t one with him, and I was obliged to yield; and now, Kate, after
the long lapse of years--for the conversation I allude to took place a
great while ago--it is my lot to say, that my brother was right and
I was wrong--that he foresaw, with a truer spirit, the events of the
future than was permitted to me. You were of age two months since."

The young girl listened with eager curiosity to every word that fell
from her uncle's lips, and seemed disappointed when he ceased to speak.
To have gone thus far and no farther, did not satisfy her mind, and she
waited with impatience for him to continue.

"I see my child," said he gently, "you are not aware of the proceedings
of coming of age; you have not heard, perhaps, that as your guardian, I
hold in my hands the fortune your father bequeathed to you; it was his
portion as a younger son, for, poor fellow, he had the family failing,
and never could live within his income. Your ten thousand--he always
called it yours--he never encroached upon--and that sum, at least, is
secured to you."

Although Kate knew that her uncle was her guardian, and had heard that
some property would revert to her, what its amount was she had not the
most remote idea of, nor that her power over it should commence so soon.

"I see uncle--I understand all you say," said she, hurriedly; "I am of
age, and the owner of ten thousand pounds."

The tone of decision she employed, half terrified the O'Donoghue for
the prudence of his communication, and he almost hesitated to answer her
directly--"Yes, my child, it is a rent-charge--a----"

"I care not for the name, sir; does it represent the value?"

"Unquestionably it does."

"Take it, then, dearest uncle," said she, flinging herself upon
his neck, "take it and use it, so that it may bring some comfort to
yourself, some ease of mind at least, and make your home a happier one.
What need to think of the boys--Mark and Herbert are not of the mould
that need fear failure, whatever path they follow; and, as for me, when
you grow weary of me, the Sacre Cour will gladly take me back; indeed,
they feel their work of conversion of me but very imperfectly executed,"
added she, smiling, "and the dear nuns would be well pleased to finish
their task."

"Kate, my child, my own darling," cried the old man, clasping her to his
heart, "this may not, this cannot be."

"It must, and it shall be, uncle," said she, resolutely. "If my dear
father's will be not a nullity, I