpets and the curtains, and the fuss and the misery, and
+the whole place being turned into a sort of furniture-shop, it is past
+bearing. I keep out most of my time in the woods, and I won't deny
+to you, my dearest child, that I have shed some bitter tears over
+the change in O'Shanaghgan; for the place isn't what it was, and it's
+heart-breaking to behold it. But your mother is pleased, and that's one
+comfort. I always did all I could for her; and when she smiles at me and
+looks like the sun--she is a remarkably handsome woman, Nora--I try to
+take a bit of comfort. But I stumble over the carpets and the mats, and
+your mother is always saying, 'Patrick, take care where you are going,
+and don't let the dogs come in to spoil the new carpets.' And the
+English servants that we have now taken are past bearing; and it's just
+as if I were in chains, and I would almost as lief the place had been
+sold right away from me as see it in its changed condition. I can add no
+more now, my child, except to say that, as I am under great and bitter
+obligations to your Uncle George,
+
+I must agree to his request that you stay in England for the present;
+but Christmas is coming, and then I'll clasp you in my arms, and I'll
+have a grain of comfort again.--Your sorrowful old father,
+
+PATRICK O'SHANAGHGAN.”
+
+Nora's cheeks flushed brighter than ever as she read these two letters.
+The first had cut her to the heart; the second had caused that desire
+for weeping which unless it is yielded to amounts to torture.
+
+Oh! if Linda would not stay in the room. Oh! if she might crouch away
+where she, too, could shed tears over the changed Castle O'Shanaghgan.
+For what did she and her father want with a furniture-shop? Must she,
+for all the rest of her days, live in a sort of feather-bed house? Must
+the bareness, the space, the sense of expansion, be hers no more? She
+was half a savage, and her silken fetters were tortures to her.
+
+“It will kill him,” she murmured. She said the words aloud.
+
+“What will kill him? What is wrong? Do, please, tell me,” said Linda.
+
+Nora looked at her with flashing eyes.
+
+“How bright your cheeks are, Nora, and how your eyes shine! But you look
+very, very angry. What can be the matter?”
+
+“Matter? There is plenty the matter. I cannot tell you now,” said Nora.
+
+“Then I'll go up and ask mother; perhaps she will tell me. It has
+something to do with that old place of yours, I have not the slightest
+doubt. Mother has got a very long letter from Ireland; she will tell me
+perhaps.”
+
+“Yes, go; and don't come back again,” said Nora, almost rudely.
+
+“She gets worse and worse,” thought Linda as she slowly mounted the
+stairs. “Nora is anything but a pleasure in the house. At first when she
+came she was not quite so bad; she had a pretty face, and her manners
+had not been coarsened from contamination with Molly. Now she is much
+changed. Yes, I'll go to mother and talk to her. What an awful afternoon
+we are likely to have with that American girl here and Nora changing for
+the worse hour by hour.”
+
+Linda knocked at her mother's door. Mrs. Hartrick was not well, and was
+sitting up in bed reading her letters.
+
+“My head is better, Linda,” she said. “I shall get up presently. What is
+it, darling?”
+
+“It is only the usual thing,” said Linda, with a deep sigh. “I am always
+being rubbed the wrong way, and I don't like it.”
+
+“So it seems, my pet. But how nicely you have done your hair this
+morning! How very neat and ladylike you are becoming, Linda! You are a
+great comfort to me, dear.”
+
+“Thank you, mother; I try to please you,” said Linda. She seated herself
+on her mother's bed, suppressed a sigh, then said eagerly:
+
+“Nora is awfully put out. Is there bad news from that wild place, Castle
+O'Shanaghgan?”
+
+“Bad news?” cried Mrs. Hartrick. “Has the child had letters?”
+
+“Yes, two; she had been reading them instead of eating her breakfast,
+and the sighs and the groans, and the flashing eyes and the clenched
+teeth, and the jumping to her feet and the flopping herself down again
+have been past bearing. She won't let out anything except that she is
+downright miserable, and that it is a burning shame.”
+
+“What can she mean, mother? Is the old place sold? I always expected they
+were terribly poor.”
+
+“The best, most splendid news,” said Mrs. Hartrick. “My dear Linda, you
+must be mistaken. Your father says that he has given your aunt and
+uncle leave to tell Nora everything. I thought the child would be in the
+seventh heaven of bliss; in fact, I was almost dreading her arrival on
+the scene, she is so impetuous.”
+
+“Well, mother, she is not in any seventh heaven of bliss,” replied
+Linda; “so perhaps they have not told her. But what is it, mother dear?
+Do tell me.”
+
+“It is this, darling--your father has bought Castle O'Shanaghgan.”
+
+“Oh! and given it to the O'Shanaghgans. Why did he do that?”
+
+“He has bought it, but he has not given it to the O'Shanaghgans. Some
+day, if Terence turns out worthy, the old place will doubtless be
+his, as we have no son of our own; but at present it is your father's
+property; he has bought it.”
+
+“Then no wonder poor Nora is sad,” said Linda. “I can understand her;
+she is fond of the old place.”
+
+“But why should she be sad? They are not going; they are to stay there,
+practically owners of all they possess; for, although the property
+is really your father's, he will only exercise sufficient control to
+prevent that poor, wild, eccentric uncle of yours from throwing good
+money after bad. To all intents and purposes the O'Shanaghgans still
+hold possession; only now, my dear Linda, they will have a beautiful
+house, magnificently furnished. The grounds are carefully attended to,
+good gardeners provided, English servants sent for, and the whole place
+made suitable for your father's sister.”
+
+“But does Nora know of this?”
+
+“I suppose so. I know your father said she was to be told.”
+
+“She is very miserable about something. I cannot understand her,” said
+Linda. “I tell you what, I'll just go down and tell her. Perhaps those
+two letters were nothing but grumbles; and the O'Shanaghgans did not
+know then the happiness that was in store for them.”
+
+“You can tell her if you like, dear.”
+
+“I will, I will,” said Linda. She jumped off her mother's bed and ran
+downstairs.
+
+Nora was standing in the conservatory. She was gazing straight before
+her, not at the great, tall, flowering cactus nor the orchids, nor
+the mass of geraniums and pelargoniums of every shade and hue--she was
+seeing a picture of a wild, wild lonely place, of a bare old house, of
+a seashore that was like no other seashore in the world. She was looking
+at this picture with all the heart of which she was capable shining in
+her eyes; and she knew that she was looking at it in imagination only,
+and that she would never see the real picture again, for the wild old
+place was wild no longer, and in Nora's opinion the glory had departed.
+She turned when Linda's somewhat mincing voice fell upon her ears.
+
+“How you startled me!” she said. “What is it?”
+
+“Oh, good news,” said Linda. “I am not quite so bad as you think
+me, Nora, and I am delighted. Mother has told me everything. Castle
+O'Shanaghgan is yours to live in as long as ever you care to do so. Of
+course it belongs to us; but that does not matter, and it is furnished
+from attic to cellar most splendidly, and there are English servants,
+and there are--”
+
+“Everything abominable and odious and horrible!” burst from Nora's
+lips. “Oh, don't keep me; don't keep me! I am smothered at the
+thought--O'Shanaghgan is ruined--ruined!”
+
+She ran away from her cousin out into the air. At headlong speed did
+she go, until at last she found herself in the most remote and least
+cultivated part of the plantation.
+
+Oh, to be alone! Now she could cry, and cry she did right bitterly.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIII.
+
+
+THE BOX OF BON-BONS.
+
+It occurred to Stephanotie that, as she could not wear the rose-colored
+dress, as she must go perforce to the Hartricks' in her dove-colored
+cashmere, with its very neat velvet collar and cuffs, she would at least
+make her entrance a little striking.
+
+“Why not take a box of bon-bons to Mrs. Hartrick?” she said to herself.
+“There's that great big new box which I have not opened yet It contains
+dozens of every kind of sweetmeat. I'll present it to her; she'll be
+pleased with the attention.”
+
+The box was a very large one; on its lid was painted a picture of two or
+three cupids hovering in the air, some of them touching the shoulders of
+a pretty girl who was supposed to be opening a box of chocolates. There
+was a good deal of color and embossed writing also on the cover, and
+altogether it was as showy and, in Stephanotie's opinion, as handsome a
+thing as anybody could desire.
+
+She walked through the village, holding the box, tied with great bunches
+of red ribbon, in her hand. She scorned to put a brown-paper cover
+over it; she would take it in all its naked glory into the midst of the
+Hartrick household.
+
+On her way she met the other two girls who were also going to spend an
+afternoon at The Laurels. Rose and Mabel Armitage were the daughters of
+a neighbouring squire. They were nice girls, but conventional.
+
+There was nothing original about either of them; but they were very
+much respected in the school, not only on account of their father's
+position--he represented the county in the House--but also because they
+were good, industrious, and so-called clever. The Armitages took prizes
+at every examination. Their French was considered very nearly Parisian
+in accent; their drawings were all in absolutely perfect proportions.
+It is true the trees in Rose's landscapes looked a little stiff; but how
+carefully she laid on her water-colors; how honestly she endeavored to
+copy her master's smallest requirements! Then Mabel played with great
+correctness, never for a single moment allowing a wrong note to appear;
+and they both sang, very prettily, simple little ballads; and they were
+dressed with exquisite neatness and propriety in very quiet colors--dark
+blues, very dark reds, pretty, neat blouses, suitable skirts. Their hair
+was shiny, and sat in little tight tendrils and pretty curls round their
+heads. They were as like as two peas--each girl had a prim little mouth
+with rosy lips; each girl possessed an immaculate set of white teeth;
+each girl had a little, straight nose and pretty, clear gray-blue eyes;
+their foreheads were low, their eyebrows penciled and delicately marked.
+They had neat little figures; they were neat in every way, neat in soul
+too; admirable little people, but commonplace. And, just because they
+were commonplace, they did not like fiery-red-haired Stephanotie; they
+thought Molly the essence of vulgarity; they secretly admired beautiful
+Nora, but thought her manners and style of conversation deplorable; and
+they adored Linda as a kindred spirit.
+
+Seeing them walking on in advance, like a little pair of doves,
+Stephanotie quickened her steps until she came up to them.
+
+“Hallo!” she said; “you guess where I'm off to?”
+
+“I am sure I cannot say,” answered Rose, turning gently round.
+
+Mabel was always Rose's echo.
+
+“I cannot say,” she repeated.
+
+“Well, I can guess where you're going. You're going to have a right down
+good time at The Laurels--guess I'm right?”
+
+“We are going to spend an afternoon at The Laurels,” said Rose.
+
+“An afternoon at The Laurels,” echoed Mabel.
+
+“And so am I--that's the best of the fun,” said Stephanotie; “and I mean
+to give her something to remember me by.”
+
+“Whom do you mean?” said Rose.
+
+“Why, my good, respected hostess, Mrs. Hartrick.”
+
+“What do you mean to give her?” asked Rose.
+
+“This. How do you like it? It's full of bon-bons.”
+
+Rose, notwithstanding her virtuous and commonplace mind, had a secret
+leaning toward bon-bons. She did not dare to confess it even to Mabel;
+for Mabel also had a secret leaning, and did not dare to confess it to
+Rose. It was not _comme il faut_ in their family for the girls of the
+house to indulge in bon-bons; but still, they would have liked some of
+those delicious sweets, and had often envied Stephanotie when she was
+showing them to her companions.
+
+Of course, not for worlds would they have been friendly with the
+terrible American girl; but they did envy her her boxes of sweets.
+
+“How gay!” said Rose, looking at the startling cover, with its cupids
+and its greedy-looking maiden.
+
+“How jolly,” said the American girl--“how luscious when you're eating
+them! Would you like to see them inside?”
+
+“Oh, I think not,” said Rose.
+
+“Better not,” said Mabel.
+
+“But why better not?” continued Stephanotie. “It's natural that girls
+like us should like sweetmeats, bon-bons, or anything of that sort.
+Here, there's a nice little bit of shelter under this tree, and there's
+no one looking. I'll untie the ribbons; just hold the box, Rose.”
+
+Rose held it. Stephanotie hastily pulled off the red ribbons and lifted
+the cover. Oh, how delicious the inside did look!--rows upon rows of
+every imaginable sweet--cream-colored sweets, rose-colored, green,
+white; plums, apples, pears, figs, chocolates; every sort that the heart
+of girl could desire lay before them in rows on rows.
+
+“They are, every one of them, for Mrs. Hartrick,” said Stephanotie, “and
+you mustn't touch them. But I have got two boxes in my pocket; they make
+it bulge out; I should be glad to get rid of them. We'll tie this up,
+but you'll each have one of my boxes.”
+
+In a jiffy the big box was tied up again with its huge crimson bows, and
+each of the Armitage girls possessed one of the American girl's boxes of
+bon-bons.
+
+“Aren't they pretty? Do have some; you don't know how long you may be
+kept waiting for your tea,” said Stephanotie as she danced beside her
+companions up the avenue.
+
+In this fashion, therefore, did the three enter the house, for both
+of the Armitages had yielded to temptation, and each girl was just
+finishing a large bon-bon when they appeared on the scene.
+
+Mrs. Hartrick was standing in the great square central hall, waiting for
+her guests.
+
+Stephanotie ran up to her.
+
+“It's very good of you indeed to ask me,” she said; “and please accept
+this--won't you? It's from an American girl, a trophy to remember her
+by.”
+
+“Indeed?” said Mrs. Hartrick, flushing very brightly. She stepped back a
+little; the huge box of bon-bons was forced into her hands.
+
+“Jehoshaphat!” exclaimed Molly.
+
+“Molly!” said her mother.
+
+Linda uttered a little sigh. Rose and Mabel immediately became as
+discreet and commonplace and proper as they could be; but Stephanotie
+knew that the boxes of bon-bons were reposing in each of their pockets
+and her spirits rose higher than ever.
+
+“Where is Irish Nora?” she said. “It's she that is fond of a good sweet
+such as they make for us in the States. But have the box--won't you,
+Mrs. Hartrick? I have brought it to you as a token of my regard.”
+
+“Indeed? Thank you very much, Miss Miller,” said Mrs. Hartrick in a
+chilly voice. She laid the box on a side-table.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIV.
+
+
+THE TELEGRAM,
+
+The girls went out into the grounds. The afternoon happened to be a
+perfect one; the air was balmy, with a touch of the Indian summer
+about it. The last roses were blooming on their respective bushes; the
+geraniums were making a good show in the carefully laid out beds. There
+were clumps of asters and dahlias to be seen in every direction; some
+late poppies and some sweet-peas and mignonette made the borders still
+look very attractive, and the chrysanthemums were beginning to appear.
+
+“In a week's time they will be splendid,” said Linda, piloting her two
+friends through the largest of the greenhouses.
+
+“Do come away,” said Molly; “when Linda speaks in that prim voice
+she's intolerable. Come, Nora; come, Stephie--we'll just have a run by
+ourselves.”
+
+Nora was still looking rather pale. The shock of the morning had caused
+the color to fade from her cheeks; she could not get the utterly changed
+O'Shanaghgan out of her head. She longed to write to her father, and yet
+she did not dare.
+
+Stephanotie looked at her with the curious, keen glance which an
+American girl possesses.
+
+“What is it? Do say,” she said, linking her hand inside Nora's. “Is it
+anything that a bon-bon will soothe, or is it past that?”
+
+“It is quite past that; but don't ask me now, Stephie. I cannot tell
+you, really.”
+
+“Don't bother her,” said Molly; “she has partly confided in me, but not
+wholly. We'll have a good time by ourselves. What game do you think we
+had best play, Stephie?”
+
+“I'm not one for games at all,” answered Stephanotie. “Girls of my
+age don't play games. They are thinking seriously of the business of
+life--the flirtations and the jolly time they are going to have before
+they settle down to their staid married life. You English are so very
+childish.”
+
+“And we Irish are childish too,” said Nora. “It's lovely to be
+childish,” she added. “I hate to put away childish things.”
+
+“Oh, dear! so that is the Irish and English way,” said Stephanotie. “But
+there, don't let us talk nationalities; let's be cozy and cheerful. I
+can tell you I did feel annoyed at coming here such a dowd; it was not
+my fault. I meant to make an impression; I did, really and truly. It
+was very good of you, Molly, to ask me; and I know that proud lady,
+your mother, didn't want to have me a bit. I am nothing but Stephanotie
+Miller, and she doesn't know the style we live in at home. If she did,
+maybe she would open her eyes a little; but she doesn't, and that's
+flat; and I am vulgar, or supposed to be, just because I am frank and
+open, and I have no concealment about me. I call a spade a spade.”
+
+“Oh, hurrah! so do I,” said Molly, the irrepressible.
+
+“Well, my dear, I don't use your words; they wouldn't suit me at all,”
+ said the American girl. “I never call out Jehoshaphat the way you do,
+whoever Jehoshaphat _is_; but I have my little eccentricities, and they
+run to pretty and gay dresses--dresses with bright colors and quantities
+of lace on them--and bon-bons at all hours, in season and out of season.
+It's easy to content me, and I don't see why my little innocent wishes
+should not be gratified.”
+
+“But you are very nicely dressed now,” said Nora, looking with approval
+at the gray cashmere.
+
+“Me nicely dressed!” screamed Stephanotie. “Do you call this dress nice?
+Why, I do declare it's a perfect shame that I should be made such a
+spectacle. It don't suit my hair. When I am ordering a dress I choose
+shades of red; they tone me down. I am fiery to-day--am I not, Molly?”
+
+“Well, you certainly are,” said Molly. “But what--what did you do to
+it?”
+
+“To my locks, do you mean?”
+
+“Yes. They do stick out so funnily. I know mother was shocked; she likes
+our heads to be perfectly smooth.'
+
+“Like the Armitages', for instance,” said Stephanotie.
+
+“Well, yes; something like theirs. They are pretty girls, are they not?”
+
+“Yes,” said Stephanotie; “but don't they give you the quivers? Don't you
+feel as if you were rubbed the wrong way the moment you speak to them?”
+
+“I don't take to them,” said Molly; “but I think they're pretty.”
+
+“They're just like what O'Shanaghgan is now,” thought Nora, who did
+not speak. “They are all prim and proper; there's not a single wildness
+allowed to come out anywhere.”
+
+“But they're for all the world like anybody else,” said Stephanotie.
+“Don't they love sweeties just! If you' had seen them--the greedy way
+they took the bon-bons out of the little boxes I gave them. Oh, they're
+just like anybody else, only they are playing parts; they are little
+actors; they're always acting. I'd like to catch them when they were
+not. I'd like to have them for one wild week, with you, Molly, and you,
+Nora. I tell you there would be a fine change in them both.”
+
+“There's a telegraph-boy coming down the avenue,” cried Molly suddenly.
+“I'll run and see what is the matter?”
+
+Nora did not know why her heart beat. Telegrams arrived every day at The
+Laurels. Nevertheless she felt sure that this was no ordinary message;
+she stood now and stared at that boy as though her eyes would start from
+their sockets.
+
+“What is the matter?” said Stephanotie.
+
+“Nothing--nothing.”
+
+“You're vexed about something. Why should you be so distant with me?”
+
+“I am not, Stephie. I am a little anxious; it is difficult always to be
+just the same,” said Nora.
+
+“Oh, don't I know it, my darling; and if you had as much to do with Aunt
+Vi Truefitt as I have, you would realize how often _my_ spirits turn
+topsy-turvy. I often hope that I'll be Englishized quickly, so that I
+may get back to my dear parents. But there, Molly is coming back.”
+
+“The telegram was for mother,” she said. “Do let us play.”
+
+Nora looked at Molly. Her face was red; it was usually pale. Nora
+wondered what had brought that high color into her cheeks. Molly seemed
+excited, and did not want to meet her cousin's eyes.
+
+“Come, let us have a race,” she said. “I don't want to put away childish
+things. I want to have a good game while I am in the humor. Let us see
+who will get first to the top of that hill. I like running uphill. I'm
+off; catch me who may!”
+
+Molly started. Her figure was stout, and she ran in a somewhat awkward
+way. Nora flew after her. She soon reached her side.
+
+“There, stop running,” she said. “What is up?”
+
+“What is up?” echoed Molly.
+
+“Yes; what was in that telegram?”
+
+“The telegram was for mother.”
+
+“But you know what was in it. I know you do.”
+
+“Nothing--nothing, Nora. Come, our race isn't over yet. I'm off again;
+you cannot catch me this time.”
+
+Molly ran, panting as she did so.
+
+“I cannot tell her; I won't,” she said to herself. “I wish her eyes were
+not so sharp. She is sure to find out; but I have begged and prayed of
+mother not to tell her, at least until after Stephanotie and the others
+have gone. Then, I suppose, she must know.”
+
+Molly reached the top of the hill. She was so blown that she had to
+fling herself on the grass. Nora again reached her side.
+
+“Tell me, Molly,” she said; “there is something the matter?”
+
+“There is a telegram for mother, and I cannot tell you anything whatever
+about it,” said Molly in a cross voice. “There, I'm off once more. I
+promised Linda that I would help her to look after the Armitage girls.
+Prim and proper as they are, they are sometimes a little bit too much
+for my dainty sister Linda. You take care of Stephie; she's right good
+fun. Let me go, Nora; let me go.”
+
+Molly pulled her hand almost roughly out of her cousin's grip, and the
+next moment was rushing downhill as fast as she could in the direction
+of the summer-house. There she knew she would find Linda and her two
+friends.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXV.
+
+
+THE BLOW.
+
+Notwithstanding all the efforts of at least five merry girls, there was
+a cloud over the remainder of that afternoon. Nora's face was anxious;
+her gay laugh was wanting; her eyes wore an abstracted, far-away look.
+The depression which the letters of the morning had caused was now
+increased tenfold. If she joined in the games it was without spirit;
+when she spoke there was no animation in her words. Gone was the Irish
+wit, the pleasant Irish humor; the sparkle in the eyes was missing; the
+gay laughter never rose upon the breeze. At tea things were just as bad.
+Even at supper matters had not mended.
+
+Molly now persistently avoided her cousin. Stephanotie and she were
+having a wild time. Molly, to cover Nora's gloom, was going on in a more
+extravagant way than usual. She constantly asked Jehoshaphat to come to
+her aid; she talked of Holy Moses more than once; in short, she exceeded
+herself in her wildness. Linda was so shocked that she took the Armitage
+girls to a distant corner, and there discoursed with them in low
+whispers. Now and then she cast a horrified glance round at where
+her sister and the Yankee, as she termed Stephanotie, were going on
+together. To her relief, toward the end of the evening, Mrs. Hartrick
+came into the room. But even her presence could not suppress Molly now.
