gising for his omission in calling on Sir Marmaduke, on the score
of ill health, and concluded by a few words about Herbert, for whom
many inquiries were made in the letter. This, written in the clear,
but quaint, old-fashioned characters of the writer's time, and signed,
"O'Donoghue," was carefully folded, and enclosed in a large square
envelope, and with it in his hand, M'Nab re-entered the breakfast room.

"Wad you like to hear the terms of the response, O'Donoghue, before I
seal it up?" asked Sir Archy, with an air of importance.

"No, no; I am sure it's all right and proper. You mentioned, of course,
that Mark was from home, but we were expecting him back every day."

"I didna make ony remark o' that kind. I said ye wad be happy to see
him, and felt proud at the honour of making acquaintance wi' him."

"Damn me if I do, then, Archy," broke in the old man roughly. "For so
great a stickler for truth as yourself, the words were somewhat out
of place. I neither feel pride nor honour on the subject. Let it go,
however, and there's an end to it."

"I've despatched a messenger for Roach to Killarney; that bit of a
brainless body, Terry, is gone by the mountain road, and we may expect
the docter here to-night;" and with these words, Sir Archy departed to
send off his epistle; and the O'Donoghue leaned back in his easy chair,
sorely wearied and worried by the fatigues of the day.

CHAPTER VIII. THE HOUSE OF SICKNESS

How painfully is the sense of severe illness diffused through every
part of a household. How solemn is the influence it sheds on every
individual, and every object; the noiseless step, the whispered words,
the closed curtains, the interruption to the ordinary avocations of
life, or the performance of them in gloom and sadness. When wealth and
its appliances exist, these things take all the features of extreme care
and solicitude for the sufferer; all the agencies of kindness and
skill are brought into active exertion, to minister to the rich man in
sickness; but when poverty and its evils are present--when the struggle
is against the pressure of want, as well as the sufferings of malady,
the picture is indeed a dark one.

The many deficiencies in comfort, which daily habit has learned to
overlook, the privations which in the active conflict with the world
are forgotten, now, come forth in the solitude of the sick house, to
affright and afflict us, and we sorrow over miseries long lost to memory
ti