as apathetic
as usual, and he seemed already to have forgotten the missive Kerry had
endowed with so many terrors and misfortunes.

"Herbert has passed a favourable night," said Mark, entering a few
moments after. "The fever seems to have left him, and, except for
debility, I suppose there is little to ail him. What!--a letter! Who is
this from?"

"From Kate," said the old man listlessly. "I got as far as 'My dear
uncle;' the remainder must await a better light, and, mayhap, sharper
eyesight too--for the girl has picked up this new mode of scribbling,
which is almost unintelligible to me."

As the O'Donoghue was speaking, the young man had approached the window,
and was busily perusing the letter. As he read, his face changed colour
more than once. Breaking off, he said--

"You don't know, then, what news we have here? More embarrassment--ay,
by Jove, and a heavier one than even it seems at first sight. The French
armies, it appears, are successful all over the Low Countries, and
city after city falling into their possession; and so, the convents
are breaking up, and the Sacre Cour, where Kate: is, has set free its
inmates, who are returning to their friends. She comes here."

"What!--here?" said the O'Donoghue, with some evidence of doubt at
intelligence so strange and unexpected. "Why, Mark, my boy, that's
impossible--the house is a ruin; we haven't a room; we have no servants,
and have nothing like accommodation for the girl."

"Listen to this, then," said Mark, as he read from the letter:--"You may
then conceive, my dear old papa--for I must call you the old name again,
now that we are to meet--how happy I am to visit Carrig-na-curra once
more. I persuade myself I remember the old beech wood in the glen, and
the steep path beside the waterfall, and the wooden railings to guard
against the precipice. Am I not right? And there's an ash tree over the
pool, lower down. Cousin Mark climbed it to pluck the berries for me,
and fell in, too. There's memory for you!"

"She'll be puzzled to find the wood now," said the O'Donoghue, with a
sad attempt at a smile. "Go on, Mark."

"It's all the same kind of thing: she speaks of Molly Cooney's cabin,
and the red boat-house, and fifty things that are gone many a day ago.
Strange enough, she remembers what I myself have long since forgotten.
'How I long for my own little blue bed-room, that looked out on
Keim-an-eigh P----"

"There, Mark--don't read any more, my lad. Poo