+She was beside herself; the look of Nora sitting gloomily apart from the
+rest, pretending to be interested in one of Sir Walter Scott's novels,
+was too much for her. She knew that a bad time was coming for Nora,
+and her misery made her reckless. Mrs. Hartrick, hearing some of her
+naughtiest words, said in an icy tone that Miss Truefitt had sent a maid
+for Stephanotie; and a few moments afterward the little party broke up.
+
+As soon as the strange girls had departed, Mrs. Hartrick turned
+immediately to Molly.
+
+“I am shocked at your conduct,” she said. “In order to give you pleasure
+I allowed Miss Miller to come here; but I should have been a wiser and
+happier woman if I had taken dear Linda's advice. She is not the sort
+of girl I wish either you or Nora ever to associate with again. Now, go
+straight to your room, and don't leave it until I send for you.”
+
+Molly stalked off with a defiant tread and eyes flashing fire; she would
+not even glance at Nora. Linda began to talk in her prim voice. Before
+she could utter a single word Nora had sprung forward, caught both her
+aunt's hands, and looked her in the face.
+
+“Now,” she said, “I must know. What did that telegram say?”
+
+“What telegram, Nora? My dear child, you forget yourself.”
+
+“I do not forget myself, Aunt Grace. If I am not to go quite off my
+head, I must know the truth.”
+
+“Sit down, Nora.”
+
+“I cannot sit; please put me out of suspense. Please tell me the worst
+at once.”
+
+“I am sorry for you, dear; I really am.”
+
+“Oh, please, please speak! Is anything--anything wrong with father?”
+
+“I hope nothing serious.”
+
+“Ah! I knew it,” said Nora; “there is something wrong.”
+
+“He has had an accident.”
+
+“An accident? An accident? Oh, what? Oh! it's Andy; it must be Andy. Oh,
+Aunt Grace, I shall go mad; I shall go mad!”
+
+Mrs. Hartrick did not speak. Then she looked at Linda. She motioned to
+Linda to leave the room. Linda, however, had no idea of stirring. She
+was too much interested; she looked at Nora as if she thought her really
+mad.
+
+“Tell me--tell me; is father killed?”
+
+“No, no, my poor child; no, no. Do calm yourself, Nora. I will let you
+see the telegram; then you will know all that I know.”
+
+“Oh, please, please!”
+
+Mrs. Hartrick took it out of her pocket. Nora clutched it very hard, but
+her trembling fingers could scarcely take the little flimsy pink sheet
+out of its envelope. At last she had managed it. She spread it before
+her; then she found that her dazed eyes could not see the words. What
+was the misery of the morning to the agony of this moment?
+
+“Read it for me,” she said in a piteous voice. “I--I cannot see.”
+
+“Sit down, my dear; you will faint if you don't.”
+
+“Oh! everything is going round. Is he--is he dead?”
+
+“No, dear; nothing very wrong.”
+
+“Read--read!” said Nora.
+
+Mrs. Hartrick did read. The following words fell upon the Irish girl's
+ears:
+
+“O'Shanaghgan was shot at from behind a hedge this, morning. Seriously
+injured. Break it to Nora.”
+
+“I must go to him,” said Nora, jumping up. “When is the next train? Why
+didn't you tell me before? I must go--I must go at once.”
+
+Now that the worst of the news was broken, she had recovered her courage
+and some calmness.
+
+“I must go to him,” she repeated.
+
+“I have telegraphed. I have been mindful of you. I knew the moment
+you heard this news you would wish to be off to Ireland, so I have
+telegraphed to know if there is danger. If there is danger you shall go,
+my dear child; indeed, I myself will take you.”
+
+“Oh! I must go in any case,” repeated Nora. “Danger or no danger, he is
+hurt, and he will want me. I must go; you cannot keep me here.”
+
+Just then there came a loud ring at the hall-door.
+
+“Doubtless that is the telegram,” said Mrs. Hartrick. “Run, Linda, and
+bring it.”
+
+Linda raced into the hall. In a few moments she came back with a
+telegram.
+
+“The messenger is waiting, mother,” she said.
+
+Mrs. Hartrick tore it open, read the contents, uttered a sigh of relief,
+and then handed the paper on to Nora to read.
+
+“There,” she said; “you can read for yourself.”
+
+Nora read:
+
+“Better. Doctor anticipates no danger. Tell Nora I do not wish her to
+come. Writing.
+
+“HARTRICK.”
+
+“There, my dear, this is a great relief,” said Mrs. Hartrick.
+
+“Oh! I am going all the same,” said Nora.
+
+“No; that I cannot possibly allow.”
+
+“But he wants me, even if he is not in danger. It was bad enough to
+be away from him when he was well; but now that he is ill----You don't
+understand, Aunt Grace--there is no one can do anything for father as I
+can. I am his Light o' the Morning.”
+
+“His what?” said Mrs. Hartrick.
+
+“Oh, that is what he calls me; but I have no time to explain now. I must
+go; I don't care.”
+
+“You are an ungrateful girl, Nora. If you had lived through the misery I
+have lived through the last few hours this telegram would fill you with
+thankfulness. It is your duty to stay here. You are under a promise
+to your kind uncle. He has rescued your father and mother from a most
+terrible position, and your promise to him saying that you would stay
+quietly here you cannot in all honor break. If your father were in
+danger it would be a different matter. As it is, it is your duty to stay
+quietly here, and show by your patience how truly you love him.”
+
+Nora sat silent. Mrs. Hartrick's words were absolute. The good lady felt
+that she was strictly following the path of duty.
+
+“I can understand the shock you have had,” she continued, looking at
+the girl, who now sat with her head slightly drooping, her hands clasped
+tightly together, her attitude one of absolute despair.
+
+“Linda,” she said, turning to her daughter, “fetch Nora a glass of wine.
+I noticed, my dear, that you ate scarcely any supper.”
+
+Nora did not speak.
+
+Linda returned with a glass of claret.
+
+“Now drink this off, Nora,” said her aunt; “I insist.”
+
+Nora was about to refuse, but she suddenly changed her mind.
+
+“I shall go whether she gives me leave or not,” was her inward thought.
+“I shall want strength.” She drank off the wine, and returned the empty
+glass to her cousin.
+
+“There now, that is better,” said Mrs. Hartrick; “and as you are
+unaccustomed to wine you will doubtless sleep soundly after it. Go up to
+your bedroom, dear. I will telegraph the first thing in the morning to
+O'Shanaghgan, and if there is the slightest cause for alarm will promise
+to take you there immediately. Be content with my promise; be patient,
+be brave, I beg of you, Nora. But, believe me, your uncle knows best
+when he says you are not to go.”
+
+“Thank you, Aunt Grace,” said Nora in a low voice. She did not glance at
+Linda. She turned and left the room.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVI.
+
+
+TEN POUNDS.
+
+Molly was standing by the open window of her room when Nora came in.
+She entered quite quietly. Every vestige of color had left her face; her
+eyes, dark and intensely blue, were shining; some of her jet-black hair
+had got loosened and fell about her neck and shoulders. Molly sprang
+toward her.
+
+“Oh, Nora!” she said.
+
+“Hush!” said Nora. “I have heard; father is hurt--very badly hurt, and I
+am going to him.”
+
+“Are you indeed? Is mother going to take you?” said Molly.
+
+“No; she has refused. A telegram has come from my uncle; he says I am
+not to go--as if a thousand telegrams would keep me. Molly, I am going.”
+
+“But you cannot go alone.”
+
+“I am going.”
+
+“When?” said Molly.
+
+“Now--this very minute.”
+
+“What nonsense! There are no trains.”
+
+“I shall leave the house and stay at the station. I shall take the very
+next train to town. I am going.”
+
+“But, Nora, have you money?”
+
+“Money?” said Nora. “I never thought of that.”
+
+“Mother won't give you money if she does not wish you to go.”
+
+“I'll go to my room and see.” Nora rushed away. She came back in a few
+moments with her purse; she flung the contents on Molly's bed. Molly
+took up the silver coins as they rattled out of Nora's purse. Alack and
+alas! all she possessed was eight shillings and a few coppers.
+
+“You cannot go with that,” said Molly; “and I have nothing to lend you,
+or I would; indeed, I would give you all I possess, but mother only
+gives me sixpence a week. Nothing would induce her to give me an
+allowance. I have sixpence a week just as if I were a baby, and you can
+quite understand I don't save out of that. What is to be done?”
+
+Nora looked nonplused. For the first time the vigorous intention, the
+fierce resolve which was bearing her onward, was checked, and checked
+by so mighty a reason that she could not quite see her way out of the
+present difficulty. To ask her Aunt Grace for money would be worse than
+useless. Nora was a sufficient reader of character to be quite certain
+that Mrs. Hartrick when she said a thing meant it. She would be kind to
+Nora up to a certain point. Were her father in what they called danger
+she herself would be the first to help Nora to go to him.
+
+“How little they know how badly he wants me!” thought the girl; “how
+all this time he is pining for me--he who never knew illness in his
+life--pining, pining for me! Nothing shall keep me from him. I would
+steal to go to him; there is nothing I would not do.”
+
+“Nora, how queer you look!” said Molly.
+
+“I am thinking,” said Nora. “I wonder how I am to get that money? Oh, I
+have it. I'll ask Stephanotie to lend it to me. Do you think she would?”
+
+“I don't know. I think it very likely. She is generous, and she has
+heaps of money.”
+
+“Then I'll go to her,” said Nora.
+
+“Stay, Nora; if you really want to run away----”
+
+“Run away?” said Nora. “If you like to call it so, you may; but I'm
+going. My own father is ill; my uncle and aunt don't hold the same
+position to me that my father holds. I will go to him--I will.”
+
+“Then I tell you what it is,” said Molly, “you must do this thing
+carefully or you'll be locked up in your bedroom. Mother would think
+nothing of locking the door of your bedroom and keeping you there. You
+don't know mother when once her back is up. She can be immensely kind up
+to a certain point, and then--oh! I know it--immensely cruel.”
+
+“What is to be done?” said Nora. “I hate doing a thing in this kind of
+way--in the dark, as it were.”
+
+“You must listen to me,” said Molly; “you must be very careful. I have
+had some little scampers in my time, and I know how to manage matters.
+There is only one way for you to go.”
+
+“What is that?”
+
+“You and I must go off and see Stephanotie; but we cannot do so until
+everyone is in bed.”
+
+“How can we go then?”
+
+“We can easily climb down from this window. You see this pear-tree; it
+almost touches the window. I have climbed down by it more than once; we
+can get in again the same way.”
+
+“Oh, yes. If we must sneak out of the house like thieves,” said Nora,
+“it's as good as any other way.”
+
+“I tell you it's the only way,” said Molly. “We must be off on our
+way to London before mother gets up tomorrow morning. You don't know
+anything whatever about trains.”
+
+“But I can look them out,” said Nora.
+
+“Well, go back to your room. Mother will not be going to bed for quite
+an hour. We cannot help it; we can do nothing until she is safe in bed.
+Go away at once, Nora; for if she finds you here talking to me she
+will suspect something. I cannot tell you what mother is when once her
+suspicions are aroused; and she has had good cause to suspect me before
+now.”
+
+“But do you really mean to say you'll come with me?”
+
+“I certainly mean to say I won't let you go alone. Now then, go away;
+just pack a few things, and slip back to me when I knock on the wall.
+I know when mother has gone to bed; it is necessary that she should be
+asleep, and that Linda should be asleep also; that is all we require.
+Leave the rest to me.”
+
+“And you are certain Stephanotie can lend us the money?”
+
+“We can but ask her. If she refuses we must only come back again and
+make the best of things.”
+
+“I will never come back,” said Nora. “I will go to the first
+pawnbroker's and pawn everything of value I possess; but go to my father
+I will.”
+
+“I admire your courage,” said Molly. “Now then, go back to your room and
+wait for my signal.”
+
+Nora returned to her room. She began to open and shut her drawers. She
+did not care about being quiet. It seemed to her that no one could
+keep her from her father against her will. She did not recognize the
+all-potent fact that she had no money herself for the journey. Still,
+the money must be obtained. Of course Stephanotie had it, and of course
+Stephanotie would lend it; it would only be a loan for a few days. When
+once Nora got to Ireland she would return the money immediately.
+
+She opened her drawers and filled a little black bag which she had
+brought with her from home. She put in the trifles she might need on her
+journey; the rest of her things could stay; she could not be bothered
+with them one way or the other. Then she sat quite still on the edge
+of her bed. How earnestly she wished that her aunt would retire for
+the night, that Linda would be quiet! Linda's room adjoined Nora's--it
+opened into Nora's--and Linda, when occasions roused her suspicions,
+could be intensely watchful. She did not seem to be going to bed; she
+kept moving about in her room. Poor Nora could scarcely restrain herself
+from calling out, “Oh, do be quick, Linda! What are you staying up for?”
+ but she refrained from saying the fatal words. Presently she heard the
+creak of Linda's bed as she got into it. This was followed by silence.
+
+Nora breathed a sigh of relief, but still the dangers were not past. Her
+little black bag lay quite ready on the chair, and she herself sat on
+the edge of her bed. Mrs. Hartrick's steps were heard coming up the
+stairs, and the next moment the door of Nora's room was opened and the
+good lady looked in.
+
+“Not in bed, Nora,” she said; “but this is very wrong.”
+
+“Oh, I could not sleep,” said Nora.
+
+Mrs. Hartrick went up to her.
+
+“Now, my dear child,” she said, “I cannot rest until I see you safe in
+bed. Come, I must undress you myself. What a wan little face! My dear
+girl, you must trust in God. Your uncle's telegram assures us that there
+is no danger; and if there is the smallest occasion I will take you
+myself to your father tomorrow.”
+
+“Oh! if you would only promise to take me,” said poor Nora, suddenly
+rising to her feet, twining her arms round her aunt's neck, and looking
+full into her face. “Oh! don't say you will take me to my father if
+there is danger; say you'll take me in any case. It would break my heart
+to stay away. I cannot--cannot stay away from him.”
+
+“Now, you are talking in an unreasonable way, Nora--in a way I cannot
+for a moment listen to. Your uncle wishes you to stay where you are.
+He would not wish that if there was the least occasion for you to go to
+Ireland.”
+
+“Then you will not take me tomorrow?”
+
+“Not unless your father is worse. Come, I must help you to get your
+things off.”
+
+Nora felt herself powerless in Mrs. Hartrick's hands. The good lady
+quickly began to divest her of her clothes, soon her night-dress was
+popped on, and she was lying down in bed.
+
+“What is that black bag doing here?” said Mrs. Hartrick, glancing at the
+bag as she spoke.
+
+“I was packing my things together to go to father.”
+
+“Well, dear, we must only trust there will be no necessity. Now,
+goodnight. Sleep well, my little girl. Believe me, I am not so
+unsympathetic as I look.”
+
+Nora made no reply. She covered her face with the bedclothes; a sob came
+from her throat. Mrs. Hartrick hesitated for a moment whether she would
+say anything further; but then, hoping that the tired-out girl would
+sleep, she went gently from the room. In the passage she thought for a
+moment.
+
+“Why did Nora pack that little bag?” she said to herself. “Can it be
+possible--but no, the child would not do it. Besides, she has no money.”
+
+Mrs. Hartrick entered her own room at the other end of the corridor and
+shut the door. Then stillness reigned over the house--stillness absolute
+and complete.
+
+No light had been burning under Molly's door when Mrs. Hartrick had
+passed. Molly, indeed, wiser than Nora, had got into bed and lay there,
+dressed, it is true, but absolutely in the dark. Nora also lay in her
+bed; every nerve was beating frantically; her body seemed to be all one
+great pulse. At last, in desperation, she sprang out of bed--there came
+the welcome signal from Molly's room. Nora struck a light and began to
+dress feverishly. In ten minutes she was once more in her clothes. She
+now put on the dark-gray traveling dress she had worn when coming to
+The Laurels. Her hat and jacket were quickly put on, and, carrying the
+little black bag, she entered Molly's room.
+
+“What hour is it?” said Nora. “It must be long past midnight.”
+
+“Oh, no; nothing of the kind. It is not more than eleven o'clock.”
+
+“Oh! I thought it was one or two. Do you know that your mother came to
+see me and insisted on my getting into bed?”
+
+“You were a great goose, Nora. You should have lain down as I did, in
+your clothes; that would have saved a little time. But come, mother has
+been quite quiet for half an hour and more; she must be sound asleep. We
+had better go.”
+
+“Yes, we had better go,” said Nora. “I packed a few things in this bag;
+it is quite light, and I can carry it. My money is in it, too--eight
+shillings and fivepence. I do trust Stephanotie will be able to lend us
+the rest.”
+
+Molly had not been idle while Nora was in her room. She had taken care
+to oil the hasp of the window; and now, with extreme caution, she lifted
+it up, taking care that it did not make the slightest sound as she did
+so. The next moment both girls were seated on the window-ledge. Molly
+sprang on to the pear-tree, which creaked and crackled under her weight;
+but Mrs. Hartrick was already in the land of dreams. Molly dropped on to
+the ground beneath, and then it was Nora's turn.
+
+“Shall I shut the window before I get on to the pear-tree?” whispered
+Nora.
+
+“No, no; leave it open. Come just as you are.”
+
+Nora reached out her arms, grasped the pear tree, and slipped down to
+the ground.
+
+“Now then, we must be off,” said Molly. “I hope Pilot won't bark.” She
+was alluding to the big watchdog. “But there, I'll speak to him; he is
+very fond of me.”
+
+The girls stole across the grass. The dew lay heavy on it; their
+footsteps made no sound. Presently they reached the front of the house,
+and Pilot, with a deep bay, flew to meet them.
+
+“Pilot! Pilot! quiet; good dog!” said Molly. She went on her knees,
+flung her arms round the dog, and began to whisper in his ear.
+
+“He understands,” she said, looking up at Nora. The great creature
+seemed to do so; he wagged his feathery tail from side to side and
+accompanied the girls as far as the gate.
+
+“Now, go home, go home,” said Molly. She then took Nora's hand, and they
+ran down the road in the direction of the village.
+
+“If it were not that you are so miserable I should enjoy this awfully,”
+ said Molly.
+
+“But how do you mean to wake Stephie?” asked Nora at last.
+
+“Well, luckily for us, her aunt, Miss Truefitt, is rather deaf. Miss
+Truefitt has a bedroom at the back of the house, and Stephanotie sleeps
+in front. I shall fling gravel at the window. There is not a soul, as
+you see, in the streets. It's well that it is such a quiet place; it
+will serve our purpose all the better.”
+
+They now found themselves outside Miss Truefitt's house. Molly took up
+a handful of gravel and flung it in a great shower at Stephanotie's
+window. Both girls then waited eagerly for a response. At first there
+was none; once again Molly threw the gravel.
+
+“I do hope she will wake soon,” she said, turning to Nora; “that gravel
+makes a great noise, and some of the neighbors may pop out their heads
+to see what is the matter. There! I saw a flicker of light in the room.
+She is thinking it is thieves; she won't for a single moment imagine
+that we are here. I do hope Miss Truefitt won't awaken; it will be all
+up with us if she does.”
+
+“No, no, it won't,” said Nora; “there's not a person in this place I
+could not get to help me in a cause like this. The one who is absolutely
+invulnerable, who cannot be moved, because she imagines herself to be
+right, is your mother.”
+
+“There's Stephie at the window now,” said Molly. A little figure in a
+night-dress was seen peeping out.
+
+“It's us, Stephie. Let us in; it's most awfully important,” whispered
+Molly's voice in deep sepulchral tones from below.
+
+“But say, what's the matter?” called Stephanotie, opening her window and
+popping out her curly head.
+
+“I can't talk to you in the street. Slip down and open the hall-door and
+let us in,” said Molly. “It's most vital.”
+
+“It's life or death,” whispered Nora. There was something in Nora's
+tremulous tones which touched Stephanotie, and at the same time
+stimulated her curiosity to such an extent that she flew into her
+clothes, dashing about perfectly reckless of the fact that she was
+making a loud noise; but, luckily for her, Miss Truefitt was deaf and
+the servants slept in a remote part of the old house. Soon Stephanotie
+was tumbling downstairs, the chain was taken off the door, and the two
+girls were admitted.
+
+“Where shall I take you?” said Stephanotie. “It's all as dark as pitch.
+You know Aunt Vi won't hear of gas in the house. But stay, we can
+go into the dining room. I suppose you can tell me by the light of a
+solitary glim.” As she spoke she pointed to the candle which she was
+holding high above her head.
+
+“Yes, yes, or with no light at all,” said Nora.
+
+Stephanotie now opened the door of the dining room, and the three girls
+entered. Stephanotie placed the candle on the table and turned and faced
+them.
+
+“Well,” she said, “what's up? What do you want me to do?”
+
+“I want you to lend me all the money you have,” said Nora.
+
+“All the money I have--good gracious!”
+
+“Oh, Jehoshaphat! be quick about it,” said Molly. “We cannot stand here
+talking; we want to catch the very next train to town.”
+
+“But why should I lend you all the money I have?”
+
+“Oh, I'll tell her, Nora; don't you speak,” said Molly. “Nora's father
+has been awfully hurt; he was shot at from behind a hedge by some
+scoundrel in Ireland. A telegram came to-day about him to mother, and
+mother won't take Nora to Ireland unless her father is in danger, and
+Nora is determined to go.”
+
+“I guess I'd about do the same,” said Stephanotie, nodding her head.
+“If poppa was shot at from behind a hedge, I guess there's nothing would
+keep me away from him. But is it for that you want the money?”
+
+“Yes,” said Nora, plunging her hands into the depths of her black bag;
+“there's only eight shillings and five-pence here, and I can't get to
+Ireland with that.”
+
+“Haul out the spoil,” said Molly; “make no bones about it. I'm going
+with Nora, because the child isn't fit to travel alone.”
+
+“You coming with me?” said Nora. “I didn't know that.”
+
+“I don't mean to leave you, my dear, until I see you safe in the midst
+of your family; besides, I have a bit of curiosity with regard to that
+wonderful old place of yours.”
+
+“Oh, it's lost, the place is quite lost,” said Nora, remembering for the
+first time since the blow had fallen the feather-bed condition of Castle
+O'Shanaghgan.
+
+“Well, lost or found, I'd like to have a peep at it,” said Molly; “so
+fork out the spoil, Stephie, and be quick.”
