ing the master's
sorrows at the calamities awaiting her.

"If she isn't frightened out of the country at once, there's no help for
it," said he at last. "I have a notion myself, but sure maybe it's a bad
one."

"What is it then?--spake it out free."

"'Tis just to wait for the chaise--she'll come in a chaise, it's
likely."

But what was Kerry's plan, neither Mrs. Branagan nor the reader are
destined to hear, for at that moment a loud summons at the hall
door--a very unusual sound--announced the arrival of a stranger; Kerry,
therefore, had barely time for a hasty toilet with a pocket-comb,
before a small fragment of looking-glass he carried in his pocket, as he
hastened to receive the visitor.

CHAPTER XVII. KATE O'DONOGHUE

Before Kerry O'Leary had reached the hall, the object around whose
coming all his schemes revolved, was already in her uncle's arms.

"My dear, dear Kate!" said the old man, as he embraced her again and
again, while she, overcome by a world of conflicting emotions, concealed
her face upon his shoulder.

"This is Mark, my dearest girl--cousin Mark."

The girl looked up, and fixed her large full eyes upon the countenance
of the young man, as, in an attitude of bashful hesitation, he stood,
uncertain how far the friendship of former days warranted his advances.
She, too, seemed equally confused; and when she held out her hand, and
he took it half coldly, the meeting augured but poorly for warmth of
heart on either side.

"And Herbert--where is he?" cried she eagerly, hoping to cover the
chilling reception by the inquiry--"and my uncle Archy----"

"Is here to answer for himsel'," said M'Nab, quietly, as he came rapidly
forward and kissed her on either cheek; and, with an arm leaning on each
of the old men, she walked forward to the drawing-room.

"And are you alone, my dear child--have you come alone?" said the
O'Donoghue.

"Even so, papa;--my attached and faithful Hortense left me at Bristol.
Sea sickness became stronger than affection. She had a dream, besides,
that she was lost, devoured, or carried off by a merman--I forget what.
And the end was, she refused to go further, and did her best to persuade
me to the same opinion. She didn't remember that I had sent on my
effects, and that my heart was here already."

"My own dearest child!" said O'Donoghue, as he pressed her hand
fervently between his own.

"But how have ye journeyed by yoursel'?" said Sir Archy, as he gazed on