s he liked.
Fagan had sent his carriage to Bray to meet his daughter, as had been
agreed upon; but a letter from Polly came to say that Madame Carew had
pressed her with so much kindness to remain, and that she herself was
so happy, that she sincerely hoped the permission might be accorded her.
The note concluded by stating that Mr. Carew would visit Dublin by the
end of the week, and take that opportunity of leaving her at home.

"Oh, que nous sommes bien, ainsi!" exclaimed my mother, as the little
party of four sat down to dinner; and all seemed to applaud the
sentiment but my father, who seemed far more thoughtful and grave than
his wont. Even this, however, threw no gloom over the rest, who were in
the very happiest and best of humors. My mother was in all the ecstasy
of her now joyous nature, suddenly emancipated from the toilsome
drudgery of a duty she disliked. Polly, flattered by the tone of perfect
equality extended to her, and by the unequivocal preference of my mother
for her, hourly developed more and more of those graces which only
needed opportunity for their growth, and displayed charms of manner
and resources of mind that actually delighted her companions; while in
MacNaghten's happy nature and gay-heartedness there was the only other
element wanting to make the party a most pleasant one.

The arrival of the letter-bag--that little moment which in every country
household forms the privileged interruption to every care and every
amusement--broke suddenly in upon their carouse; and as my father
unlocked the precious sack, each looked eagerly for his share of the
contents.

"All for myself, I see," muttered he; "nothing but 'Walter Carew' here.
Your creditors are forgetting you, Dan,--not even a note of reminder or
remonstrance. Silence, of course, means consent, Miss Polly: your father
says nothing against your stay. But what is this, Josephine? This looks
as if meant for you; but it has been sent over half the post-offices of
the kingdom, with 'Try Compton Basset, Caresfort, and Chirck Castle,' I
believe this is; there's no making out the address."

"Plain enough, I think," cried MacNaghten; "it is, 'Madame la Comtesse
de Carew, a son Chateau, ou en Ville, Irlande.'"

"At all events, it is for me," said my mother, breaking the seal with
impatience. Scarcely had she opened the letter when she exclaimed, "Oh,
la bonne chance,--only think, Walter, here is Emile de Gabriac coming to
Ireland!"

"You for