+
+“I will, of course,” said Stephanotie. “But how much do you want?”
+
+“All you possess, my dear; you cannot give us more than all you
+possess.”
+
+“And when am I likely to have it back?”
+
+“Oh, as if that mattered,” said Molly; “the thing is to get Nora home.
+You won't be any the worse for this, if that is what you mean.”
+
+“Oh, I am not really thinking of that; but my school fees have to be
+paid, and the money only came from America two days ago for the purpose.
+You know Aunt Vi is very poor.”
+
+“Poor or rich, don't keep us waiting now,” said Molly. “Look at Nora.
+Do you think for a single moment that your school bills matter when her
+heart is breaking?”
+
+“And you shall have the money back, Stephie, every farthing, if I die to
+get it for you,” said Nora with sudden passion.
+
+“I don't doubt you, darling,” said the generous-hearted American girl.
+“Well, I'll go up to my room and see what I can do.” She left the room,
+ran upstairs, and quickly returned with a fat purse. It contained gold
+and notes; and very soon Molly found, to her infinite delight, that it
+would be by no means necessary for her and Nora to take all Stephie's
+wealth.
+
+“Ten pounds will be sufficient,” said Molly. “I have not the slightest
+idea what the fares to Ireland are, but I have no doubt we shall do
+nicely with this sum. May we have these two five-pounds notes, Stephie?”
+
+“You may and welcome,” said Stephanotie. “I have nearly thirty pounds
+here; but it's on account of the school bills. As a rule, poppa is not
+quite so generous. He says it is better for young girls like me not to
+have too much money. I guess I'd eat too many bon-bons if I had a lot of
+money at my disposal. But had you not better take it in gold? It is much
+easier to change.”
+
+“To be sure,” said Molly. “Holy Moses! it's you that have got the sense,
+Stephie.”
+
+“Thank you for the compliment,” replied Stephanotie. “Well, then, here
+you are--ten sovereigns. Good luck to you both. What do you mean to do?”
+
+“Go to the station and find out about the trains, and start the very
+first moment possible,” said Molly.
+
+“I do wish I was going with you. It would be no end of a lark.”
+
+“Why don't you come?” asked Molly.
+
+“I wish I might; but there, I suppose I had better not. I must look
+perfectly innocent to-morrow, or I may get into an awful scrape for
+this. You must both go now, or Aunt Vi when she turns in her sleep may
+wake. She turns in her sleep about three times during the night; and
+whenever she turns she wakes, so she tells me. I guess it's about time
+for her first turn now, so the sooner you are off the better.”
+
+“Oh, thank you, Stephie! I shall never, never forget your kindness,”
+ said Nora. She flung her arms impulsively round Stephanotie's neck, and
+the next moment the girls left the house.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVII.
+
+
+ADVENTURES--AND HOME AGAIN.
+
+The girls now went straight to the railway station; the hour was a
+quarter to twelve. They entered and asked at once if there was a train
+up to town. Yes; the last train would be due in ten minutes. Molly now
+took the management of affairs; she purchased a third-class ticket for
+herself and another for Nora.
+
+“If we go third-class we shall not be specially remarked,” she said.
+“People always notice girls who travel first-class.”
+
+The tickets being bought, the girls stood side by side on the platform.
+Molly had put on her shabbiest hat and oldest jacket; her gloves had
+some holes in them; her umbrella was rolled up in such a thick, ungainly
+fashion that it looked like a gamp. Nora, however, exquisitely neat and
+trim, stood by her companion's side, betraying as she did so traces of
+her good birth and breeding.
+
+“You must untidy yourself a bit when we get into the train,” said Molly.
+“I'll manage it.”
+
+“Oh, never mind about my looks; the thing is to get off,” said Nora.
+“I'm not a scrap afraid,” she added; “if Aunt Grace came to me now she
+could not induce me to turn back; nothing but force would make me. I
+have got the money, and to Ireland I will go.”
+
+“I admire you for your determination,” said Molly. “I never knew that an
+Irish girl could have so much spunk in her.”
+
+“And why not? Aren't we about the finest race on God's earth?”
+
+“Oh, come, come,” said Molly; “you mustn't overdo it. Even you sometimes
+carry things a trifle too far.”
+
+Just then the train came in. There was the usual bustle of passengers
+alighting and others getting in; the next moment the girls had taken
+their seats in a crowded compartment and were off to town. They arrived
+in London between twelve and one o'clock, and found themselves landed at
+Waterloo. Now, Waterloo is not the nicest station in the world for two
+very young girls to arrive at midnight, particularly when they have not
+the faintest idea where to go.
+
+“Let us go straight to the waiting room and ask the woman there what we
+had best do,” said Molly, who still immensely enjoyed taking the lead.
+
+Nora followed her companion quite willingly. Her worst fears about her
+father were held in abeyance, now that she was really on her way to
+him. The girls entered the waiting room. A tired-looking woman was busy
+putting out the gas, and reducing the room to darkness for the night.
+She turned round as the girls came in.
+
+“I'm shutting up, ladies,” she said.
+
+“Oh, but please advise us,” said Molly.
+
+“How so, miss? What am I to do?”
+
+“You'll be paid well,” said Molly, “so you need not look so angry. Can
+you take us home to your place until the morning?”
+
+“What does this mean?” said the woman.
+
+“Oh, I'll explain,” said Molly. “We're two runaways. I don't mind
+telling you that we are, because it's a fact. It is important that
+we should leave home. We don't want to be traced. Will you give us
+lodging?--any sort. We don't mind how small the room is. We want to be
+at Euston at an early hour in the morning; we are going to Holyhead.”
+
+“Dear, dear!” said the woman; “and does this really mean money?”
+
+“It means five shillings,” said Molly.
+
+“Ten” was on Nora's lips; but Molly silenced her with a look.
+
+“There's no use in overpaying her; she won't be half as civil,”
+ whispered Molly to Nora.
+
+“It's five shillings you'll get,” she repeated in a firm voice. “Here, I
+have got the change; you can look in my purse.”
+
+“Molly opened her purse as she spoke. The woman, a Mrs. Terry by name,
+did look in. She saw the shine of gold and several half-crowns.
+
+“Well, to be sure!” she said. “But you'll promise not to get me into a
+scrape?”
+
+“We won't even ask you your name. You can let us out of the house in
+time for us to catch the first train from Euston. We shall be off and
+away before we are discovered.”
+
+“And we'll remember you all our lives if you'll help us,” said Nora.
+Then she added, tears filling her pretty eyes, “It's my father, please,
+kind woman; he has been shot at and is very ill.”
+
+“And who wants to keep you from your father, you poor thing?” said the
+woman. “Oh, if it's that, and there's no lovers in the question, I don't
+mind helping you both. It don't do for young girls to be wandering about
+the streets alone at night. You come with me, honeys. I can't take you
+for nothing, but I'll give you supper and breakfast, and the best bed I
+can, for five shillings.”
+
+Accordingly, in Mrs. Terry's company, the two girls left Waterloo
+Station. She walked down a somewhat narrow side-street, crossed another,
+and they presently found themselves in a little, old-fashioned square.
+The square was very old indeed, belonging to quite a dead-and-gone
+period of the world. The woman stopped at a house which once had been
+large and stately; doubtless in days gone by it had sheltered goodly
+personages and had listened to the laughter of the rich and well-to-do;
+but in its old age the house was let out in tenements, and Mrs. Terry
+owned a couple of rooms at the very top.
+
+She took the girls up the dirty stairs, opened the door of a not
+uncomfortable sitting room, and ushered them in.
+
+“There now, honeys,” she said; “the best I can do for you both is the
+sofa for one and my bed for the other.”
+
+“No, no,” said Nora, “we would not dream of taking your bed; and, for
+that matter, I could not sleep,” she added. “If you will let me have a
+couple of chairs I shall lie down on them and wait as best I can until
+the morning. Oh, I have often done it at home and thought it great fun.”
+
+“Well, you must each have a bit of supper first; it don't do for young
+girls to go to bed hungry, more particularly when they have a journey
+before them. I'll get you some bread and cheese and a glass of milk
+each--unless, indeed, you would prefer beer?”
+
+“Oh, no, we would much rather have milk,” said Molly.
+
+The woman bustled about, and soon came in with a jug of milk, a couple
+of glasses, some bread, and some indifferent butter.
+
+“You can have the cheese if you really want it,” she said.
+
+“No; this will do beautifully,” answered Nora.
+
+“Well then, my dears, I'll leave you now for the night. The lamp will
+burn all night. It will be lonely for young girls to be in the dark; and
+I'll promise to call you at five o'clock. There's a train leaves Euston
+between six and seven that you had better catch, unless you want them as
+is hindering you from flight to stop you. I am interested in this poor
+young lady who wants to see her father.”
+
+“Oh, thank you; you are a perfect darling!” said Nora. “I'll come and
+see you some day when I am happy again, and tell you all about it.”
+
+“Bless your kind heart, honey! I'm glad to be able to do something for
+those who are in trouble. Now then, lie down and have a bit of sleep.
+I'll wake you sure and certain, and you shan't stir, the two of you,
+until you have had a hot cup of tea each.”
+
+Mrs. Terry was as good as her word. She called the girls in good time,
+and gave them quite a comfortable breakfast before they started. The tea
+was hot; the bread was good--what else did they want?
+
+Nora awoke from a very short and broken slumber.
+
+“Soon I shall be back again,” she thought. “No matter how changed and
+ruined the place is, I shall be with him once more. Oh, my darling, my
+heart's darling, I shall kiss you again! Oh! I am happy at the thought.”
+
+Mrs. Terry herself accompanied them to Euston. It was too early to get a
+cab; she asked them if they were good walkers. They said they were. She
+took them by the shortest routes; and, somewhat tired, but still full of
+a strange exultation, they found themselves at the great station. Mrs.
+Terry saw them into their train, and with many loudly uttered blessings
+started them on their journey. She would not touch anything more than
+the five shillings, and tears were in her eyes as she looked her last at
+them.
+
+“God bless them, and particularly that little Irish girl. Haven't she
+just got the cunningest, sweetest way in all the world?” thought the
+good woman. “I do hope her father will be better when she gets to him.
+Don't she love him just!”
+
+Yes, it had been the most daring scheme, the wildest sort of adventure,
+for two girls to undertake, and yet it was crowned with success. They
+were too far on their journey for Mrs. Hartrick, however much she might
+wish it, to rescue them. She might be as angry as she pleased; but
+nothing now could get them back. She accordingly did the very best
+thing she could do--telegraphed to Mr. Hartrick to say that they had
+absolutely run away, but begged of him to meet them in Dublin. This
+the good man did. He met them both on the pier, received them quietly,
+without much demonstration; but then, looking into Nora's anxious face,
+his own softened.
+
+“You have come, Nora, and against my will,” he said. “Are you sorry?”
+
+“Not a bit, Uncle George,” she answered. “I would have come against the
+wills of a thousand uncles if father were ill.”
+
+“Then I have nothing to say,” he answered, with a smile, “at least to
+you; but, Molly, I shall have something to talk to you about presently.”
+
+“It was very good of you to meet us, father. Was mother terribly angry?”
+
+“What could you expect her to be? You have behaved very badly.”
+
+“I don't think so. I did the only possible thing to save Nora's heart
+from breaking.”
+
+“It seems to me,” said Mr. Hartrick slowly, “that you all think of
+nothing but the heart of Nora. I am almost sorry now that I ever asked
+her to come to us in England.”
+
+“Oh, it's home again; it's home again!” cried the Irish girl as she
+paced up and down the platform. “Molly, do listen to the brogue. Isn't
+it just delicious? Come along, and let's talk to this poor old Irish
+beggar.”
+
+“Oh, but he doesn't look at all pleasant,” said Molly, backing a little.
+
+“Bless the crayther, but he is pleasant,” said Nora. “I must go and have
+a chat with him.” She caught hold of Molly's hand, and dragged her to
+the edge of the pavement, where an old man, with almost blind eyes, was
+seated in front of a large basket of rosy apples.
+
+“And how are you this morning, father?” said Nora.
+
+“Oh, then, it's the top of the morning to yez, honey,” was the instant
+reply. “And how is yourself?”
+
+“Very well indeed,” said Nora.
+
+“Then it's I that am delighted to see yez, though see yez I can't. Oh,
+then, I hope that it's a long life and plenty you'll have before you,
+my sweet, dear, illigant young lady--a good bed to lie on, and plenty to
+eat and drink. If you has them, what else could ail yez? Good-by to yez;
+good-by to yez.”
+
+Nora slipped a couple of pence into his hand.
+
+“The blessings of the Vargin and all the Saints be on your head, miss.
+Oh! it's I that am glad to see yez. God's blessing on yez a thousand
+times.”
+
+Nora took the old man's hand and wrung it. He raised the white little
+hand to his lips and kissed it.
+
+“There now,” he said, “I have kissed yez; and these lips shan't see
+wather again for many a long day--that they shan't. I wouldn't wash off
+the taste of your hand, honey, for a bag of yellow gold.”
+
+“What an extraordinary man!” said Molly. “Have you known him all your
+life?”
+
+“Known him all my life!” said Nora. “Never laid eyes on him before;
+that's the way we always talk to one another. Oh, I can tell you we love
+each other here in Ireland.”
+
+“It seems so,” answered Molly, in some astonishment. “Dear me! if you
+address a total stranger so, how will you speak to those you really
+love?”
+
+“You wait and see,” answered Nora, her dark-blue eyes shining, and a
+mist of tears dimming their brightness; “you wait and see. Ah, it's past
+words we are sometimes; but you wait and you'll soon see.”
+
+Mr. O'Shanaghgan was pronounced better, although Mr. Hartrick had to
+admit that he was weak and fretful; and, now that Nora had come, it was
+extremely likely that her presence would do her father a sight of good.
+
+“I knew it, Uncle George,” she answered as they seated themselves in the
+railway carriage preparatory to going back to O'Shanaghgan--“I knew it,
+and that was why I came. You, uncle, are very wise,” she added; “and
+yours is a beautiful, neat, orderly country; and you are very kind, and
+very clever; and you have been awfully good to the Irish girl--awfully
+good; and she is very ignorant; and you know a great deal; but one thing
+she does know best, and that is, the love and the longing in the heart
+of her own dear father. Oh, hurrah! I'm home again; I'm home again! Erin
+go bragh! Erin go bragh!”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVIII.
+
+
+THE WILD IRISH.
+
+The somewhat slow Irish train jogged along its way; it never put itself
+out, did that special train, starting when it pleased, and arriving when
+it chose at its destination. Its guard, Jerry by name, was of a like
+mind with itself; there was no hurry about Jerry; he took the world
+“aisy,” as he expressed it.
+
+“What's the good of fretting?” he used to say. “What can't be cured must
+be endured. I hurry no man's cattle; and my train, she goes when she
+likes, and I aint going to hurry her, not I.”
+
+On one occasion Jerry was known to remark to a somewhat belated
+traveler:
+
+“Why, then, miss, is it hurrying ye are to meet the train? Why, then,
+you can take your time.”
+
+“Oh, Jerry!” said this anxious person, fixing her eyes on his face in
+great excitement, “I forgot a most important parcel at a shop half a
+mile away.”
+
+“Run and fetch it, then, honey,” replied Jerry, “and I'll keep her a bit
+longer.”
+
+This the lady accordingly did. When she returned, the heads of all the
+other angry passengers were out of the windows expostulating with Jerry
+as to the cause of the delay.
+
+“Hurry up, miss,” he said then. He popped her into a compartment, and
+she, as he called the train, moved slowly out of the station.
+
+At times, too, without the smallest provocation, Jerry would stop this
+special train because a little “pigeen” had got off one of the trucks
+and was running along the line. He and the porter shouted and raced
+after the animal, caught it, and brought it back to the train. On
+another occasion he calmly informed a rather important passenger, “Ye
+had best get out here, for she's bust.” “She” happened to be the engine.
+
+Into this train now got English Molly and Irish Nora. Mr. Hartrick
+pronounced it quite the vilest service he had ever traveled by. He began
+to grumble the moment he got into the train.
+
+“It crawls,” he said; “and it absolutely has the cheek to call itself an
+express.”
+
+But Nora, with her head out of the window, was shouting to Jerry, who
+came toward her full of blessings, anxious to shake her purty white
+hand, and telling her that he was as glad as a shower of gould to have
+her back again in the old country.
+
+At last, however, the slow, very slow journey came to an end; and just
+after sunset the party found themselves at the little wayside station.
+Here a sight met Nora's eyes which displeased her exceedingly. Instead
+of the old outside car which her father used to drive, with the shabby
+old retainer, whose livery had long ago seen its best days, there
+arrived a smart groom, in the newest of livery, with a cockade in his
+hat. He touched his hat respectfully to Mr. Hartrick, and gave a quick
+glance round at Nora and Molly.
+
+“Is the brougham outside, Dennis?” was Mr. Hartrick's response.
+
+“Yes, sir; it has been waiting for half an hour; the train is a bit
+late, as usual, sir.”
+
+“You need not tell me that this train is ever in time,” said Mr.
+Hartrick. “Well, girls, come along; I told Dennis to meet us, and here
+we are.”
+
+Molly thought nothing at all of the neat brougham, with its pair of
+spirited grays; she was accustomed to driving in the better-class of
+carriage all her life; but Nora turned first pale and then crimson. She
+got into the carriage, and sat back in a corner; tears were brimming to
+her eyes.
+
+“This is the first. How am I to bear all the rest?” she said to herself.
+
+Mr. Hartrick, who had hoped that Nora would be pleased with the
+brougham, with Dennis himself, with the whole very stylish get-up, was
+mortified at her silence, and, taking her hand, tried to draw her out.
+
+“Well, little girl,” he said, “I hope you will like the improvements
+I have made in the Castle. I have done it all at your instigation,
+remember.”
+
+“At my instigation?” cried Nora. “Oh, no, Uncle George, that you have
+not.”
+
+He looked at her in some amazement, then closed his lips, and said
+nothing more. Molly longed to get her father alone, in order to explain
+Nora's peculiar conduct.
+
+“It is difficult for an Englishman to understand her,” thought Molly.
+“I do, and I think her altogether charming; but father, who has gone to
+this enormous expense and trouble, will be put out if she does not show
+a little gratitude. I will tell her that she must; I will take the very
+first opportunity.”
+
+And now they were turning in at the well-known gates. These gates were
+painted white, whereas they had been almost reduced to their native
+wood. The avenue was quite tidy, no weeds anywhere; but Nora almost
+refused to look out. One by one the familiar trees seemed to pass by her
+as she was bowled rapidly along in the new brougham, as if they were so
+many ghosts saying good-by. But then there was the roar--the real, real,
+grand roar--of the Atlantic in her ears. No amount of tidiness, nothing
+could ever alter that sound.
+
+“Oh, hurrah for the sea!” she said. She flung down the window and popped
+out her head.
+
+Mr. Hartrick nodded to Molly. “She will see a great deal more to delight
+her than just the old ocean,” he said.
+
+Molly was silent. They arrived at the house; the butler was standing on
+the steps, a nice, stylish-looking Englishman, in neat livery. He came
+down, opened the carriage door, let down the steps, and offered his arm
+to Nora to alight; but she pushed past him, bounded up the steps, and
+the next moment found herself in her mother's arms.
+
+“How do you do, my dear Nora?” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan. “I am glad to
+see you, dear, but also surprised. You acted in your usual headstrong
+fashion.”
+
+“Oh, another time, mother. Mummy, how are you? I am glad to see you
+again; but don't scold me now; just wait. I'll bear it all patiently
+another time. How is the dad, mummy?--how is the dad?”
+
+“Your father is doing nicely, Nora; there was not the slightest occasion
+for you to hurry off and give such trouble and annoyance.”
+
+“I don't suppose I have given annoyance to father,” said Nora. “Where is
+he--in his old room?”
+
+“No; we moved him upstairs to the best bedroom. We thought it the wisest
+thing to do; he was in considerable pain.”
+
+“The best bedroom? Which is the best bedroom?” said Nora. “Your room,
+mummy?”
+
+“The room next to mine, darling. And just come and have a look at the
+drawing room, Nora.”
+
+“I will go to father first,” said Nora. “Don't keep me; I can't stay.”
+
+She forgot Molly; she forgot her uncle; she even forgot her mother. In
+a moment she was bounding upstairs over those thick Axminster
+carpets--those awful carpets, into which her feet sank--down a corridor,
+also heavily lined with Axminster, past great velvet curtains, which
+seemed to stifle her as she pushed them aside, and the next instant she
+had burst open a door.
+
+In the old days this room had been absolutely destitute of furniture. In
+the older days again it had been the spare room of Castle O'Shanaghgan.
+Here hospitality had reigned; here guests of every degree had found a
+hearty welcome, an invitation to stay as long as they pleased, and the
+best that the Castle could afford for their accommodation. When Nora had
+left O'Shanaghgan, the only thing that had remained in the old room
+was a huge four-poster. Even the mattress from this old bed had been
+removed; the curtains had been taken from the windows; the three great
+windows were bare of both blinds and curtains. Now a soft carpet covered
+the entire floor; a neat modern Albert bed stood in a recess; there
+were heavy curtains to the windows, and Venetian blinds, which were so
+arranged as to temper the light. But the light of the sunset had already
+faded, and it was twilight when Nora popped her wild, excited little
+face round the door.
+
+In the bed lay a gaunt figure, unshaven, with a beard of a week's
+growth. Two great eyes looked out of caverns, then two arms were
+stretched out, and Nora was clasped to her father's breast.
+
+“Ah, then, I have you again; may God be praised for all His mercies,”
+ said the Squire in a great, deep hoarse voice.
+
+Nora lay absolutely motionless for nearly half a minute in his arms,
+then she raised herself.
+
+“Ah,” she said, “that was good. I hungered for it.”
+
+“And I also hungered for it, my darling,” said the Squire. “Let me look
+at you, Light o' the Morning; get a light somehow, and let me see your
+bonny, bonny, sweet, sweet face.”
+
+“Ah, there's a fire in the grate,” said Nora. “Are there any matches?”
+
+“Matches, bedad!” said the Squire; “there's everything that's wanted.
+It's perfectly horrible. They are in a silver box, too, bedad! What do
+we want with it? Twist up a bit of paper, do, Nora, like a good girl,
+and light the glim the old way.”
+
+Nora caught at her father's humor at once. She had already flung off her
+hat and jacket.
