or abroad.

"Well, Maurice, my boy, you'll become wiser as you grow older, and
you'll be glad to accept the first offer made you," remarked my father.

He, however, immediately wrote to Dublin, to the only friend of the
family who was likely to render us assistance. This was Councillor
Roacharty, who in the course of a few days replied that he would do his
best; but that his friend Maurice must put his impatience under lock and
key until Ireland had her rights, and Irishmen ruled their green island
home. As I confidently hoped that this happy event would soon be an
accomplished fact, I was content; but my father was not so well
satisfied as I was with the councillor's reply.

Meantime I shot, fished, hunted, and visited our neighbours, and was
rapidly adopting the habits and customs of Irish squireens, when one
day, returning home from shooting, just before dinner, I found my father
deeply engaged in reading a foreign-looking letter. So absorbed was he
in its contents that he did not perceive my entrance. Not wishing to
disturb him, I retired to get rid of my muddy boots and leggings; and on
my return, dinner was on the table. During the meal he was unusually
silent, not even inquiring what sport I had had. Dinner over, he drew
his chair to the fire, and I followed his example. Taking the letter I
had before seen out of his pocket, he glanced it over, and then looking
up at me, he said--

"Maurice, you'll be after wondering about the contents of this epistle.
I have been thinking over it before telling you."

"I observed that you had received a letter," I answered. "I hope it
contains no bad news."

"Faith, it is difficult to say whether it's good or bad," he replied.
"You have heard me speak about your Uncle Nicholas, who went away many
years ago to America, but of whose subsequent adventures, or whether he
was alive or dead, I had obtained no certain tidings. This letter is
from him. He tells me that after knocking about in various parts of the
Union, he found his way to Florida, down south, where he married a
Spanish lady, Donna Maria Dulce Gallostra, of ancient family, young and
beautiful, and, what was of no small consequence, considering his own
financial condition, the owner of a fine estate. She has blessed him
with three children,--two daughters, Rita and Juanita, and a son,
Carlos: the former take after him, and are regular Irish girls, fair and
pretty, fond of riding, fishing, and boating, fu