must say this scarcely speaks well for either party," said she,
laughing.

"I fear not; but it is true, notwithstanding."

"You have a most accomplished friend, I believe?"

"Linton. Do you mean Linton?"

"Yes. He must be an excellent counsellor in all difficulties."

Cashel did not look as if he concurred in the sentiment, but he said
nothing; and Mary, half fearing that she had unwittingly given pain, was
silent also. She was the first to speak.

"Do you know, Mr. Cashel, how I passed the morning? You 'd scarcely
guess. It was in writing a long letter,--so long, indeed, that I began
to fear, like many efforts of over-zeal, it might defeat itself, and
never get read; and that letter was--to _you_."

"To _me!_ where is it, then?"

"There!" said she, pointing to some charred leaves beneath the grate. "I
see your curiosity, and I have no pretension to trifle with it. But
last night, late, papa dictated to me a long sermon on your account,
premising that the impertinence was from one you should never see again,
and one who, however indiscreet in his friendship, was assuredly sincere
in it. Were the document in existence, I should probably not have to
utter so many apologies; for, on the whole, it was very flattering to
you."

"And why is it not so?" cried Cashel, eagerly.

"I cannot tell you why."

"Do you mean that you do not wish to tell, or do not know the reason?"

"I do not know the reason," said she, firmly. "I was ill, slightly ill,
this morning, and could not breakfast with papa. It was late when I
arose, and he was on the very brink of starting for Dunkeeran; he seemed
agitated and excited, and, after a few words of inquiry about my health,
he said,--

"'That letter, Mary, have you written it? Well, burn it Throw it into
the fire at once.'

"I did so; but I cannot conceal from you the deep interest he has taken
in your fortunes,--a feeling which the dread of offending has possibly
sentenced him to cherish in secret. At least, so I read his change of
intention."

"I had hoped he knew me better," said Cashel, in whose voice a feeling
of disappointment might be traced. "It is the misfortune of men like
myself to make the most unfavorable impression, where alone they are
anxious for the opposite. Now, it may seem very uncourteous, but I am
less than indifferent what the fair company yonder think of me; and yet
I would give much to stand high in Mr. Corrigan's esteem."

"And you do so, believe me,