+
+“To be sure I will,” she said, “and with all the heart in the world.”
+ She tore a long strip from the local paper, which was lying on a chair
+near by, twisted it, lit it in the fire, and then applied it to a
+candle.
+
+“Only light one candle, for the love of heaven, child,” said the Squire.
+“I don't want to see too many of the fal-lals. Now then, that's better;
+bring the light up to the bed. Oh, what I have suffered with curtains,
+and carpets, and---”
+
+“It's too awful, father,” said Nora.
+
+“That's it, child. That's the first cheery word I have heard for the
+last six weeks--too awful I should think it is. They are smothering me
+between them, Nora. I shall never get up and breathe the free air again;
+but when you came in you brought a breath of air with you.”
+
+“Let's open the window. There's a gale coming up, We'll have some air,”
+ said Nora.
+
+“Why, then, Light o' the Morning, they say I'll get bronchitis if the
+window is opened.”
+
+“They! Who are they?” said Nora, with scorn.
+
+“Why, you wouldn't believe it, but they had a doctor down from Dublin to
+see me. I don't believe he had a scrap of real Irish blood in him, for
+he said I was to be nursed and messed over, and gruels and all kinds of
+things brought to my bedside--I who would have liked a fine potato with
+a pinch of salt better than anything under the sun.”
+
+“You'll have your potato and your pinch of salt now that I am back,”
+ said Nora. “I mean to be mistress of this room.”
+
+The Squire gave a laugh.
+
+“Isn't it lovely to hear her?” he said. “Don't it do me a sight of good?
+There, open the window wide, Nora, before your mother comes in. Oh, your
+mother is as pleased as Punch, and for her sake I'd bear a good deal;
+but I am a changed man. The old times are gone, never to return. Call
+this place Castle O'Shanaghgan. It may be suitable for an English
+nobleman to live in, but it's not my style; it's not fit for an Irish
+squire. We are free over here, and we don't go in for luxuries and
+smotherations.”
+
+“Ah, father, I had to go through a great deal of that in England,”
+ said Nora. “It's awful to think that sort of life has come here; but
+there--there's the window wide open. Do you feel a bit of a breeze,
+dad?”
+
+“To be sure I do; let me breathe it in. Prop me up in bed, Nora. They
+said I was to lie flat on my back, but, bedad! I won't now that you have
+come back.”
+
+Nora pushed some pillows under her father, and sat behind him to support
+him, and at last she got him to sit up in bed with his face turned to
+the wide-open window.
+
+The blinds were rattling, the curtains were being blown into the room,
+and the soft, wild sound of the sea fell on his ears.
+
+“Ah, I'm better now,” he said; “my lungs are cleared at bit. You had
+best shut the window before your lady-mother comes in. And put the
+candle so that I can't see the fal-lals too much,” he continued; “but
+place it so that I can gaze at your bonny face.”
+
+“You must tell me how you were hurt, father, and where.”
+
+“Bedad! then, I won't--not to-night. I want to have everything as
+cheerful as possible to-night. My little girl has come back--the joy
+of my heart, the light of my eyes, the top of the morning, and I'm not
+going to fret about anything else.”
+
+“You needn't--you needn't,” said Nora. “Oh! it is good to see you again.
+There never was anybody like you in all the world. And you were longing
+for Nora?”
+
+“Now, don't you be fishing.”
+
+“But you were--wern't you?”
+
+“To be sure--to be sure. Here, then, let me grip hold of your little
+hand. I never saw such a tiny little paw. And so they haven't made a
+fine English lady of you?”
+
+“No, not they,” said Nora.
+
+“And you ran away to see your old dad? Why, then, you have the spirit of
+the old O'Shanaghgans in you.”
+
+“Horses would not have kept me from you,” said Nora.
+
+“I might have known as much. How I laughed when your mother brought in
+the telegram from your Aunt Grace this morning! And weren't they in a
+fuss, and wasn't your Uncle George as cross as he could be, and your
+mother rampaging up and down the room until I said, 'If you want to
+bring on the fever, you'll go on like that, Ellen; and then she went
+out, and I heard her talking to your uncle in the passage. Clap, clap
+went their tongues. I never knew anything like English people; they
+never talk a grain of anything amusing; that's the worst of it. Why,
+it's the truth I'm telling you, darling; I haven't had a hearty laugh
+since you left home. I'll do fine now. When they were out of the room
+didn't I give way! I gave two loud guffaws, that I did, when I thought
+of the trick you had played them. Ah, you're a true daughter of the old
+race!”
+
+Nora nestled up to her father, squeezing his hand now and then, and
+looking into his face.
+
+“We'll have a fine time to-morrow, and the next day, and the next day,
+and the next,” she said. “Oh! I am determined to be near you. But isn't
+there one little place in the house left bare, father, where we can go
+and have a happy moment?”
+
+“Never a square inch,” said the Squire, looking at her solemnly. “It's
+too awful; even the attics have been cleared out and put in order, for
+the servants, forsooth! says your Uncle George.”
+
+“What do we want so many retainers for? I am sure, now, if they would
+take a good houseful of some of the poor villagers and plant them up in
+those attics, there would be some sense in it.”
+
+“Oh, Nora, couldn't we get a bit of a place just like the old place, all
+to ourselves?”
+
+“I'll think it over,” said Nora; “we'll manage somehow. We can't stand
+feather-beds for ever and ever, father.”
+
+“Hark to her,” said the Squire; “you're a girl after my own heart, Light
+o' the Morning, and it's glad I am to see you, and to have you back
+again.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIX.
+
+
+ALTERATIONS.
+
+While Nora and her father were talking together there came a sound of a
+ponderous gong through the house.
+
+“What's that?” said Nora, starting.
+
+“You may well ask 'What's that?'” replied the Squire. “It's the
+dinner-gong. There's dinner now in the evening, bedad! and up to seven
+courses, by the same token. I sat out one or two of them; but, bless my
+soul! I couldn't stand too much of that sort of thing. You had best go
+and put on something fine. Your mother dresses in velvet and silk and
+jewels for dinner. She looks wonderful; she is a very fine woman indeed,
+is your mother. I am as proud as Punch of her; but, all the same, it is
+too much to endure every day. She is dressed for all the world as though
+she were going to a ball at the Lord-Lieutenant's in Dublin. It's past
+standing; but you had best go down and join 'em, Norrie.”
+
+“Not I. I am going to stay here,” said Nora.
+
+“No, no, darling pet; you had best go down, enjoy your dinner, and come
+back and tell me about it. It will be fun to hear your description. You
+mimic 'em as much as you like, Norrie; take 'em off. Now, none of your
+coaxing and canoodling ways; off you go. You shall come back later on,
+and tell me all about it. Oh, they are stiff and stately, and they'll
+never know you and I are laughing at 'em up our sleeves. Now, be off
+with you.”
+
+So, unwillingly, Nora went. In the corridor outside she met her cousin
+Molly.
+
+“Why, you haven't begun to dress yet,” said Molly; “and I'm going down
+to dinner.”
+
+“Bother dress!” said Nora. “I am home again. Mother can't expect me
+to dress.” She rushed past her cousin. She was too excited to have any
+sympathy then with English Molly. She ran up to her own room, and stood
+with a sense of dismay on the threshold. It had always been a beautiful
+room, with its noble proportions and its splendid view; and it was now
+furnished exquisitely as well.
+
+Mrs. O'Shanaghgan had great taste. She had taken immense pains with
+Nora's room; had thought it all out, and got it papered and painted
+after a scheme of color of her own. The furniture was of light wood--the
+room was fit to be the bower of a gracious and lovely maiden; there were
+new books in the little bookcase hanging up by the bedside. Everything
+was new and everything was beautiful. There was no sense of bad taste
+about the room; it was furnished harmoniously.
+
+Nora stood and gazed at it, and her heart sank.
+
+“Oh! it is kind of mother; it is beautiful,” she said to herself; “but
+am I never, never, never to lie down in the little old bed again? Am I
+never to pour water out of the cracked old jug? Am I never to look
+at myself in the distorted glass? Oh, dear! oh, dear! how I did love
+looking at myself in the old glass, which made one cheek much more
+swollen than the other, and one eyebrow went up a quarter of an inch
+above the other, and my mouth was a little crooked! It is perfectly
+horrid to know one's self all one's life long with a swollen cheek and a
+crooked mouth, and then see classical features without a scrap of fun in
+them. Oh, dear! But I suppose I had best get ready.”
+
+So Nora washed her face and hands, and ran downstairs. The dining
+room looked heavy and massive, and the footman and the butler attended
+noiselessly; and Mr. Hartrick at the foot of the table and Mrs.
+O'Shanaghgan at the head looked as stately a pair as could be found in
+the length and breadth of the land.
+
+Molly, nicely dressed in her dinner-frock, was quite in keeping with the
+elder pair; but wild Nora, still wearing her gray traveling-dress, felt
+herself out of place. Her cheeks were flushed with the excitement of
+seeing her father; her hair was wild and disarranged. Mrs. O'Shanaghgan
+looked at her all over with marked disapproval.
+
+“Why, she looks scarcely pretty,” thought the mother to herself. “How
+tired and fagged she appears! Dear, dear! if after all the trouble I
+have gone to, Nora disappoints me in this way, life will really not be
+worth living.”
+
+But Mrs. O'Shanaghgan could scarcely suppress the joy which was now
+filling her life. She was the mistress of a noble home; she was at the
+head of quite the finest establishment in the county. Already all the
+best county folk had called upon her several times.
+
+It is sad to state that these great and rich people had rather neglected
+the lady of the Castle during the last few years; but now that she drove
+about behind a pair of horses, that her house was refurnished, that
+wealth seemed to have filled all her coffers, she was certainly worth
+attending to.
+
+“Now that you have come back, Nora,” said her mother in the course of
+the meal, “I wish to say that I have several invitations for you, and
+that Molly can accept too.” She looked with kindness at Molly, who, if
+only Nora had been happy, would have thoroughly enjoyed herself.
+
+“I must show you the drawing room after dinner, my dear,” said her
+mother. “It is really a magnificent room. And I must also show you my
+morning room, and the library, and your father's smoking room.”
+
+“This is a splendid house, you know, Ellen,” said Mr. Hartrick to his
+sister, “and pays for doing up. Why, a house like this in any habitable
+part of England would fetch a colossal fortune.”
+
+Nora sighed and shrugged her shoulders. Molly glanced at her, and the
+word “Jehoshaphat!” was almost trembling on her lips. She kept it back,
+however; she was wonderfully on her good behavior to-night. At last the
+long and dreary meal came to an end. Nora could scarcely suppress her
+yawns of utter weariness. She began to think of nothing but lying down,
+shutting her eyes, and going into a long and dreamless slumber.
+
+Mrs. O'Shanaghgan rose from the table and sailed out of the room. A
+footman flung open the door for her, and Nora and Molly followed in her
+wake.
+
+“I'll be with you presently in the drawing room, Ellen,” said Mr.
+Hartrick to his sister; “but first of all I'll just go up and have a
+smoke with O'Shanaghgan. You found your father much better to-night, did
+you not, Nora?”
+
+“I thought father looked very bad indeed,” said Nora. She could not add
+another word; she went out into the hall.
+
+Mrs. O'Shanaghgan took her hand, squeezing it up in a tight pressure.
+
+“You ought not to speak in that tone to your uncle,” she said; “you can
+never, never know all that he has done for us. He is the noblest, the
+most generous, the best man in the world.”
+
+“Oh, I know all that, mother; I know all that,” said Nora. She did not
+add, “But for me he would never have done it. It was I who inserted the
+thin edge of the wedge.” Her tone was gentle; her mother looked at her
+with a softening of her own face.
+
+“Well, dear,” she said, “your Uncle George has taken a great fancy
+to you. Notwithstanding your eccentricities, Nora--and they are
+considerable--he says you have the making of a fine girl. But come, we
+must not neglect your cousin. Come here, dear Molly; you and Nora will
+be interested in seeing what a beautiful place Castle O'Shanaghgan is
+now.”
+
+Molly took hold of Nora's other hand, and they entered the drawing room.
+It was lit with soft candles in many sconces; the blinds were down;
+across the windows were drawn curtains of Liberty silk of the palest,
+softest shade of rose. On the floor was a carpet of many soft colors
+cunningly mingled. The walls were painted a pale artistic green, large
+mirrors were introduced here and there, and old family portraits, all
+newly framed, of dead and gone O'Shanaghgans, hung on the painted
+walls. There were new tables, knick-knacks--all the various things which
+constitute the drawing room of an English lady.
+
+Nora felt for one brief, passionate, angry moment that she was back
+again at The Laurels; but then, seeing the light in her mother's eyes,
+the pink flush of happiness on her cheeks, she restrained herself.
+
+“It makes you happy, mummy,” she said, “and----”
+
+“But what do you think of it, my darling?”
+
+“It is a very beautiful room.”
+
+“Ah! that is right. I thought my little wildflower would appreciate
+all these things when she came back again. Ah, Nora! you have been a
+naughty, wild imp; but your father was delighted when he heard what you
+had done. Of course I am terribly angry.”
+
+“No, you are not, mummy; you are pleased to see me again.”
+
+“I am glad to have you back, Nora; but as to being pleased, how could I
+be? However, you can stay here for a fortnight or so now that you have
+come; and then, when your dear uncle leaves us, you and Molly can go
+back with him.”
+
+Nora did not say anything; but a stubborn look came into her face which
+her mother knew of old.
+
+From the drawing room they went to the library, which had also undergone
+complete rejuvenation. The walls were laden with standard works of
+different kinds; but some of the shelves were still empty.
+
+“The old books, your uncle says, were of great value,” said Mrs.
+O'Shanaghgan, “and he sent them all to Dublin to be rebound. They have
+not come back yet. They are to be bound in old calf, and will suit the
+rest of the room. Is it not a magnificent apartment?”
+
+Nora said “Yes” in a somewhat dreamy voice.
+
+They then went to her mother's morning-room, and then on to the Squire's
+smoking-room.
+
+“They might at least have left this alone,” thought the girl. “They
+might at least have left this one room, where he could retire when he
+felt quite choked by all the furniture in the rest of the place.”
+
+But even the Squire's smoking-room was changed into the smoking-room of
+an English gentleman. There were deep easy-chairs covered with leather;
+there were racks for pipes, and great brass dogs before the fireplace;
+on the floor was a thick carpet. Nora felt as if she longed to give it a
+savage kick.
+
+At last the terrible ordeal of going through the--to her, utterly
+ruined--house was over, and she and Molly found themselves alone.
+
+“I will go up to your father for a few minutes,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan,
+nodding to Nora. “You and your cousin will like to have a chat; and
+then, my dears, I should recommend you both to go to bed as early as
+possible.”
+
+When they were back again in the big drawing room Nora gave Molly a wild
+look.
+
+“Come out,” she said; “at least out of doors the air is the same as of
+old.”
+
+Molly caught up a shawl and wrapped it round her head; but Nora went out
+just as she was.
+
+“You'll catch cold,” said English Molly.
+
+“I catch cold in my native land!” replied Irish Nora. “How little you
+know me! Oh, come, Molly, I am going to be wild; I am going to give
+way.”
+
+They both stepped outside on the broad gravel sweep. The moon was up,
+and it was shining over everything. In the moonlight Castle O'Shanaghgan
+looked very much as it had done before. The moon had always glorified
+the old place, and it glorified it still. Nora stood and gazed around
+her; up to the tops of the mountains, with their dark summits clearly
+defined against the evening sky; across the wide breadth of the
+Atlantic; over the thick plantations, the fields, and the huge trees in
+the background.
+
+“It's all the same,” she said, with a glad laugh; “thank God it is all
+the same. Even your father, Molly, cannot destroy the place outside, at
+least.”
+
+“Oh Nora, it is such a lovely, lovely place!” said Molly. “Cannot you be
+happy in it with its modern dress?”
+
+“Happy,” said Nora, suddenly brought back to her sense of misery by the
+word. “I am thankful that my father is not so ill; but--but you must
+help, Molly. Promise that you will.”
+
+“I am sure I'd do anything in the world,” said Molly. “I think I have
+been very good to-day. I have kept in my naughty words, Jehoshaphat and
+Moses and Elephants, and all the rest. What do you want me to do, Nora?”
+
+“We must get him out of that room,” said Nora.
+
+“Him? You mean your father?”
+
+“Yes; he will never recover there. I have been thinking and thinking,
+and I'll have my plan ready by the morning; only you must help me. I'll
+get Hannah Croneen to come in, and we'll do it between us if you can
+help me.”
+
+“But what is it?” said Molly.
+
+“I'll tell you in the morning; you wait and see.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXX.
+
+
+THE LION IN HIS CAGE.
+
+The Squire was better, and not better. He had received a very nasty
+flesh-wound in the thigh; but the bullet had been extracted. There was
+not the slightest clew to the identity of his would-be murderer. The
+Squire himself had said nothing. He had been found almost bleeding
+to death by the roadside; the alarm had been given, and in terror and
+consternation his own tenants had brought him home.
+
+The Squire could have said a good deal, but he said nothing. The police
+came and asked him questions, but he kept his lips closed.
+
+“I didn't see the man,” he said after a pause. “Somebody fired, of
+course; but I can't tell who, for I saw no one; it was from behind the
+hedge. Why the scoundrel who wanted to do for me didn't shoot a little
+higher up puzzles me. But there, let it rest--let it rest.”
+
+And the neighbors and the country had to let it rest, for there was no
+evidence against anyone. Amongst those who came to inquire after the
+Squire was Andy Neil. He came often, and was full of commiseration, and
+loudly cursed the brute who had very nearly done for his old landlord.
+But the neighbors had suspicions with regard to Andy, for he had been
+turned out of his cot in the mountains, and was living in the village
+now. They scowled at him when he passed, and turned aside; and his own
+face looked more miserable than ever. Still, he came daily up to the big
+kitchen to inquire for the Squire.
+
+The doctor said there was no reason whatever why Mr. O'Shanaghgan should
+not get quite well. He was by no means old--not more than fifty;
+there was not the slightest occasion for a break-down, and yet, to all
+appearance, a break-down there was. The Squire got morose; he hardly
+ever smiled; even Nora's presence scarcely drew a hearty guffaw from his
+lips. The doctors were puzzled.
+
+“What can be wrong?” they said. But Nora herself knew very well what was
+wrong. She and her father were the only ones who did know. She knew that
+the old lion was dying in captivity; that he was absolutely succumbing
+to the close and smothered life which he was now leading. He wanted the
+free air of his native mountains; he wanted the old life, now gone for
+ever, back again.
+
+“It is true the place is saved, Norrie,” he said once to his daughter,
+“and I haven't a word to say. I would be the most ungrateful dog in
+existence if I breathed a single word of complaint. The place is saved;
+and though it nominally belongs now to your Uncle George, to all intents
+and purposes it is my place, and he gives me to understand that at my
+death it goes to my boy. Yes, he has done a noble deed, and of course I
+admire him immensely.”
+
+“And so do I, father,” said Nora; but she looked thoughtful and
+troubled; and one day, after she had been in her father's room for some
+time, when she met her uncle in the avenue she spoke to him.
+
+“Well, my dear girl,” he said, “what about coming back with me to
+England when I go next week?”
+
+“It is not to be thought of, Uncle George. How can I leave my father
+while he is ill?”
+
+“That is true. I have been thinking about him. The doctors are a little
+distressed at his growing weakness. They cannot quite understand it.
+Tonics have been given to him and every imaginable thing has been done.
+He wants for nothing; his nourishment is of the best; still he makes no
+way. It is puzzling.”
+
+“I don't think so,” said Nora.
+
+“What do you mean, my dear girl?”
+
+“You might do all that sort of thing for an eagle, you know,” said Nora,
+raising her clear eyes and fixing them on her uncle's face. “You might
+give him everything in his prison, much more than he had when he was
+free; but, all the same, he would pine and--and he would die.” Tears
+rose to the girl's eyes; she dashed them away.
+
+“My dear little Nora, I don't in the least see the resemblance,” said
+Mr. Hartrick, who felt, and perhaps justly, rather nettled. “You seem
+to imply by your words that I have done your father an injury when I
+secured the home of his ancestors for him.”
+
+“Oh, forgive me, Uncle George,” said Nora. “I don't really mean to say
+anything against you, for you are just splendid.”
+
+Mr. Hartrick did not reply; he looked puzzled and thoughtful. Nora,
+after a moment's silence, spoke again.
+
+“I am most grateful to you. I believe you have done what is best--at
+least what you think best. You have made my mother very happy, and
+Terence will be so pleased; and the tenants--oh! they will get their
+rights now, their cabins will be repaired, the roofs mended, the windows
+put in fresh, the little gardens stocked for them. Oh, yes, you are
+behaving most generously. Anyone would suppose the place belonged to
+you.”
+
+“Which it does,” muttered Mr. Hartrick under his breath.
+
+“You have made a great many people happy, only somehow--somehow it is
+not quite the way to make my father happy, and it is not the way to make
+me happy. But I have nothing more to say, except that I cannot leave my
+father now.”
+
+“You must come to us after Christmas, then,” said Mr. Hartrick. “I must
+go back next week, and I shall probably take Molly with me.”
+
+“Oh! leave her with me here,” said Nora suddenly. “I do wish you would;
+the air here is so healthy. Do let her stay, and then perhaps after
+Christmas, when things are different, we might both go back.”
+
+“Of course things will be different,” said Mr. Hartrick. “A new doctor
+is coming to see your father next week, and he will probably change the
+_régime_; he may order him fresh air, and before long we shall have
+him strong and well amongst us again. He has absolutely nothing wrong
+except----”
+
+“Except that he has everything wrong,” said Nora.
+
+“Well, well, my dear child, I will think over your suggestion that
+Molly should stay with you; and in the meantime remember that we are all
+coming to O'Shanaghgan for Christmas.”
+
+“All of you!” said Nora in dismay.
+
+“Yes, all of us. Your aunt has never spent a real old-fashioned
+Christmas in her life, and I mean her to have it this year. I shall
+bring over some of our English habits to this place. We will roast an ox
+whole, and have huge bonfires, and all kinds of things, and the tenantry
+shall have a right good time. There, Nora, you smile; that pleases you.”
+
+“You are so kind,” she said. She clasped his hands in both of hers, and
+then turned away.
+
+“There never was anyone kinder,” thought the girl to herself; “but all
+the same he does not understand.” She re-entered the house and went up
+to her father's room.
