imerick, and will be here
to-morrow."

"This is more than I knew of," said Linton; "but here comes the
redoubted Tom himself, and with a full letter-bag, too." Hastily
unlocking the leather sack, Tom Linton emptied its contents upon a
grassy bench, where the party seated themselves to learn the news.
"There are no secrets here," said Linton, tossing over the letters,
with nearly all of whose handwriting he was familiar; "help me, Miss
Leicester, I beg, to get through my task. Pray break some of the seals,
and tell us who our dear friends are whose presence is so soon to charm
and enliven us. And will you, too, sir, bear your part?" Thus invited,
old Mr. Corrjgan put on his spectacles, and slowly prepared to assist in
the labor.

"That's the Dean's hand, Miss Leicester--the Dean of Drumcondera. I hope
he 's not coming; I 'm sure he was never invited."

"He regrets he cannot be with you this week, but will certainly come
next, and take the liberty of presenting his distinguished friend,
the Hofrath von Dunnersleben, professor of Oriental Literature at
Hochenkanperhausen."

"This is painting the lily with a vengeance; 'color on color' is bad
heraldry, but what shall we say of the taste that brings 'bore upon
bore'?"

"'Mrs. Leicester White has prevailed upon Mr. Howie to defer his
departure from Ireland--'"

"This is too bad," interrupted Linton. "What fortune have you, sir? I
hope better tidings than Miss Leicester."

"This is a strange kind of scrawl enough," said the old man; "it
runs thus:--'Dear Tom, we are starting for your wild regions this
evening--two drags and a mail phaeton. I have sent Gipsy and the white
fetlocked colt by Hericks, and will bring Tom Edwards with me. The
mare looks well, but fleshy; you must look to it that we haven't heavy
ground--'"

"Oh, I know who that's from," said Linton, hastily taking the letter
from Corrigan's hand; "it's Lord Charles Frobisher,--a silly fellow,
that never thinks of anything but horse-racing and training."

"He would seem to speculate on something of the kind here," said
Corrigan; "at least, it looks very like premeditation, this sending off
grooms and racers."

"He does so everywhere he goes," said Linton, affecting to laugh; "a
surgeon would no more travel without his lancets, than Charley without
some chance of a 'match;' but what's this?

"Dear Mr. Cashel,--I and my little girl are already _en route_ for
your hospitable castle, too happy to assist i