ered that he had
told Father O'Grady, and very explicitly, that he should have made
inquiries regarding Mr. Walter Poole's literature before he allowed Nora
Glynn to go down to Berkshire to help him with his literary work. Of
course he hoped, and it was only natural that he should hope, that
Father O'Grady had made all reasonable inquiries; but it seemed to him
now that he had expressed himself somewhat peremptorily. Father O'Grady
was an old man--how old he did not know--but himself was a young man,
and he did not know in what humour Father O'Grady might read his letter.
If the humour wasn't propitious he might understand it as an
impertinence. It vexed him that he had shown so much agitation, and he
stopped to think. But it was so natural that he should be concerned
about Nora Glynn. All the same, his anxiety might strike Father O'Grady
as exaggerated. A temperate letter, he reflected, is always better; and
the evening was spent in writing another letter to Father O'Grady, a
much longer one, in which he thanked Father O'Grady for asking him to
come to see him if he should ever find himself in London. 'Of course,'
he wrote, 'I shall be only too pleased to call on you, and no doubt we
shall have a great deal to talk about--two Irishmen always have; and
when I feel the need of change imminent, I will try to go to London,
and do you, Father O'Grady, when you need a change, come to Ireland. You
write: "I do not know your part of the country, but I know what an Irish
lake is like, and I often long to see one again." Well, come and see my
lake; it's very beautiful. Woods extend down to the very shores with
mountain peaks uplifting behind the woods, and on many islands there are
ruins of the castles of old time. Not far from my house it narrows into
a strait, and after passing this strait it widens out into what might
almost be called another lake. We are trying to persuade the Government
to build a bridge, but it is difficult to get anything done. My
predecessor and myself have been in correspondence on this subject with
the Board of Works; it often seems as if success were about to come, but
it slips away, and everything has to be begun again. I should like to
show you Kilronan Abbey, an old abbey unroofed by Cromwell. The people
have gone there for centuries, kneeling in the snow and rain. We are
sadly in need of subscription. Perhaps one of these days you will be
able to help us; but I shall write again on this subject, and