+
+The Squire was lying on his back. The days were now getting short, for
+November had begun. There was a big fire in the grate; the Squire panted
+in the hot room.
+
+“Just come in here,” he said to Nora. “Don't make much noise; lock the
+door--will you, pet?”
+
+Nora obeyed.
+
+“Now fling the window wide open; let me get a breath of air.”
+
+Nora did open the window, but the air was moist and damp from the
+Atlantic, and even she, fearless as she was, hesitated when she heard
+her father's cough.
+
+“There, child, there,” he said; “it's the lungs beginning to work
+properly again. Now then, you can shut it up; I hear a step. For
+Heaven's sake, Nora, be quick, or your mother may come in, and won't she
+be making a fuss! There, unlock the door.”
+
+“But you are worse, father; you are worse.”
+
+“What else can you expect? They don't chain up wild animals and expect
+them to get well. I never lived through anything of this sort before,
+and it's just smothering me.”
+
+Mrs. O'Shanaghgan entered the room.
+
+“Patrick,” she said, “would you like some sweetbread and a bit of
+pheasant for your dinner?”
+
+“Do you know what I'd like?” roared the Squire. “A great big mealy
+potato, with a pinch of salt.”
+
+Mrs. O'Shanaghgan uttered a sigh, and the color rushed into her pale
+cheeks.
+
+“Upon my word,” she said, “you are downright vulgar.”
+
+The Squire gave a feeble guffaw. Nora's heart beat as she noticed how
+feeble it was. She left the room, because she could not stay there
+another moment. The time had come to act. She had hesitated long, but
+she would hesitate no longer. She ran downstairs. The first person she
+saw was Molly.
+
+“Well,” said Molly, “how is he?”
+
+“Very bad indeed,” said Nora; “there's not a moment to lose. Something
+must be done, and quickly.”
+
+“What can be done?”
+
+“Come out with me; I have a thought in my head.”
+
+Nora and Molly went outside. They crossed the avenue, went along the
+plantation at the back, and soon found themselves in the huge yard which
+flanked the back of the house. In a distant part of the yard was a barn,
+and this barn Nora now entered. It was untidy; the doors fitted badly;
+the floor was of clay. It was quite empty.
+
+Nora gave a sigh of relief.
+
+“I dreamed of this barn last night,” she said. “I think it is the very
+place.”
+
+“For what, Nora; for what?”
+
+“I am going to have father moved here to-day.”
+
+“Nora, what nonsense you are talking! You will kill him.”
+
+“Save his life, you mean,” said Nora. “I am going to get a bedstead, a
+straw paillasse, and an old hard mattress, and I am going to have them
+put here; and we'll get a bit of tarpaulin to put on the floor, to
+prevent the damp coming up; and I'll put a curtain across this window so
+that he needn't have too much draught, the darling; and there shall
+be nothing else in the room except a wooden table. He shall have his
+potatoes and salt, and his bit of salt bacon, if he wishes, and he shall
+have his great big bare room. I tell you what it is, Molly, he'll never
+get well unless he is brought here.”
+
+“What a girl you are! But how will you do it?”
+
+“Leave it to me. Do you mind driving with me on the outside car as far
+as Cronane?”
+
+“The outside car? I have never been on it yet.”
+
+“Oh, come along; I'll introduce you to the sweetest conveyance in the
+world.”
+
+Nora's spirits rose at the thought of immediate action.
+
+“Won't it surprise and delight him?” she said. She went up to one of
+the grooms. He was an English groom, and was somewhat surprised at the
+appearance of the young lady in the yard.
+
+“What can I do for you, miss?” he said.
+
+“I want Angus,” answered Nora. “Where is he?”
+
+Angus was one of the few old Irish servants who were still left at
+Castle O'Shanaghgan. He now came forward in a sheepish kind of way; but
+when he saw Nora his face lit up.
+
+“Put one of the horses to the outside car at once--Black Bess if you
+can,” said Nora.
+
+“Yes, miss,” said the man, “with all the pleasure in life.”
+
+“Don't take it round to the front door. Miss Molly and I want to drive
+to Cronane. You needn't come with us, Angus; just put the horse to, and
+I'll drive myself.”
+
+Accordingly, in less than ten minutes' time the two girls were
+driving in the direction of Cronane. Molly, brave as she was, had some
+difficulty in keeping on. She clung to the sides of the car and panted.
+
+“Nora, as sure as Jehoshaphat and Elephants, I'll be flung out on to the
+highroad!” cried Molly.
+
+“Sit easy and nothing will happen,” said Nora, who was seated
+comfortably herself at the other side and was driving with vigor.
+
+Presently they reached Cronane, which looked just as dilapidated as
+ever.
+
+“Oh, the darling place! Isn't it a relief to see it?” said Nora. “Don't
+I love that gate off its hinges! It's a sight for sore eyes--that it
+is.”
+
+They dashed up the avenue and stopped before the hall door.
+
+Standing on the steps--where, indeed, he spent most of his time--and
+indulging in the luxury of an old church-warden pipe, was Squire Murphy.
+He raised a shout when he saw Nora, and ran down the steps as fast as he
+could.
+
+“Why, my bit of a girl, it's good to see you!” he cried. “And who is
+this young lady?”
+
+“This is my cousin, Molly Hartrick. Molly, may I introduce you to Squire
+Murphy?”
+
+“Have a grip of the paw, miss,” said Squire Murphy, holding out his
+great hand and clasping Molly's.
+
+“And now, what can I do for you, Nora alannah? 'Tis I that am glad to
+see you. There's Biddy in the house, and the wife; they'll give you a
+hearty welcome, and no mistake. You come along right in, the pair of
+yez; come right in.”
+
+“But I cannot,” said Nora. “I want to speak to you alone and at once.
+Can you get one of the boys to hold the horse?”
+
+“To be sure. Dan, you spalpeen! come forward this minute. Now then, hold
+Black Bess, and look alive, lad. Well, Nora, what is it?”
+
+Molly stood on the gravel sweep, Nora and the Squire walked a few paces
+away.
+
+“It's this,” said Nora; “you haven't asked yet how father is.”
+
+“But he is doing fine, they tell me. I see I'm not wanted at
+O'Shanaghgan; and I'm the last man in the world to go there when the
+cold shoulder is shown to me.”
+
+“Oh! they would never mean that,” said Nora, in distress.
+
+“Oh, don't they mean it, my dear? Haven't I been up to the Castle day
+after day, and asking for the Squire with my heart in my mouth, and
+ready to sit by his side and to colleague with him about old times,
+and raise a laugh in him, and smoke with him; and haven't I been
+repelled?--the Squire not well enough to see me; madam herself not at
+home. Oh, I know their ways. When you were poor at O'Shanaghgan, then
+Squire Murphy was wanted; but now that you're rich, Squire Murphy can go
+his own way for aught you care.”
+
+“It is not true, Mr. Murphy,” said the girl, her bright blue eyes
+filling with tears. “Oh!” she added, catching his hand impulsively,
+“don't I know it all? But it's not my father's fault; he would give the
+world to see you--he shall see you. Do you know why he is ill?”
+
+“Why so, Nora? Upon my word, you're a very handsome girl, Nora.”
+
+“Oh, never mind about my looks now. My father is ill because--because of
+all the luxury and the riches.”
+
+“Bedad, then, I'm glad to hear it,” said the Squire of Cronane. He
+slapped his thigh loudly. “It's the best bit of news I have heard
+this many a day; it surprised me how he could put up with it. And it's
+killing him?”
+
+“That's about it,” said Nora. “He must be rescued.”
+
+“I'll do what I can,” said Squire Murphy. “Will you do this? Will you
+this very day get out the long cart and have an old bedstead put into
+it, and an old paillasse and an old mattress; and will you see that it
+is taken over this very afternoon to O'Shanaghgan? I'll be there, and
+the bedstead shall be put up in the old barn, and father shall sleep in
+the barn to-night, and you and I, Squire, and Hannah Croneen, and Molly,
+will help to move him while the rest of the family are at tea.”
+
+The Squire stared at Nora so long after she had made these remarks that
+she really thought he had taken leave of his senses; then he burst into
+a great loud laugh, clapped his hand to his side, and wrung Nora's until
+she thought he would wring it off. Then he turned back to the house,
+walking so fast that Nora had to run after him. But she knew that she
+had found her ally, and that her father would be saved.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXI.
+
+
+RELEASE OF THE CAPTIVE.
+
+All Nora's wishes were carried into effect. The long cart was got out.
+An old mattress was secured, also an old bedstead. The mattress happened
+to be well aired, for, indeed, it was one on which the Squire himself
+had slept the previous night; but, as he remarked, he would gladly give
+the bed from under him for the sake of his old friend O'Shanaghgan.
+
+Molly helped, also Biddy and Nora, in all the preparations, and at
+last the three girls jumped upon the outside car and returned to
+O'Shanaghgan. Biddy felt that she was anything but welcome. She was
+certainly not looking her best. Her dress was of the shabbiest, and her
+turned-up nose looked more celestial than ever. Molly was gazing at her
+just as if she were a sort of curiosity, and finally Biddy resented this
+close scrutiny, and turned to Nora, grasping her by the hand.
+
+“Tell her,” said Biddy, “that it is very rude to stare in that sort of
+stolid way. If she were an Irish girl she would give a flashing glance
+and then look away again; but that way of staring full and stiff puts a
+body out. Tell her it is not true Irish manners.”
+
+“Oh, Jehoshaphat!” exclaimed Molly, “I hear you both whispering
+together. What is it all about? I am nearly wild trying to keep myself
+on this awful car, and I know you are saying something not in my favor.”
+
+“We are that,” cried Biddy; “we are just wishing you would keep your
+English manners to yourself.”
+
+Molly flushed rather indignantly.
+
+“I did not know that I was doing anything,” she said.
+
+“Why, then,” cried Biddy, “is it nothing when you are bringing the
+blushes to my cheeks and the palpitation to my heart; and is it nothing
+to be, as it were, exposed to the scorn of the English? Why, then,
+bedad! I have got my nose from the old Irish kings, from whom I am
+descended, as true as true. Blue is my blood, and I am as proud of my
+ancestry as if I was Queen Victoria herself. I see that you have neat,
+straight features; but you have not got a scrap of royal blood in
+you--now, have you?”
+
+“I don't think so,” answered Molly, laughing in spite of herself. “Well,
+if it offends you, I will try not to look at you again.”
+
+The drive came to an end, and Nora entered the big, splendidly furnished
+hall, accompanied by Molly and Biddy. Mrs. O'Shanaghgan happened to be
+standing there. She came hurriedly forward.
+
+“My dear Nora,” she began, but then her eyes fell upon Biddy. Her brows
+went up with a satirical action; she compressed her lips and kept back a
+sigh of annoyance.
+
+“How do you do, Miss Murphy?” she said.
+
+“I am fine, thank you kindly, ma'am,” replied Biddy; “and it is sorry I
+am that I had not time to change my dress and put on the pink one with
+the elegant little flounces that my aunt sent me from Dublin.”
+
+“Oh, your present dress will do very well,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan,
+suppressing an internal shudder at the thought of Biddy at the renovated
+Castle of O'Shanaghgan in her dirty pink dress with the flounces.
+
+“But, Miss Murphy,” she continued, “I am sorry that I cannot ask you
+to stay. The Squire is too unwell to admit of our having friends at
+present.”
+
+“Oh, glory!” cried Biddy, “and how am I to get back again? Why, it was
+on your own outside car that I came across country, and I cannot walk
+all the way back to Cronane. Oh, but what a truly beautiful house! I
+never saw anything like it. Why, it is a sort of palace!”
+
+Biddy's open admiration of the glories of O'Shanaghgan absolutely made
+the good mistress of the mansion smile. Mrs. O'Shanaghgan felt that Nora
+did not really care for the beautiful place--the grandly furnished rooms
+had brought no enthusiasm or delight to her heart. Nora had tried very
+hard to keep in her real feelings; but her mother was quite sharp enough
+to know what they were. There was little pleasure in taking a girl round
+rooms, corridors, and galleries when she was only forcing herself to say
+pretty things which she did not feel. Molly, of course, had always lived
+in a beautiful and well-furnished house; therefore there was nothing
+exciting in showing her the present magnificence of O'Shanaghgan, and
+half Mrs. O'Shanaghgan's pleasure was showing the place in its now regal
+state to her friends. Biddy's remark, therefore, was most fortunate.
+Even wild, unkempt, untaught Irish Biddy was better than no one.
+
+“I tell you what it is,” said the good lady, with quite a gracious
+expression stealing over her features, “if you will promise to walk
+softly, and not to make any loud remarks, I will take you through the
+suite of drawing rooms and the big dining room and my morning room; but
+you must promise to be very quiet if I give you this great pleasure.”
+
+“And it is glad I'll be, and as mum as a mouse. I'll hold my hands to my
+heart, and keep in everything; but, oh, Mrs. O'Shanaghgan, if I am fit
+to burst now and then, you will let me run to the window and give a
+big sigh? It is all I'll ask, to relieve myself; but mum's the word for
+everything else.”
+
+On these terms Mrs. O'Shanaghgan conducted her unwelcome guest through
+the rooms, and after a brief tour Biddy joined her companions in the
+yard. Nora was busy sweeping out the barn herself, and, with the aid
+of Hannah Croneen and Molly, was already beginning to put it to rights.
+Biddy was now free to join the other conspirators, and the girls quickly
+became friends under these conditions.
+
+Hannah proved herself a most valuable ally. She whisked about, dashing
+here and there, raising a whirlwind of dust, but, in Nora's opinion,
+effecting wonders. Angus also was drawn into the midst of the fray. His
+delight and approval of Nora's scheme was almost beyond bounds.
+
+“Ah, then,” he said; “it's this will do the masther good. Oh, then, Miss
+Nora, it's you that has the 'cute ways.”
+
+A tarpaulin was found and laid upon the floor. From Hannah's cottage a
+small deal table was fetched. A washstand was given by Angus; a cracked
+basin and jug were further secured; and Nora gave implicit directions
+with regard to the boiling of the mealy potatoes and the little scrap of
+bacon on which the Squire was to sup.
+
+“You will bring them in--the potatoes, I mean--in their jackets,” said
+the Irish girl, “and have them hot as hot can be.”
+
+“They shall screech, that they shall,” replied Hannah; “and the bacon,
+it shall be done as tasty and sweet as bacon can be. I'll give the last
+bit of my own little pigeen, with all the heart in the world, for the
+Squire's supper.”
+
+Accordingly, when the long cart arrived from Cronane, accompanied by
+the Squire and his factotum, Mike, the barn was ready to receive the
+bedstead, the straw paillasse, and the mattress. Nora managed to
+convey, from the depths of the Castle, sheets, blankets, pillows, and
+a counterpane, and everything was in apple-pie order by the time the
+family was supposed to assemble for afternoon tea. This was the
+hour that Nora had selected for having the Squire removed from his
+feather-bed existence to the more breezy life of the barn. It was now
+the fashion at O'Shanaghgan to make quite a state occasion of afternoon
+tea. The servants, in their grand livery, were all well to the fore.
+Mrs. O'Shanaghgan, dressed as became the lady of so beautiful a place,
+sat in her lovely drawing room to receive her guests; and the guests
+came up in many conveyances--some in carriages, some on outside cars,
+some on dog-carts, some on foot; but, come as they would, they came, day
+after day, to show their respects to the lady whom now the whole country
+delighted to honor.
+
+On these occasions Mr. Hartrick sat with his sister, and helped her to
+entertain her visitors. It had been one of the sore points between Nora
+and her mother that the former would not appear to afternoon tea. Nora
+had made her sick father her excuse. On the present occasion she took
+good care not even to show her face inside the house. But Molly kept
+watch, just behind the plantation, and soon rushed into the yard to say
+that the carriages were beginning to appear.
+
+“A curious party have come just now,” said Molly, “in such a droll
+carriage, with yellow wheels and a glass body. It looks like a sort of a
+Lord Mayor's coach.”
+
+“Why, it must be the coach of the O'Rorkes,” cried Nora. “Fancy Madam
+coming to see mother! Why, Madam will scarcely pay a visit to royalty
+itself. There is no doubt that mother is thought a lot of now. Oh, dear,
+oh, dear, what a frightfully society life we shall have to lead here in
+future! But I have no time to think of mother and her friends just now.
+Squire, will you come upstairs with me to see father? Hannah, please
+wait down here to be ready to help? Angus, you must also come upstairs,
+and wait in the passage outside the Squire's room until I send for you.”
+
+Having given her directions, Nora entered the house. All was quiet and
+peaceful. The well trained English servants were, some of them, in the
+kitchen premises, and some of them attending in the hall and drawing
+rooms, where the guests were now arriving thick and fast. Nora had
+chosen her hour well. She entered her father's room, accompanied by
+Squire Murphy.
+
+The old Squire was lying, half-dozing, in his luxurious bed. The fire
+had been recently built up. The room felt close.
+
+“Ah, dear!” said Squire Murphy, “it is difficult to breathe here! And
+how's yourself, O'Shanaghgan, my man? Why, you do look drawn and pulled
+down. I am right glad to see ye, that I am.”
+
+The Squire of Cronane grasped the hand of the Squire of O'Shanaghgan,
+and the Squire of O'Shanaghgan looked up at the other man's
+weather-beaten face with a pathetic expression in his deep-set,
+hawk-like, dark eyes.
+
+“I am bad, Murphy--very bad,” said the Squire; “it's killing me they are
+amongst them.”
+
+“Why, then, it looks like it,” said Squire Murphy. “I never was in such
+a smotheration of a place before. Faix, then, why don't you have the
+window open, and have a bit of air circulating through the room?”
+
+“It's forbid I am,” said the Squire. “Ah, Murphy! it's killing me, it's
+killing me.”
+
+“But it shall kill you no longer, father,” said Nora. “Oh, father!
+Squire Murphy and I have made up such a lovely, delicious plan. What
+would you say to a big, bare room again, father; and a hard bed again,
+father; and potatoes and a pinch of salt and a little bit of bacon
+again, father?”
+
+“What would I say?” cried the Squire. “I'd say, glory be to Heaven, and
+all the Saints be praised; but it is too good luck to be true.”
+
+“Not a bit of it,” said Squire Murphy; “it is going to be true. You just
+do what you are bid, and you will be in the hoight of contentment.”
+
+The wonder-stricken Squire now had to listen to Nora's plan.
+
+“We have done it,” she cried, in conclusion; “the barn is ready. It
+makes a lovely bedroom; there are no end of draughts, and you'll get
+well in a jiffy.”
+
+“Then let's be quick,” said the Squire, “or your lady-mother will be
+up and prevent me. Hurry, Nora, for Heaven's sake! For the life of me,
+don't give me a cup of cold water to taste, and then dash it from my
+lips. If we are not quick, we'll be caught and prevented from going. I
+am ready; wrap me up in a rug, and carry me out. I am ready and willing.
+Good-by to feather bed-dom. I don't want ever to see these fal-lals
+again.”
+
+The next few moments were ones of intense excitement; but before ten
+minutes had elapsed the Squire was lying in the middle of the hard
+bed, gazing round him with twinkling eyes and a smile on his lips. The
+appearance of Hannah Croneen, with a dish of steaming potatoes and a
+piece of boiled bacon, was the final crown to his rapture.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXII.
+
+
+ANDY.
+
+Are there any words in the language to describe the scene which took
+place at O'Shanaghgan when Mrs. O'Shanaghgan discovered what Nora had
+done? She called her brother to her aid; and, visiting the barn in her
+own august person, her company dress held neatly up so as to display her
+trim ankles and pretty shoes, solemnly announced that her daughter
+Nora was guilty of the murder of her own father, and that she, Mrs.
+O'Shanaghgan, washed her hands of her in the future.
+
+“Yes, Nora,” said the irate lady, “you can go your own way from this
+time. I have done all that a mother could do for you; but your wildness
+and insubordination are past bearing. This last and final act crowns
+all. The servants shall come into the barn, and bring your poor father
+back to his bedroom, and you shall see nothing of him again until the
+doctor gives leave. Pray, George,” continued Mrs. O'Shanaghgan, “send
+one of the grooms at once for Doctor Talbot. I doubt if my poor husband
+has a chance of recovery after this mad deed; but we must take what
+steps we can.”
+
+“Now, look here, Ellen,” said the Squire; “if you can't be aisy, be
+as aisy as you can. There's no sort of use in your putting on these
+high-falutin airs. I was born an Irishman. I opened my eyes on this
+world in a good, sharp draught, and, if I am to die, it's in a draught
+I'll leave the world; but, once for all, no more smotherations for me.
+I've had too much of 'em. You say this child is likely to be the death
+of me. Why, then, Ellen--God forgive yer ignorance, my poor wife--but
+it's the life of me she'll be, not the death. Isn't it in comfort I'm
+lying for the first time since that spalpeen behind the hedge tried to
+fell me to the earth? Isn't it a good meal I've just had?--potatoes in
+their jackets, and a taste of fat bacon; and if I can wash it down, as
+I mean to later on, with a drop of mountain-dew, why, it's well I'll
+slumber to-night. You're a very fine woman, me lady, and I'm proud as
+Punch of you, but you don't know how to manage a wild Irishman when he
+is ill. Now, Nora, bless her pretty heart, saw right through and through
+me--the way I was being killed by inches; the hot room and the horrid
+carpets and curtains; and the fire, not even made of decent turf, but
+those ugly black coals, and never a draught through the chamber, except
+when I took it unbeknownst to you. Ah, Nora guessed that her father was
+dying, and there was no way of saving him but doing it on the sly. Well,
+I'm here, the girleen has managed it, and here I'll stay. Not all the
+doctors in the land, nor all the fine English grooms, shall take me back
+again. I'll walk back when I'm fit to walk, and I'll do my best to bear
+all that awful furniture; but in future this is my bedroom, and now you
+know the worst.”
+
+The Squire had a great color in his face as he spoke; his eyes were
+shining as they had not shone since his accident, and his voice was
+quite strong. Squire Murphy, who was standing near, clapped him on the
+shoulder.
+
+“Why, Patrick,” he said, “it's proud of you I am; you're like your old
+self again--blest if you're not.”
+
+Nora, who was kneeling by her father's bed, kept her face slightly
+turned away from her mother; the tears were in her eyes, but there was
+a well of thanksgiving in her heart. In spite of her mother's angry
+reproaches, she knew she had done the right thing. Her father would get
+well now. After all, his Irish daughter knew what he wanted, and she
+must bear her English mother's anger.
