all the other way, Dick. It
is her courtesy that alarms me. The effort to captivate where there is no
stake to win, means mischief. She'll make me in love with her whether I
will or not.' The bitterness of his tone, and the impatient bang he gave
his door as he passed in, betrayed more of temper than was usual for him to
display, and as Dick sought his room, he muttered to himself, 'I'm glad to
see that these over-cunning fellows are sure to meet their match, and get
beaten even at the game of their own invention.'

CHAPTER LXXXI

AN UNLOOKED-FOR CORRESPONDENT

It was no uncommon thing for the tenants to address petitions and
complaints in writing to Kate, and it occurred to Nina as not impossible
that some one might have bethought him of entreating her intercession in
their favour. The look of the letter, and the coarse wax, and the writing,
all in a measure strengthened this impression, and it was in the most
careless of moods she broke the envelope, scarcely caring to look for the
name of the writer, whom she was convinced must be unknown to her.

She had just let her hair fall freely down on her neck and shoulders, and
was seated in a deep chair before her fire, as she opened the paper and
read, 'Mademoiselle Kostalergi.' This beginning, so unlikely for a peasant,
made her turn for the name, and she read, in a large full hand, the words
'DANIEL DONOGAN.' So complete was her surprise, that to satisfy herself
there was no trick or deception, she examined the envelope and the seal,
and reflected for some minutes over the mode in which the document had come
to her hands. Atlee's story was a very credible one: nothing more likely
than that the boy was charged to deliver the letter at the castle, and
simply sought to spare himself so many miles of way, or it might be that
he was enjoined to give it to the first traveller he met on his road to
Kilgobbin. Nina had little doubt that if Atlee guessed or had reason to
know the writer, he would have treated the letter as a secret missive which
would give him a certain power over her.

These thoughts did not take her long, and she turned once more to the
letter. 'Poor fellow,' said she aloud, 'why does he write to _me_?' And
her own voice sent back its surmises to her; and as she thought over him
standing on the lonely road, his clasped hands before him, and his hair
wafted wildly back from his uncovered head, two heavy tears rolled slowly
down her cheeks and dropped