+
+In an incredibly short space of time two or three of the men-servants
+appeared, accompanied by Dr. Talbot. They stood in the entrance to the
+barn, prepared to carry out orders; but now there stole past them the
+Irish groom, Angus, and Hannah Croneen. These two came and stood near
+Nora at the head of the bed. Dr. Talbot examined the patient, looked
+round the cheerless barn, and said, with a smile, glancing from Mrs.
+O'Shanaghgan to O'Shanaghgan's own face:
+
+“This will never do; you must get back to your own comfortable room, my
+dear sir--that is, if I am to continue to attend you.”
+
+“Then, for God's sake, leave off attending me, Talbot,” said the Squire.
+“You must be a rare ignoramus not to see that your treatment is killing
+me out and out. It's fresh air I want, and plenty of it, and no more
+fal-lals. Is it in my grave you'd have me in a fortnight's time? You get
+out of this, and leave me to Mother Nature and the nursing of my Irish
+colleen.”
+
+This was the final straw. Mrs. O'Shanaghgan left the barn, looking more
+erect and more stately even than when she had entered it. Mr. Hartrick
+followed her, so did the enraged Dr. Talbot, and lastly the English
+servants. Squire Murphy uttered the one word, “Routed!” and clapped his
+hand on his thigh.
+
+The Squire, however, spoke sadly.
+
+“I am sorry to vex your lady mother, Nora,” he said; “and upon my soul,
+child, you must get me well as quick as possible. We must prove to her
+that we are in the right--that we must.”
+
+“Have a dhrop of the crayther, your honor,” said Hannah, now coming
+forward. “It's truth I'm telling, but this is me very last bottle of
+potheen, which I was keeping for me funeral; but there, his honor's
+wilcome to every drain of it.”
+
+“Pour me out a little,” said the Squire.
+
+He drank off the spirit, which was absolutely pure and unadulterated,
+and smacked his lips.
+
+“It's fine I'll be to-night,” he said; “it's you that have the 'cute
+ways, Nora. You have saved me. But, indeed, I thank you all, my friends,
+for coming to my deliverance.”
+
+That night, in her smoke-begrimed cabin, Hannah Croneen described with
+much unction the way madam and the English doctor had been made to know
+their place, as she expressed it.
+
+“'Twas himself that put them down,” said Hannah. “Ah, but he is a grand
+man, is O'Shanaghgan.”
+
+Mrs. O'Shanaghgan spent a very unhappy night. No comfort could she
+derive even from Mr. Hartrick's words. Nora was an out-and-out rebel,
+and must be treated accordingly; and as to the Squire--well, when Nora
+attended his funeral her eyes might be opened. The good lady was quite
+certain that the Squire would have developed pneumonia by the morning;
+but when the reports reached her that he looked heartier and better than
+he had since his illness, she could scarcely believe her ears. This,
+however, was a fact, for Mother Nature did step in to cure the Squire;
+and the draughty barn, with its lack of every ordinary comfort, was so
+soothing to his soul that it began to have an equally good effect upon
+his body.
+
+Notwithstanding that it poured rain outside, and that great eddies of
+wind came from under the badly-fitting doors and in at the cracks of
+the small windows, the Squire ate his food with appetite, and began once
+again to enjoy life. In the first place, he was no longer lonely. It
+was impossible for his old friends and retainers to visit him in the
+solitude of his grand bedroom; but it was perfectly easy, not only for
+Squire Murphy and Squire Fitzgerald, and half the other squireens of
+the neighborhood, to slip into the barn and have a “collogue,” as they
+expressed it; but also the little gossoons in their ragged trousers
+and bare feet, and the girleens, with their curly hair, and roguish
+dark-blue eyes, to scuttle in also. For could they not dart under the
+bed like so many rabbits if madam's step was heard, and didn't the
+Squire, bless him! like to have them with him when madam was busy with
+her English friends? Then Nora herself, the darling of his heart, was
+scarcely ever away from him now. Didn't she sit perched like a bird
+on the foot of the hard bed and cause him to roar with laughter as
+she described the English and their ways? Molly, too, became a prime
+favorite with the Squire. It is sad to relate that he encouraged her in
+her naughty words, and she began to say “Jehoshaphat!” and “Elephants!”
+ and “Holy Moses!” more frequently than ever.
+
+The grand fact of all, however, was this: the Squire was getting well
+again.
+
+About a week after his removal to the barn Nora was out rather late by
+herself. She had been visiting her favorite haunts by the seashore, and
+was returning laden with seaweeds and shells, when she was startled by
+hearing her name spoken in a low tone just behind her. The sound issued
+from a plantation of thick underwood. The girl paused, and her heart
+beat a little faster.
+
+“Yes. What is it?” she said.
+
+The next moment a long and skinny hand and arm were protruded, Nora's
+own arm was forcibly taken possession of, and she was dragged, against
+her will, into the underwood. Her first impulse was to cry out; but
+being as brave a girl as ever walked, she quickly suppressed this
+inclination, and turned and faced the ragged and starved-looking man
+whom she expected to meet.
+
+“Yes, Andy, I knew it was you,” said Nora. “What do you want with me
+now? How dare you speak to me?”
+
+“How dare I! What do you mane by that, Miss Nora?”
+
+“You know what I mean,” answered the girl. “Oh, I have been patient
+and have not said a word; but do you think I did not know? When all the
+country, Andy Neil, were looking for my father's would-be murderer, I
+knew where I could put my hand on him. But I did not say a word. If my
+father had died I must--I must have spoken; but if he recovered, I felt
+that in me which I cannot describe as pity, but which yet prevented my
+giving you up to the justice you deserve. But to meet me here, to dare
+to waylay me--it is too much.”
+
+“Ah, when you speak like that you near madden me,” replied Andy. “Look
+at me, Miss Nora; look well; look hard. Here's the skin tight on me
+arums, and stretched fit to burst over me cheek-bones; and it's empty
+I am, Miss Nora, for not a bite nor sup have I tasted for twenty-four
+hours. The neighbors, they 'as took agen me. It has got whispering
+abroad that it's meself handled the gun that laid the Squire on what
+might have been his deathbed, and they have turned agen me, and not even
+a pitaty can I get from 'em, and I can't get work nowhere; and the roof
+is took off the little bit of a cabin in which I was born, and two of
+the childers have died from cowld and hunger. That's my portion, Miss
+Nora; that's my bitter portion; and yet you ashk me, miss, why I spake
+to ye.”
+
+“You know why I said it,” answered Nora. “There was a time when I pitied
+you, but not now. You have gone too far; you have done that which no
+daughter can overlook. Let me go--let me go; don't attempt to touch
+me, or I shall scream out. There are neighbors near who will come to my
+help.”
+
+“No, there are not,” said Andy. “I 'as took good care of that. You may
+scream as loud as you please, but no one will hear; and if we go farther
+into the underwood no one will see. Come, my purty miss; it's my turn
+now. It's my turn at last. Come along.”
+
+Nora was strong and fearless, but she had not Andy's brute strength.
+With a clutch, now so fierce and desperate that she wondered her arm was
+not broken, the man, who was half a madman, dragged her deeper into the
+shade of the underwood.
+
+“There now,” said Andy, with a chuckle of triumph; “you has got to
+listen. You're the light o' his eyes and the darlin' o' his heart. But
+what o' that? Didn't my childer die of the cowld and the hunger, and the
+want of a roof over them, and didn't I love them? Ah! that I did. Do you
+remember the night I said I'd drown ye in the Banshee's pool, and didn't
+we make a compact that if I let ye go you'd get the Squire to lave me my
+bit of a cabin, and not to evict me? And how did ye kape your word? Ah,
+my purty, how did ye kape your word?”
+
+“I did my best for you,” said Nora.
+
+“Yer bhest. A poor bhest when I've had to go. But now, Miss Nora, I aint
+waylaid you for nothin'. The masther has escaped this time, and you
+has escaped; but as shure as there is a God in heav'n, if you don't get
+Squire to consint to let me go back, there'll be mischief. There now,
+Miss Nora, I've spoken. You're purty, and you're swate, and 'tis you
+has got a tinder heart; but that won't do you no good, for I'm mad with
+misery. It's me bit of a cabin I want to die in, and nothing less will
+contint me. You may go back now, for I've said what I come to say; but
+it's to-morrow night I'll be here waiting for ye, and I warn ye to bring
+me the consint that I crave, for if you don't come, be the powers! ye'll
+find that you've played with fire when you neglected Andy Neil.”
+
+Having uttered these words, the miserable man dropped Nora's arm and
+vanished into the depths of the plantation. Nora stood still for a
+moment, then returned thoughtfully and slowly to the house.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXIII.
+
+
+THE CABIN ON THE MOUNTAIN.
+
+Nora slept little that night. She had a good deal to think of, and very
+anxious were her thoughts. She knew the Irishman, Andy Neil, well, and
+she also knew his ferocious and half-savage temperament. Added to his
+natural fierceness of character, he now undoubtedly was possessed by
+temporary insanity. This had been brought on by hunger, cold, and great
+misery. The man was desperate, and would think little of desperate
+deeds. After all, his life was of small value to him compared to his
+revenge. Whenever did an Irishman, at moments like the present, consider
+life? Revenge came first, and there was that in the man's gleaming dark
+eyes, in his high cheek-bones, in his wild, unkempt, starved appearance,
+which showed that he would, if something was not quickly done, once
+again attempt the Squire's life. What was she to do? Nora wondered and
+wondered. Her father was getting better; the open air treatment, the
+simple food, and the company of his friends were effecting the cure
+which the luxurious life in the heavily furnished chamber had failed to
+do. The Squire would soon be well and strong again. If he were careful,
+he would once again stand in health and strength on his ancestral acres.
+
+He would get accustomed to the grandeur of the restored Castle
+O'Shanaghgan; he would get accustomed to his English relatives and their
+ways. He would have his barn to retire to and his friends to talk
+to, and he would still be the darling, the best-loved of all, to his
+daughter Nora; but at the present moment he was in danger. In the barn,
+too, he was in much greater danger than he had been when in the safe
+seclusion of the Castle. It would be possible for any one to creep up
+to the barn at night, to push open the somewhat frail windows or
+equally frail door, and to accomplish that deed which had already
+been attempted. Nora knew well that she must act, she must do
+something--what, was the puzzle. Squire O'Shanaghgan was one of the
+most generous, open-hearted, and affectionate of men. His generosity was
+proverbial; he was a prime favorite with his tenants; but he had,
+like many another Irishman of his type, a certain hard phase in his
+character--he could, on occasions, be almost cruel. He had taken a great
+dislike to Andy Neil and to some other tenants of his class; he had been
+roused to stronger feeling by their open resistance, and had declared
+that not all the Land Leagues in Ireland, not all the Fenians, not all
+the Whiteboys, were they banded together in one great insurrection,
+should frighten him from his purpose.
+
+Those tenants who defied him, who refused to pay the scanty rent which
+he asked for their humble cabins, should go out; they should, in short,
+be evicted. The other men had submitted to the Squire's iron dictation.
+They had struggled to put their pence and shillings together, and with
+some difficulty had met the question of the rent; but Andy Neil either
+could not or would not pay; and the Squire had got the law, as he
+expressed it, to evict the man. There had come a day when the wild
+tenant of the little cabin on the side of the bare mountain had come
+home to find his household goods exposed to the airs of heaven, the roof
+off his cabin, the door removed from its hinges; the hearth, it is true,
+still warm with the ashes of the sods of turf which were burning there
+in the morning, but the whole home a ruin. The Squire had not himself
+witnessed this scene of desolation, but had given his stern orders, and
+they had been executed by his agent. When Andy saw the ruins of his home
+he gave one wild howl and rushed down the side of the mountain. His
+sick children--there were two of them in the cabin at the time--had been
+taken pity on by some neighbors almost as poor as himself; but the shock
+(or perhaps their own bad health) had caused the death of both boys, and
+the man was now homeless and childless. No wonder his brain gave way. He
+vowed vengeance. Vengeance was the one last thing left to him in life;
+he would revenge his wrongs or die. So, waiting his opportunity, he had
+crouched behind a hedge, and, with an old gun which he had stolen from
+a neighbor, had fired at the Squire. In the crucial moment, however, his
+hand shook, and the shot had lodged, not in the Squire's body, but in
+his leg, causing a nasty but scarcely a dangerous wound. The only one in
+all the world who suspected Andy was the Squire's daughter Nora; but it
+was easy for her to put two and two together. The man's words to her in
+the cave, when he threatened to drown her, returned to her memory. She
+suspected him; but, with an Irish girl's sympathy, she would not speak
+of her suspicions--that is, if her father's life was spared.
+
+But now the man himself had come to her and threatened fresh mischief.
+She hated to denounce the poor, starved creature to the police, and
+yet she _must_ protect her father. The Squire was much better; but
+his temper could be roused to great fury at times, and Nora dreaded to
+mention the subject of Andy Neil. She guessed only too well that fear
+would not influence the fierce old Squire to give the man back his
+cabin. The one thing the wretched creature now craved was to die under
+the shelter of the roof where he had first seen the light; but this
+natural request, so dear to the heart of the Squire himself, under
+altered circumstances, would not weigh with him under existing
+conditions. The mere fact that Andy still threatened him would make him
+more determined than ever to stick to his purpose. Nora did not dare to
+give her father even a hint with regard to the hand which had fired that
+shot; and yet, and yet--oh, God help her! she must do something, or the
+consequences might be too fearful to contemplate.
+
+As she was dressing on the following morning she thought hard, and the
+idea came to her to take the matter into her own hands, and herself give
+Andy leave to go back to his cabin; but, on reflection, she found that
+this would be no easy matter, for the cabins from which the tenants were
+evicted were often guarded by men whose business it was to prevent the
+wretched creatures returning to them. No doubt Andy's cabin would be
+now inaccessible; still, she might go and look at it, and, if all other
+means failed, might venture to beg of her father's agent to let the man
+return to it; but first of all she would see the place. Somewhat cheered
+as this determination came to her, she ran downstairs. Mr. Hartrick was
+returning to England by an early train, and the carriage, which was to
+convey him to the station, was already at the door. Mrs. O'Shanaghgan
+was almost tearful at the thought of parting with her beloved brother.
+Molly, delighted at being allowed to stay on at the Castle, was also
+present; but Nora's entrance on the scene caused Mrs. O'Shanaghgan to
+speak fretfully.
+
+“Late as usual, Nora,” said that lady, turning and facing her daughter
+as she appeared. “I am glad that you condescended to appear before your
+uncle starts for England. I wonder that you have taken the trouble.”
+
+“Oh, do not scold her, Ellen,” said Mr. Hartrick, kindly. “I begin to
+understand something of the nature of my Irish niece. When the Squire
+is well again she will, I am sure, return to England and resume her
+studies; but at present we can scarcely expect her to do so.”
+
+“I will come back some time, Uncle George,” said Nora; “and oh!” she
+added, “I do thank you for all your great and real kindness. I may
+appear ungrateful, but indeed, indeed I am not so in my heart, and it
+is very good of you to allow Molly to stay; and I will promise to take
+great care of her, and not to let her get too wild.”
+
+“Thank you. Any message for your aunt, Nora?” said Mr. Hartrick gravely.
+“I should like you, my dear,” he added, coming up to the girl, and
+laying his hand on her shoulder and looking with his kind eyes into her
+face, “to send your Aunt Grace a very special message; for you did try
+her terribly, Nora, when you not only ran away yourself, but induced
+Molly to accompany you.”
+
+Nora hesitated for a moment, the color flamed into her face, and her
+eyes grew very bright.
+
+“Tell her, Uncle George,” she said, speaking slowly and with great
+emphasis, “that I did what I did for _father_. Tell her that for no one
+else but father would I hurt her, and ask her to forgive me just because
+I am an Irish girl; and I love--oh! I love my father so dearly.”
+
+“I will take her your message, my dear,” said Mr. Hartrick, and then he
+stooped and kissed his niece.
+
+A moment later he was about to step into the carriage, when Nora rushed
+up to him.
+
+“Good-by; God bless you!” she cried. “Oh, how kind you have been, and
+how I love you! Please, please, do not misunderstand me; I have many
+cares and anxieties at present or I would say more. You have done
+splendidly, only----”
+
+“Only what, Nora?” said her uncle.
+
+“Only, Uncle George,” answered the girl, “you have done what you have
+done to please my mother, and you have done it all in the English way;
+and oh! the English way is very fine, and very noble, and very generous;
+but--but we _did_ want the old bare rooms and the lack of furniture, and
+the place as it always has been; but we could not expect--I mean father
+and I could not expect--you and mother to remember that.”
+
+“It was impossible, Nora,” said her uncle. “What I did I did, as you
+express it, my dear, in the English way. The retrograde movement, Nora,
+could not be expected from an Englishman; and by-and-by you, at least,
+will thank me for having brought civilization to O'Shanaghgan.”
+
+A moment later Mr. Hartrick went away, and Nora returned to the house.
+Mrs. O'Shanaghgan had left the room, and Nora found herself alone with
+her cousin Molly.
+
+“What is it, Nora?” said Molly. “You look quite pale and anxious.”
+
+“I look what I feel,” said Nora.
+
+“But can I help you in any way, Nora?”
+
+“Yes. Will you come for a drive with me this morning?”
+
+“Of course I will. You know well that I should like nothing better.”
+
+“Then, Molly dear, run round to the yard and tell Angus put Black
+Bess to the outside car, and to bring it round to the corner of the
+plantation. I do not want any one to know, and tell Angus that I will
+drive Black Bess myself.”
+
+“All right,” replied Molly, running off on her errand.
+
+Nora did not stay long with her father that morning, and soon after ten
+o'clock she and Molly were flying through the boreens and winding roads
+in the direction of Slieve Nagorna. At the foot of the mountain they
+dismounted. Nora fastened Black Bess's reins to the trunk of a tree
+which stood near, and then she and Molly began to ascend the mountain.
+It was a glorious winter's day; the air was mild, as it generally is in
+the west of Ireland, and the sun shone with power. Nora and Molly walked
+quickly. Nora, who was accustomed to climbing from her earliest years,
+scaled the rocks, and jumped from one tiny projection in the ground to
+another; but Molly found her ascent more difficult. She was soon out of
+breath, and called in laughing tones to Nora to wait for her.
+
+“Forgive me,” said Nora; “I sometimes forget that you are not an Irish
+girl.”
+
+“You also forget that I am practically a London girl,” answered Molly.
+“I have seldom or never climbed even a respectable hill, far less a
+mountain with sides like this one.”
+
+“We will reach the spot which I am aiming for before long,” said Nora;
+“but if you are tired, do sit down, and I'll go on alone.”
+
+This, however, Molly would not hear of, and presently the girls reached
+a spot where once a small cabin had stood. The walls of the cabin
+were still there, but the thatched roof had disappeared, the doors and
+windows had been removed, and the blackened earth where the hearth had
+been alone bore evidence to the fact that fires had been burnt there for
+long generations. But there was no fire now on the desolate hearth.
+
+“Oh, dear!” said Nora. “It makes me cry to look at the place. Once,
+long, long ago, when Terry and I were tiny children, we came up here.
+Andy's wife was alive then, and she gave us a hot potato each and a
+pinch of salt. We ate the potatoes just here, and how good they tasted!
+Little Mike was a baby, such a pretty little boy, and dear Kathleen
+was so proud of him. Oh! it was a _home_ then, whereas now it is a
+desolation.”
+
+“A very poor sort of home I should say,” answered Molly. “What a truly
+desolate place! If anybody ever lived here, that person must be glad
+to have got away. It makes me shudder even to think of any human being
+calling this spot a home.”
+
+“Oh!” answered Nora, “it was a very pretty home, and the one who
+lived in it is broken-hearted--nay, more, he is almost crazed, all and
+entirely because he has been driven away. He deserved it, I know; but
+it has gone very hard with him; it has torn out his heart; it has turned
+him from a man into a savage. Oh! if I had only money, would not I build
+up these walls, and put back the roof, and light the fire once more, and
+put the man who used to have this house as a home back again? He would
+die in peace then. Oh! if only, _only_ I had money.”
+
+“How queer you look!” said Molly. “How your eyes shine! I don't
+understand you. I love you very much, but I confess I don't understand
+you. Why, this desolate spot would drive most people mad.”
+
+“But not Irish people who were born here,” said Nora. “There! I have
+seen what I wanted to see, and we had best be going back. I want to
+drive to the village, and I want to see John Finnigan. I hope I shall
+find him at home.”
+
+“Who is John Finnigan?” asked Molly.
+
+“The man who _does_ these sort of things,” said Nora, the red, angry
+blood rushing to her cheeks.
+
+She turned and quickly walked down the mountain, Molly racing and
+stumbling after her. Black Bess was standing motionless where her
+mistress had placed her. Nora unfastened the reins and sprang upon the
+car, Molly followed her example, and they drove almost on the wings of
+the wind back to the village. There they were fortunate enough to find
+John Finnigan. Leaving Molly holding Black Bess's reins, Nora went into
+the house. It was a very small and shabby house, furnished in Irish
+style, and presided over by Mrs. Finnigan, a very stout, untidy, and
+typical Irishwoman, with all the good nature and _savoir-faire_ of her
+countrywomen.
+
+“Aw, then, Miss Nora,” she said, “I am glad to see you. And how's the
+Squire?”
+
+“Much better, thank you,” said Nora. “Is your husband in, Mrs.
+Finnigan?”
+
+“To be sure, deary. Finnigan's abed still. He was out late last night.
+Why, listen; you can hear him snoring; the partition is thin. He snores
+loud enough to be heard all over the house.”
+
+“Well, do wake him, please, Mrs. Finnigan,” said Nora. “I want to see
+him on a most important matter at once.”
+
+“Then, that being the case, honey, you just step into the parlor while I
+go and get Finnigan to rise and dress himself.”
+
+Mrs. Finnigan threw open the door of a very untidy and small room.
+Several children were having breakfast by a table which bore traces of
+fish-bones, potato-peelings, and bacon-rinds. The children were untidy,
+like their mother, but had the bright, very dark-blue eyes and curly
+hair of their country. Nora knew them all, and was soon in the midst of
+a clamorous group, while Mrs. Finnigan went out to get her husband to
+rise. Finnigan himself appeared in about a quarter of an hour, and Nora
+went with him into his little study.
+
+“Well, now,” said that worthy, “and what can I do for you, Miss
+O'Shanaghgan?”
+
+Nora looked very earnest and pleading.
+
+“My father is better,” she said, “but not well enough yet to be troubled
+with business. I understand that you are doing some of his business for
+him, Mr. Finnigan.”
+
+“Some, it is true,” answered the gentleman, frowning as he spoke,
+“but not all, by no means all. Since that English fine gentleman, Mr.
+Hartrick, came over, he has put the bulk of the property into the hands
+of Steward of Glen Lee. Steward is a Scotchman, and why he should get
+work which is rightly my due is hard on me, Miss Nora--very hard on me.”
+
+“Well,” said Nora restlessly, “I know nothing about the matter. I am
+sorry; but I am afraid I am powerless to interfere.”
+
+“Oh, Miss Nora!” said Finnigan, “you know very well that you have kissed
+the Blarney Stone, and that no one can resist you. If you were to say a
+word to the Squire he would give me my due; and now that so much money
+has been put into O'Shanaghgan, it would be a very fine thing for me to
+have the collecting of the rents. I am a poor man, Miss Nora, and this
+business ought not to be given over my head to a stranger.”
+
+“I will speak to father by-and-by,” said Nora; “but I doubt if I can do
+anything. But I have come to-day to ask you to do something for me.”
+
+“And what is that, Miss Nora? I am sure I'd be proud to help such a
+beautiful young lady in any way.”
+
+“I dislike compliments,” said Nora, coloring with annoyance. “Please
+listen. You know the man you evicted from the cabin on the side of
+Slieve Nagorna--Andy Neil?”
+
+“Perfectly well, perfectly well,” answered Finnigan,
+
+“You had my father's orders?”
+
+“I had that, Miss Nora.”
+
+“I want you, Mr. Finnigan, now to take my orders and to give Andy
+back his cabin. Put a bit of roof over it--anything, even an old
+tarpaulin--anything, so that he may sleep there if he likes to-night. I
+want you to do this for me, and allow me to take the risk of offending
+my father.”
+
+“What!” said Finnigan, “and risk myself all chance of getting the
+agency. No, no, Miss Nora. Besides, what would all the other tenants say
+who have been evicted in their time? The man shall get his cabin back
+and a fresh roof and new windows, by the same token, when he pays his
+rent, and not before.”
+
+“But he has no money to pay his rent.”
+
+“Then he must stay out, Miss Nora.”
+
+“I wish, I wish,” said Nora, clasping her hands and speaking with
+passion, “that you would oblige me in this. Indeed, it is of the utmost
+importance.”
+
+“What!” said Finnigan, going up to her and staring into her face; “has
+that scoundrel threatened? Is it possible?”
+
+“No, no, no; you are mistaken,” said Nora eagerly. “I only meant that
+I--I--pitied him so much.”
+
+“That being the case, Miss Nora, I will say nothing further. But the
+fact is, I have before had my suspicions as to the hand which pulled
+that trigger which sent the shot into the Squire's leg, and it would be
+an extremely graceful act on my part to have that person arrested, and
+would doubtless insure the agency for me. But I will say no more; only,
+please understand, under _no_ circumstances, except the payment of the
+rent, can Andy Neil get back his cabin.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXIV.
+
+
+A DARING DEED.
+
+Having failed to get any help from John Finnigan, Nora returned to the
+Castle. As she drove quickly home she was very silent. Even loquacious
+Molly did not care to interrupt her thoughts. As soon as they reached
+the Castle she turned to her cousin and spoke quickly.
+
+“Go to the barn and look after father, Molly. Talk as many naughty words
+as ever you like; make him laugh; keep him occupied. After dinner I
+shall probably want your aid again. In the meantime you will help me
+best by taking father off my hands.”
+
+“And I desire nothing better,” answered Molly. “I love the Squire; it is
+the height of entertainment, as he would call it, to talk to him.”
+
+Molly accordingly ran off. The Squire was now well enough to sit up in a
+great easy-chair made of straw, which had been carted over from Cronane
+for his special benefit, for the padded and velvet-covered chairs of the
+Castle would not at all have suited his inclinations. He sat back in the
+depths of his chair, which creaked at his every movement, and laughed
+long and often at Molly's stories.
+
+“But where's Light o' the Morning herself?” he said after a pause. “Why
+don't she come to visit her old father? Why, it's craving for a sight of
+her I am.”
+
+“I think Nora is very busy to-day,” answered Molly, “May I read the
+paper to you, Squire?”
+
+“You read the paper to me?” answered Squire O'Shanaghgan. “Why, bless
+yer little heart, my pretty girleen, but I must decline with thanks. It
+is perfect torture to listen to your English accent when you are trying
+to do the rich Irish brogue. Irish papers should be read by Irish
+colleens, and then you get the flavor. But what did you say my colleen
+was after--business, is it? She's very fond of poking that little finger
+of hers into other people's pies. What is she after now at all, at all?”
+
+“I cannot tell you,” answered Molly, coloring slightly as she spoke.
+
+The Squire looked annoyed and suspicious.
+
+“You go and call her to me,” he said. “Tell her to come along this
+blessed minute; say it's wanting her I am.”
+
+Molly ran out of the barn. She found Nora in earnest conversation with
+Angus, while Hannah Croneen stood close by plucking now and then at
+the girl's skirt, looking eagerly into her face, and uttering such
+ejaculations as “Oh, glory!” “Be the powers!” “Did ye ever hear the
+like?” “Well, well, that beats all!”
+
+“Nora,” said Molly, “will you go to your father? He wants you
+immediately.”
+
+“Have you let out anything?” said Nora, turning and looking anxiously at
+Molly.
+
+“No; but he asked after you, and I said you were busy. The Squire said
+then, 'I hope she is not poking her little finger into other people's
+pies.'”
+
+“Well, I will go to him,” said Nora. “I'll manage him. You stay where
+you are, Molly.”
+
+Nora's black hair was curling in crisp waves all round her beautiful
+white forehead. Her dark-blue eyes were darker and more shining than
+ever, there was a richer bloom on her cheeks, and there were sweeter
+smiles on her lips than she had ever perhaps worn before as she now
+entered the Squire's room.
+
+“Well, father?” she said.
+
+Squire O'Shanaghgan, who had been sitting wrapped in thought, roused
+himself on her entrance, gave her a smile, and motioned her to come to
+his side.
+
+“Kneel down by me, colleen,” he said.
+
+Nora knelt. The Squire took his big hand and put it under her chin; he
+raised her blooming face and looked into her eyes, which looked back
+again at him. As he did so he uttered a quick sigh.
+
+“You're after something, mavoureen,” he said. “What's up, little girl?
+What's fretting that tender heart of yours?”
+
+“Something, father,” said Nora then.
+
+“And you won't tell your old dad?”
+
+“I would rather not. Won't you trust me?”
+
+“Trust her, is it?” cried the Squire. “I'd trust her with all I possess.
+I'd trust her with my hopes of heaven itself. Trust her, is it? Nora,
+you fret me when you talk like that.”
+
+“Then _do_ trust me, father, and don't ask me any questions. I'll tell
+you by and by--yes, I faithfully promise, but I shall be busy to-day. I
+may have to be away from you for a great part of to-day, and I may want
+Molly to help me. Can you do without me?”
+
+“Why, now, the conceit of the creature,” said the Squire. “As if I
+cannot do without you, you little piece of impertinence. To be sure, and
+to be sure I can. Why, there is your lady mother; she'll come and sit
+with me for an hour or so, and let out at me all her grumbles. Nora, my
+heart, it is dreadful to hear her; but it's good penance too, and maybe
+it's too comfortable you have been making me, and I ought to have a bit
+of what I do not like to keep me humble. You go along now, and come back
+when you have done that which is filling your heart to the brim.”
+
+Nora kissed her father very gravely; she then went out of the barn, and
+returned to where Angus and Hannah, and also Molly, were waiting for
+her.
+
+“I have thought how I can manage, Miss Nora,” said Angus. “When those
+Englishmen--bad cess to 'em!--are at dinner I'll get the long cart out
+of the yard, and I'll put the white pony to it, and then it's easy to
+get the big tarpaulin that we have for the hayrick out of its place in
+the west barn. I have everything handy; and if you could come along with
+me, Miss Nora, and the other young lady, and if Hannah here will lend
+a hand, why we'll do up the place a bit, and the poor forsaken crayther
+can die there at least.”
+
+“Do not forget the basket of provisions, Hannah,” said Nora, “the
+potatoes, and the bacon, and a tiny bottle of potheen; and do not forget
+some fagots and bits of turf to kindle up the fire again. Oh, and,
+Hannah, a blanket if you can manage it; and we might get a few wisps
+of straw to put in the bottom of the cart. The straw would make a fine
+bed.”
+
+“To be sure,” said Hannah. “You lave it to me, me beautiful young lady.”
+
+The two servants now departed, and Nora and her cousin went into the
+house. The early dinner, or rather lunch, as it was now called, was
+served soon afterwards; and almost immediately after the meal was over
+Nora and Molly ran down to the bottom of the plantation, where they
+found Angus, Hannah, the long cart with the pony harnessed to it, and
+the tarpaulin, straw, basket of provisions, etc., all placed in the
+bottom.
+
+“Jump in, Molly,” said Nora.
+
+Molly scrambled in as best she could; Nora followed her; and Hannah,
+climbing in over the left wheel, sat down at the bottom of the cart.
+Angus jumped on the driver's seat, and whipped up the pony. The pony
+was stout and very strong, and well accustomed to Irish hills. They were
+off. Molly had never been so rattled and bumped and shaken in the whole
+course of her life, but she enjoyed it, as she said, immensely. Only,
+what was Nora doing? The tarpaulin had been carefully hidden from view
+by the straw which Angus had cunningly placed over and not under it; and
+it was well that this was the case, as after the little party had left
+O'Shanaghgan a couple of miles, they were met by John Finnigan driving
+on his outside car.
+
+“Why, then, Miss Nora, what are you doing now?” he said.
+
+“Having a drive for my own pleasure,” replied Nora, nodding gayly.
+
+Finnigan looked with suspicion at the party, but as there was nothing
+contraband in anybody driving in a long cart, and as he could not
+possibly guess what they were doing, he drove on his own way without
+saying anything further. After less than an hour's driving they reached
+the foot of Slieve Nagorna, and here the real toil began, for it was
+quite impossible for the pony, willing as he was, to lug the cart up the
+mountain. Where there is a will, however, there is generally a way; and
+although the pony could not drag the cart up, he could go up himself,
+being very sure-footed and quite willing to be turned into a beast of
+burden for the nonce. The heavy tarpaulin, therefore, was fastened on
+his back, and, with Angus leading and Hannah following with the
+basket of provisions, and the two girls making up the rear, the little
+cavalcade started forward. Oh, how hot it seemed, and oh, how tired
+Molly got! But never mind; they were making progress. After a time they
+reached the site of Andy's cabin, and then Angus and Hannah developed
+strength which fairly took Molly's breath away, for the tarpaulin was
+absolutely lifted up and deposited as a sort of temporary roof over the
+roofless walls; and when this had been done Angus managed to cut a hole
+in the center to make a chimney; then the fagots were placed on the
+hearth and the turf put on top of them, and the remainder of the turf
+laid handy near by; and the straw was ready, soft and inviting, in a
+corner not too far away from the fire, and the blankets were spread over
+it; and the basket of provisions, cold boiled potatoes, cold bacon,
+and the little bottle of potheen were all left handy. It was indeed
+a miserable home, but, compared to the desolate appearance it had
+presented, it now looked almost comfortable. Nora laughed with pleasure.
+“He shall come back here. It is better than nothing. He shall stop here.
+I will explain things to my father by and by,” said the girl; and then
+they all turned their steps homeward.
+
+At the appointed hour that evening Nora went down to the shore. She
+fully expected to find Andy Neil waiting for her. Wild and half-insane
+as he was, he kept his selfmade appointments, as a rule. She wandered
+about, fearing that someone would notice her; for she knew that if John
+Finnigan thought for a single moment that she was secretly befriending
+Andy, he would not leave a single stone unturned to circumvent her. He
+was very proud of his powers of evicting tenants, and, as he had the
+Squire's permission to do his worst on this occasion, would be the last
+man in the world to relax his iron grip. Nora, however, wandered about
+in vain; there was no sign of Andy. She even ventured to go to the
+borders of the plantation and softly call his name.
+
+“Andy--Andy Neil,” called the girl, but no Andy responded. She now
+felt really nervous. Why was Andy not there? What could possibly have
+happened? She returned slowly and thoughtfully to the house. It
+would not do to show any alarm, but she certainly felt the reverse of
+comfortable. What had happened to the man? She did not for a moment
+think that he could be dead; on the contrary, she pictured him alive
+and still more insane than the night before, still more desperate in his
+mind, still more darkly pursued by the grim phantom of revenge. Was Andy
+now so really insane that he had even forgotten his appointment with
+Nora? This was probably the case. But although the man was too insane to
+think of meeting the girl, he was probably not at all too insane to make
+another attempt on the Squire's life. He was perhaps so desperate now
+that his one idea was to carry out his revenge before he died. What was
+Nora to do? She thought and thought, and walked up to the house with
+more and more lagging footsteps. Finally she made up her mind. There was
+nothing whatever left for it but for her to sit up with the Squire
+that night; she herself must be his guardian angel, for he must not be
+alarmed, and yet most certainly he must be protected. Nora carefully
+considered this idea. She had made the little cabin quite ready for
+Andy's reception; he could creep into it once more, light his fire, eat
+his food, and lie down on the bed at least, as good as any other bed he
+had ever slumbered on; and if death came to him, it would find him in
+his old house, and perhaps God would forgive him, seeing that he was so
+desperate and life had been so hard. Yes, Nora felt that God was very
+merciful--far more merciful than man. But to-night--how was to-night to
+be got through? She had now reached the yard, and found herself face to
+face with Angus.
+
+“Is there nothing I can do for you, miss?” said the young man, touching
+his hat respectfully to the girl.
+
+“If you could be near somewhere, Angus, and if it were necessary, and we
+wanted the long cart to-night, could we get it?”
+
+“You ask me, Miss Nora, what we could get and what we could not get at
+O'Shanaghgan,” answered Angus; “and I answer ye back that what ye want,
+Miss Nora, ye shall have, if it is the heart out of me body. The long
+cart, is it? To be sure, me pretty lady, and at a moment's notice, too.
+Why, it's meself will slape in the bottom of the long cart this blessed
+night, and all you has to do is to come and pull the front lock of me
+hair, and I'll be up in a jiffy. You give it a sharp tug, Miss Nora,
+for I slapes heavy; but if you come, the long cart and the powny will be
+there.”
+
+“Then that's all right,” answered Nora.
+
+She went into the barn. The Squire had now contrived to renew all his
+old accustomed habits. On the little wooden table was a small lamp which
+smoked badly; the local paper was laid on the table, and the pipe which
+the Squire best loved lay near. He had been enjoying a good smoke, and
+was thinking of turning in, as he expressed it, when Nora appeared.
+
+“Good-night, father,” she said. She went up to him, and bent down over
+him, to give him her accustomed kiss.
+
+“Why, then, it's sleepy I am,” said the Squire. “I am thinking of
+turning into bed. I am getting on fine; and Angus, boy that he is,
+always comes and gives me a helping hand on to my bed. I cannot see
+your face with the smoke of that lamp, mavoureen; but things are all
+right--aren't they?”
+
+“That they are, father,” replied the girl; “but I am a little tired; and
+if Angus is coming to help you, and you do not want anything more from
+me, I will go to bed myself.”
+
+“Do that,” said the Squire. “Your voice sounds peaky; you have been
+doing too much.”
+
+Nora lingered another moment or two. How thankful she felt that that
+smoky lamp prevented her father reading the anxiety in her eyes! She
+could not keep all the tiredness out of her voice, but she could at
+least keep anxiety from it; and the Squire bade her a hearty goodnight,
+and parted with her with one of his usual jokes. Nora then went into
+the house. The hour for late dinner was over; she herself had not been
+present, but Molly had managed to appear as usual. Nora ran down to the
+kitchen premises. The cook, a very stately English woman, stared when
+she saw the young lady of the Castle appear in the great kitchen.
+
+“What is it, Miss O'Shanaghgan?” she said, gazing at Nora all over.
+What did this wild and eccentric girl want? How was it possible that she
+could demean herself by coming so freely into the servants' premises?
+
+“I want to know, Mrs. Shaw,” said Nora, “if you will oblige me?”
+
+“Of course I will, Miss O'Shanaghgan; if I can.”
+
+“Will you pack a little basket with some cold pie, and anything else
+tasty and nourishing which you have got; and will you put a tiny bottle
+of brandy into the basket, and also a bottle of water; and can I have it
+at once, for I am in a great hurry?”
+
+“Well, there is a fresh pigeon pie in the larder,” answered the cook;
+“but why should you want it?”
+
+“Oh! please, Mrs. Shaw,” answered Nora, “will you give it to me without
+asking questions? I will love you for all the rest of my life if you
+will.”
+
+“Love me, is it?” thought the cook. “A pretty creature like that love
+me!”
+
+“Your love is cheaply purchased, miss,” she said aloud, and then went
+without a word into the larder, and soon returned with a well-filled
+basket, which she placed in Nora's hand. “And I added some fruit, a
+little cup of jelly, and a knife and fork and a spoon, and some salt;
+but why you, Miss Nora, should need a picnic in the middle of the night
+beats me.”
+
+“Remember our compact,” said Nora. “You say nothing of this, and--I love
+you;” and then, overcome by a sudden impulse, she bent forward and laid
+the lightest of kisses on the astonished Mrs. Shaw's forehead.
+
+Mrs. Shaw felt slightly overawed. “Bless her! What a beautiful young
+lady she is!” thought the good woman. “But the ways of the Irish beat
+all comprehension.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXV.
+
+
+THE COT WHERE HE WAS BORN.
+
+Nora avoided Molly that night. On reflection, it occurred to her that
+it would be best for Molly to know nothing of her design. If she were
+in complete ignorance, no amount of questioning could elicit the truth.
+Nora went into her bedroom, and changed her pretty jacket and skirt and
+neat sailor hat for a dark-blue skirt and blouse of the same material.
+Over these she put a long, old-fashioned cloak which at one time
+had belonged to her mother. Over her head she tied a little red
+handkerchief, and, having eaten a small portion of Mrs. Shaw's
+provisions, she left the room. It was already night-time; and Mrs.
+O'Shanaghgan, Molly, and the servants had gone to bed. Nora now locked
+her door from the outside, slipped the key into her pocket, and her
+basket of provisions partly hidden under the falls of her cloak, ran
+downstairs. The dogs generally slept in the big hall; but they knew
+Nora's step, and rose slowly, wagging their heavy tails. Nora patted
+them on their heads, gave them each an endearing word, and stooped to
+kiss pretty Cushla on her black forehead. She then softly unbolted one
+of the windows, lifted the sash, and got out. She carefully shut the
+window as noiselessly as she had opened it. She now found herself on
+the grassy sward in the neighborhood of the drawing-room. Under the old
+_régime_ that sward was hard, and knotty tufts of weed as well as grass
+grew up here and there in profusion; but already, under the English
+government, it was beginning to assume the velvet-like appearance which
+a properly kept lawn ought to have.
+
+Nora hated to feel such softness; she disliked everything which seemed
+to her to flavor of the English and their ways. There was a hot,
+rebellious feeling in her heart. Why should these things be? Why should
+not her Irish land and her Irish people be left in their wild freedom?
+She ran round to the yard. Angus had received instructions to leave the
+little postern door on the latch, and Nora now opened it and went softly
+in. The moon was beginning to rise, but was not at the full. There
+was, however already sufficient light for her to see each object with
+distinctness. She went and sat down in the shadow made by the great
+barn. She sat on the step to the barn, wrapping her warm cloak tightly
+round her, and keeping her basket of provisions by her side. Here she
+would sit all night, if necessary. Her vigil might have no result, but
+at any rate it would insure her father from danger. For now only over
+Nora's dead body could the wild Andy Neil approach the Squire.
+
+“Andy shall kill me first,” she thought; “and if I die, I will scream
+and father will awaken. Angus is on the watch; the alarm will be given;
+at least my father's life will be spared. But why do I think of danger
+of this sort? Andy will not kill me. I place my trust in God. I am doing
+the right thing--I know I am doing the right thing.”
+
+When Nora had let herself in at the postern door she had immediately
+drawn the bolt at the other side, thus preventing anyone else from
+entering the great yard by the same way; but she knew that, although
+Andy could not now enter the yard, in all probability he was already
+hiding there. There were no end to the ways and devices of a wild
+Irishman of Andy's sort. He was so thin and emaciated, too, that he
+could squeeze himself into the tiniest space. It lay in his power to
+remain motionless all night, until the moment when his revenge was ripe.
+Nora sat on. She heard the old clock in the ancient tower of the Castle
+strike the hours. That old clock had been severely animadverted on by
+Mrs. O'Shanaghgan on account of the cracked sound in the bell; but Nora
+felt relieved to find that, amongst all the modern innovations, the old
+clock still held its own; it had not, at least, _yet_, been removed from
+the tower. It struck solemnly now the hour of midnight.
+
+“The witching hour,” thought the girl. “The hour when the Banshee walks
+abroad. I wonder if I shall see her. I should like to see her. Did she
+hear me when I called to her in the cave? Would she help me if she came
+to my rescue now? She belongs to us; she is our own Banshee; she has
+belonged to our family for many, many generations.”
+
+Nora thought these thoughts; but then the feeling that _Someone_ else
+who never fails those who trust Him was also watching her during this
+silent hour came to her with a sense of comfort. She could hear her
+father turning once or twice in the creaky old wooden bed. She was glad
+to feel that, unknown to him, she was his guardian angel. She began to
+think about the future, and almost to forget Andy and the possible and
+very great peril of the present, when, shortly before the hour of one,
+all her senses were preternaturally excited by the sound of a footfall.
+It was a very soft footfall--the noise made by a bare foot. Nora heard
+it just where the shadow was deepest. She stood up now; she knew that,
+from her present position, the one who was making this dead sort of
+heavy sound could not possibly see her. She waited, her breath coming
+hard and fast. For a minute, or perhaps more, there was again absolute
+and complete silence. The night was a breathless one; there was not a
+sound abroad; overhead the sky was of an inky blue-black, the stars were
+shining gloriously, and the moon was growing brighter and more clear,
+and more nearly approaching her meridian each moment. The girl stood
+with her hand pressed against her beating heart; she had flung aside her
+little red handkerchief, and her hair had fallen loose and was tumbling
+over her shoulders; she raised her other hand to her left ear to listen
+more intently--she was in the attitude of one about to spring.
+
+Again there came the sound which she expected, and which, now that it
+had arrived, caused her heart to beat no longer with fear, but with a
+sort of wild exultation. Her suspicions had been right--the danger
+was real; her father's most precious life was in peril. The steps came
+quicker and more quick; they approached the other window of the barn.
+This window lay in complete shadow. Nora now stepped out of her hiding
+place, and, going with two or three quick strides down the yard, waited
+within a foot or two of the man, who now proceeded to lift himself up by
+the window ledge preparatory to opening the barn window. With the aid
+of a claspknife he could very easily push back the quaint and imperfect
+fastening; then it was but to push in the glass, and he could enter the
+barn. He sat on the window ledge with his back to Nora. His huge, gaunt
+form looked larger than ever, intensified now by the light of the moon.
+He breathed quickly; his breathing proclaimed that he himself was in
+physical suffering.
+
+“Andy,” said Nora in a low, very low whisper.
+
+But this low tone was as startling to the madman on the window as though
+a pistol shot had been sounded in his ears.
+
+“Be the powers!” he said, and he tumbled so quickly off the window sill
+that Nora herself held out her hand to help him. Then he turned fiercely
+and faced the girl. She saw the light of madness gleaming in his sunken
+eyes; his wild face looked more cadaverous than ever; his great, skinny,
+long hand shook. He raised it as if to fell the girl to the ground, but
+paused to look in her face, and then his hand hung feebly to his side.
+
+Nora had enacted all this scene beforehand to herself; she now thrust
+into Andy's face, within an inch or two of his nose, a great lump of
+bread and a slab of cold pie.
+
+“Before you do anything more, eat,” she said; “eat quickly; make no
+noise.”
+
+It was as impossible for the famished man to resist the good and
+tempting food as it would have been impossible for a needle to resist
+the influence of a powerful magnet. He grasped the bread, thrust the
+knife into his wretched shirt, and, tearing the bread in fragments,
+began to stuff it into his mouth. For a couple of minutes there was no
+sound but that of the starved creature tearing the bread and feeding
+himself. When he had slightly satisfied the first cravings of his
+starved body Nora took his hand.
+
+“You have not had enough yet,” she said. “You have fasted long, and are
+very hungry; there is more where this came from.”
+
+She took his hand quite unresistingly, and led him round to the entrance
+of the barn.
+
+“I am up,” she said, “but no one else. No one else knows of this. You
+have come without a gun?”
+
+“I have a knife instead,” he said. His eye glittered strangely.
+
+“Give me your knife,” said the girl. “I will give you food in exchange
+for it.”
+
+The famished creature began to gibber now in the most horrible manner;
+he pointed to his breast and uttered a laugh.
+
+“Laugh again, and I will call those who will soon put a stop to your
+wild and terrible purposes, Andy,” said the girl, “Here's food--fruit,
+jelly, bread. You shall have them all--all, when you give me that
+knife.”
+
+The man looked at the food, and now his eyes softened. They became full
+not only of rapture, but also of laughter. He gave a low guttural sound,
+sank down on the ground, and held out both his hands imploringly for
+some of the nourishment.
+
+“The knife,” said Nora.
+
+He thrust his hands into his bosom and held the knife out to her. It was
+a huge clasp knife, and Nora noticed with a shudder that it had all the
+appearance of having been newly sharpened. The moment she got it she
+put it in her pocket, and then invited the man to feed. He sat now quite
+humbly. Nora helped him to pie. She had already taken the precaution to
+hide the knife which Mrs. Shaw had supplied her with. The man ate and
+ate, until his consuming hunger was satisfied. Nora now gave him a very
+little of the brandy mixed with water. He lay back at last, exhausted
+and also satisfied.
+
+“It's wake I am, it's wake I am--it's wake I am entoirely,” said he.
+“Why are you so good to me, Miss Nora? It was to take the life of the
+Squire I was afther to-night.”
+
+“I knew that,” said Nora, “and I thought I would prevent you. Why did
+you not meet me this evening down by the shore?”
+
+The miserable creature now raised his hand and pushed back a gray lock
+of unkempt hair from his forehead.
+
+“Why, then,” he said, “it was bothered I was entoirely. I knew there was
+something I had got to do. It was waker and waker I was getting, for I
+did not touch bite nor sup since I saw you last, except a morsel of a
+cold pitatie; and there was not much of the nourishment in that; and as
+the night came, I could not think of anything except to keep me word and
+have me victory.”
+
+“Well, you have had it,” said Nora.
+
+“What do you mane now, missie?”
+
+“You have conquered yourself; that is the best victory of all. But come,
+you made a bargain with me last night, and I am prepared to keep it. I
+went down to the shore to tell you that I would do what you wanted me
+to do. The cabin is ready on Slieve Nagorna; we have made it fairly
+comfortable for you; and I will do better--yes, I will try to do better
+by and by. I will speak to my father when he is strong enough. Go to
+Slieve Nagorna now, and you will find the old cot in which you were
+born. You can sleep there, and--and _I_--I will see that you are not
+interfered with.”
+
+“The old cot in which I was born,” said Neil very slowly. “The old cot,
+and I'll see it again. Is it a-joking me you are, Miss Nora?”
+
+“Would I joke with you just now, Andy? Would I?”
+
+“I know it's saft you are making me. There was a lump of ice in me; but,
+somehow, it's melted. It's the food and your bonny face, and yer ways.
+But do you know that it was your _father_ I wanted to kill--t'ould
+Squire? There, I have said it!”
+
+“I know--and I have saved him,” answered Nora. “But come, he may hear
+us speaking; he would wonder. I do not want him to know anything of this
+night. When he is stronger I will plead with him. Come, Andy, come; your
+home is ready for you. Go back to it.”
+
+The man tottered to his feet, and began to stagger across the barn.
+
+“Stay! you are not strong enough,” said the girl. “Come outside the
+yard, here; come with me.”
+
+She walked across the yard, reached the little postern gate, and opened
+it.
+
+“Come out and wait,” she said in a mysterious voice. “You cannot walk to
+Slieve Nagorna, and yet you must get there; but I will get Angus to take
+you.”
+
+“Angus! ay, he is a true Irish boy. Aw, I'd trust him.”
+
+“You well may; he is a broth of a boy,” said Nora. “Sit there. I will
+soon be back with you.”
+
+She shut Andy out, bolting the little gate. The man heard the bolt being
+drawn, but did not move; he had not the slightest fear but that Nora
+would keep her word. She ran across the yard and opened the door of the
+barn at the farther end. Angus was already awake; he heard her light
+step.
+
+“Is it me you're wanting, Miss Nora?”
+
+“Angus, all is well,” she said. “What I wanted to do I have succeeded
+in doing. It is Andy Neil who is without; he is broken down and is very
+weak. Get the long cart and take him to the foot of Slieve Nagorna, help
+him up the mountain, and see him into the old cot where he was born.
+Good-night, Angus, and God bless you.”
+
+Nora returned to her own bedroom. She unlocked the door and let herself
+in. Without waiting even to undress, she flung herself on the bed,
+curled herself up, and went off into dreamless slumber. When she woke
+again it was broad daylight, and Molly was standing over her.
+
+“Why, Nora, you have lain undressed all night! What--what has happened?”
+
+“Do not ask me,” said Nora. “Do not ask me. I have done what I wanted to
+do, and I am thankful.”
+
+“And you won't really tell me?”
+
+“No, I won't. I cannot ever. There is more to attend to, Molly; you and
+I have got to go to Slieve Nagorna immediately after breakfast.”
+
+Molly did not ask anything further.
+
+“I brought your hot water,” she said. “You do not want any of the grand
+English servants to see you look like this.”
+
+“What a dear old thing you are!” said Nora. “I am so grateful to you.”
+
+She got up, took off her clothes, indulged in a hot bath, and came down
+to breakfast looking exactly as if she had spent an ordinary night. Mrs.
+O'Shanaghgan was a little more fretful than ever, and told Nora that her
+conduct was making her mother quite ridiculous in the neighborhood.
+
+“I met those remarkably nice people, the Setons of Seton Court,
+yesterday,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan--“charming English people--and they
+asked me if it was really true that my husband, the owner of Castle
+O'Shanaghgan, was sleeping in a barn.”
+
+“And what did you answer, mother?” asked Nora, her dark-blue eyes bright
+with sudden fun.
+
+“Well, my dear, I made the best of it. I could not deny such a patent
+fact. I said that the eccentricities of Irish squires were proverbial.
+But you can imagine, my dear Nora, my mortification as I had to make
+this admission. If this sort of thing goes on I shall ask your uncle to
+let the place, and allow us all to live in England.”
+
+“Oh, come, mother,” said her daughter. “You ought to be thankful this
+morning--you ought to be. Oh, mother! do give me a loving kiss. It is so
+long, so long since you have done so, and somehow I am tired, mother.”
+
+“Tired!” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan, alarmed and surprised by the new tone
+in Nora's voice. “You look tired. How black those shadows are under your
+eyes! and you have lost some of your color. There! of course I will
+kiss you, and I hope I am thankful, for we certainly have had wonderful
+mercies since your dear Uncle George came over and delivered us all. But
+what do you mean by special thankfulness this morning?”
+
+“Never mind, mother,” said Nora. “Only _do_ be thankful, _do_ thank God
+for His mercies; and oh, mother, do give me that kiss!”
+
+“There, child! of course you shall have it.”
+
+Mrs. O'Shanaghgan pressed her lips lightly to Nora's cheek.
+
+“Now eat your breakfast,” she said. “These eggs are quite fresh, and
+the honey was bought only yesterday--you know you are fond of honey--and
+these hot cakes are made in a new and particularly nice way. Eat plenty,
+Nora, and do, my dear, try to restrain your emotions. It is quite
+terrible what wear and tear you give yourself over these feelings. It
+is really, my dear girl, unladylike; and let me tell you another thing,
+that when you lose your fresh wild-rose color, you will lose the greater
+part of your beauty. Dear me! it will not stay long with you if you
+excite yourself about every hand's turn in the ridiculous way you are
+doing.”
+
+Nora did not say any more. She sat down to the breakfast table. Was her
+mother right? Was she indeed exciting herself over every hand's turn,
+and was that thing which had happened last night--which, now that it
+was over, caused her heart to beat a trifle too fast, and brought that
+tired, that very tired feeling into her sensitive frame--was that indeed
+but a trifling thing? Thank God--oh, thank God--she had been in time!
+
+Soon after breakfast Nora and Molly started once more for Slieve
+Nagorna. They went on the outside car this time, and Nora found her
+strength and courage returning as she handled the reins and urged Black
+Bess to speed. They presently reached their destination. Nora fastened
+up the horse as she had done on the previous day, and the girls began to
+climb the mountain.
+
+“You must not be afraid when you see Andy,” said Nora. “He was very weak
+last night, and will in all probability be in his house. I am going to
+arrange to have provisions sent to him every day. He will stay there now
+that he has got back again.”
+
+“But how has he got back again? You will remember you never told me what
+happened last night.”
+
+“And you must not ask me, Molly. What happened last night can never be
+told by me to any human being. Only Angus knows something of it; and
+Angus will not tell anyone else.”
+
+“And you were frightened? You look, Nora, as if you had gone through a
+great deal.”
+
+“I went through more than anyone will ever know,” said Nora, “but I am
+very thankful.”
+
+The girls had now reached the old cabin. The tarpaulin was over the
+roof, but there was no smoke issuing from the hole.
+
+“I wonder he did not light his fire,” said Nora in an anxious voice.
+“Will you go in with me, Molly, or shall I go alone?”
+
+“I'll go in with you,” said Molly stoutly. “If you are not afraid,
+neither will I be.”
+
+“I afraid now?” said Nora, with a smile. “Come, Molly, I hope the poor
+creature is not very ill.”
+
+Both girls entered the cabin. The tarpaulin had been so contrived that a
+piece hung over, and formed a temporary door. Nora now pushed it aside,
+and they both stepped into the miserable cabin. Andy was lying on the
+straw; the basket of provisions had not yet been touched, nor was the
+fire lit. Andy lay very still and quiet on the straw. Nora went up to
+him; his eyes were shut, and his head was slightly turned round, so that
+she could not at first get a proper glimpse of his face. She went on
+her knees, then presently touched his forehead with her own slim hand,
+calling his name softly at the same time. There was no answer--there
+would never be an answer again, for the wild Irishman was dead.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXVI.
+
+
+“I'M A HAPPY MAN!”
+
+It was just before Christmas, and the preparations for the festive
+season were great at Castle O'Shanaghgan. The Squire was quite well
+again. Once more he walked all over his estate; once more he talked to
+his tenants; once more he joked and laughed with the other squires of
+the neighborhood. To a certain extent he had grown accustomed to the
+grand house with its grand furniture; to the terrible late dinner, at
+which he stoutly declined to appear in evening dress; to the English
+servants who knew none of his ways. He began to bear with these things,
+for Light o' the Morning, as he called his beloved Nora, was always
+by his side, and at night he could cast off the yoke which was so
+burdensome, and do what he liked in the barn. At Mrs. O'Shanaghgan's
+earnest request this barn was now rendered a tolerably comfortable
+bedroom; the walls had been papered, and the worst of the draughts
+excluded. A huge fireplace had been built out at one end, and the Squire
+did not object at all to a large turf fire on a cold night; but the old
+bedstead from Cronane still occupied its old place of honor in the best
+position in the room, the little deal table was destitute of cloth or
+ornament of any kind, and the tarpaulin on the floor was not rendered
+more luxurious by the presence of rugs.
+
+“Rugs indeed!” said the Squire, snorting almost like a wild beast when
+his wife ventured to suggest a few of these comforts. “It is tripping me
+up you'd be? Rugs indeed! I know better.”
+
+But compared to its condition when the Squire first occupied it, the
+barn was now a fairly comfortable bedroom, and Squire Murphy, Squire
+Fitzgerald, Squire Terence Malone, and the other squires of the
+neighborhood had many a good smoke there, and many a hearty laugh,
+as they said, quite “unbeknownst” to the English lady and her grand
+friends. And Nora, Molly, and even Biddy Murphy often shared in these
+festive times, laughing at the best jokes, and adding sundry witticisms
+on their own account.
+
+It was now, however, Christmas Eve, and Mrs. O'Shanaghgan's nearest
+English relatives were coming to spend the festive season at the Castle.
+Mrs. Hartrick, for the first time in her life, was to find herself
+in Old Ireland. Linda was also accompanying her mother, and Terence
+O'Shanaghgan was coming back for a brief visit to the home which one day
+would be his. Terence was now permanently settled in his uncle's office,
+and was likely to make an excellent man of business. Mr. Hartrick was
+glad of this, for he would much prefer the O'Shanaghgans to have money
+of their own in the future, rather than to depend on him to keep up the
+old place. Inwardly the Squire was fretting and fuming a good bit at Mr.
+Hartrick really owning Castle O'Shanaghgan.
+
+“I must say, after all's said and done, the man is a gentleman,” he
+remarked to his daughter; “but it frets me sore, Nora, that I should
+hold the place under him.”
+
+“It's better, surely, than not having it at all,” answered Nora.
+
+“Yes, be the powers! it is that,” said the Squire; “but when I say so,
+it's about all. But I'll own the truth to you now, Nora: when they were
+smothering me up in that dreadful bedroom before you came, mavourneen, I
+almost wished that I had sold the place out and out.”
+
+“Oh, but, father, that time is long over,” answered Nora; “and I believe
+that, after all, it will be good for the poor people round here that you
+should stay with them, and that there should be plenty of money to make
+their cabins comfortable, and to give them a chance in life.”
+
+“If I thought that, there'd not be another grumble out of me,” said the
+Squire. “I declare to you, Nora, I'd even put on that abominable dinner
+suit which your lady mother ordered from the best Dublin tailors. My
+word! but it's cramped and fussed I feel in it. But I'd put it on, and
+do more than that, for the sake of the poor souls who have too little of
+this world's goods.”
+
+“Then, father, do believe that it is so,” said Nora; and now she put one
+of her soft arms round his neck, and raised herself on tiptoe and kissed
+his cheek. “Believe that it is so, for this morning I went round to the
+people, and in every cabin there was a bit of bacon, and a half-sack of
+potatoes, and fagots, and a pile of turf; and in every cabin they were
+blessing you, father; they think that you have sent them these Christmas
+gifts.”
+
+“Ah, ah!” said the Squire, “it's sore to me that I have not done it;
+but I must say it's thoughtful of George Hartrick--very thoughtful. I am
+obliged to him--I cannot say more. Did you tell me the things were sent
+to every cabin, Nora--all over the place, alannah?”
+
+“Every cabin, father,” answered his daughter.
+
+“Then, that being the case, I'll truss myself up tonight. I will truly.
+Mortal man couldn't do more.”
+
+The preparations, not only outside but inside, for the arrival of the
+English family were going on with vigor. Pretty suites of rooms were
+being put into their best holiday dress for the visitors. Huge fires
+blazed merrily all over the house. Hothouse flowers were in profusion;
+hothouse fruit graced the table. The great hall quite shone with
+firelight and the gleam of dark old oak. Mrs. O'Shanaghgan dressed
+herself in her most regal black velvet dress for this auspicious
+occasion; and Nora, Molly, and even Biddy Murphy, all in white, danced
+excitedly in the hall. For Biddy Murphy, at Nora's special suggestion,
+had been asked to spend Christmas at the Castle. It was truly good to
+see her. Notwithstanding her celestial nose and very wide mouth, it
+would have been difficult to have looked at a happier face than hers.
+And, Irish as Biddy was, she had got the knack of coming round Mrs.
+O'Shanaghgan. She did this by her simple and undisguised admiration.
+
+“Oh, Mrs. O'Shanaghgan!” Biddy would cry, “it is the very most lovely
+thing I have ever clapped eyes on. I never saw anything so magnificent
+as this room. It's fairyland; the whole place is fairyland;” and as
+Biddy spoke her eyes would twinkle, and her big mouth would open,
+showing her immaculate white teeth. So much did she contrive to win over
+Mrs. O'Shanaghgan that that lady presented her with a soft white muslin
+dress for the present occasion. If Biddy was proud before, she was
+almost rampant with pleasure now. She twirled round, and gazed at
+herself in the long mirrors which had been inserted in the hall between
+the oak panels.
+
+“Why, then, it's proud me ancestors, the old Irish kings, would be of me
+now,” she was even heard to say.
+
+But, all things being ready, the time at last approached when the tired
+travelers would arrive. At the eleventh hour there had come a great
+surprise to Nora and Molly; for Mrs. Hartrick and Linda were bringing
+Stephanotie with them. How this came to pass was more than either girl
+could possibly conjecture; but they both felt that it was the final
+crown of their happiness.
+
+“Can I ever forget,” said Nora, “that but for Stephanotie lending us
+that money I should not have been able to run away to Ireland, and my
+dear, dearest father might not now have been alive?”
+
+But the sound of wheels was at last heard without.
+
+“Come, girleens, and let's give them a proper Irish welcome,” said the
+Squire, standing on the steps of the old house.
+
+Nora ran to him, and he put his arm round her waist.
+
+“Now then, Nora, as the carriage comes up, you help me with the big
+Irish cheer. Hip, hip, hurrah! and _Caed Mille a Faitha_. Now then, let
+every one who has got a drop of Irish blood in him or her raise the old
+cheer.”
+
+Poor gentle English Mrs. Hartrick turned quite pale when she heard these
+sounds; but Mr. Hartrick was already beginning to understand his Irish
+relatives; and as to Stephanotie, she sprang from the carriage,
+rushed up the steps, and thrust a huge box of bon-bons into Squire
+O'Shanaghgan's face.
+
+“I am an American girl,” she said; “but I guess that, whether one
+is Irish or American, one likes a right-down good sweetheart. Have a
+bon-bon, Squire O'Shanaghgan, for I guess that you are the man to enjoy
+it.”
+
+“Why then, my girl, I'd like one very much,” said the Squire; “but don't
+bother me for a bit, for I have to speak to my English relatives.”
+
+“Oh, come along in, Stephanotie, do,” said Molly. “I see that you are
+just as eccentric and as great a darling as ever.”
+
+“I guess I'm not likely to change,” answered Stephanotie. “I was born
+with a love of bon-bons, and I'll keep it to the end of the chapter.”
+
+But now Mrs. Hartrick and Mrs. O'Shanaghgan had met. The two English
+ladies immediately began to understand each other. Mrs. O'Shanaghgan,
+without a word, slipped her hand inside her sister-in-law's arm, and
+they walked slowly across the magnificent hall and up the wide stairs to
+the palatial bedroom got ready for the traveler.
+
+Then the fun and excitement downstairs became fast and furious. The
+Squire clapped his brother-in-law, George Hartrick, on the shoulder; the
+Squire laughed; the Squire very nearly hallooed. Terence looked round
+him in undisguised amazement.
+
+“I would not have known the old place,” he said, turning to Nora.
+
+Nora gave a quick sigh.
+
+“Where is my mother?” said the lad then.
+
+“She has gone upstairs with Aunt Grace; but run after her, Terry, do,”
+ said his sister.
+
+Terence gave another glance round, in which pride for the home where
+he was born kindled once more in his dark eyes. He then rushed up the
+stairs three steps at a time.
+
+“Why, then,” said the Squire, “it's cramped and bothered I am in these
+clothes. What possesses people to make Merry-andrews of themselves
+night after night beats my comprehension. In my old velveteen jacket and
+knee-breeches I am a man--in this tomfoolery I do not feel as good as my
+own footman.”
+
+“You look very well in your dinner dress all the same, O'Shanaghgan,”
+ said Mr. Hartrick. And he added, glancing from Nora to her father, “I am
+glad to see you quite recovered.”
+
+“Ah! it's she has done it,” said the Squire, drawing Nora forward and
+pressing her close to his heart. “She's a little witch. She has done
+fine things for me, and I am a happy man to-night. Yes, I will own to
+it now, I'm a happy man; and perhaps there are more things in the world
+than we Irish people know of. Since I have my barn to sleep in I can
+bear the house, and I am much obliged to you, George--much obliged to
+you. But, all the same, it's downright I'd have hated you, when you
+altered this old place past knowing, had it not been for my little girl,
+Light o' the Morning, as I call her.”
+
+
+THE END.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Light O' The Morning, by L. T. Meade
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