hundred guineas Lanty expects for the same horse. Ayeh! he's a
play-actor, is Lanty--and knows how to rub the gentlemen down with a
damp wisp."

"And you think that's it, Kerry?"

"I'll take the vestment it's not far off it. I never heerd Master Mark
give a cheer out of him going over a fence, that he hadn't a conceit
out of the beast under him. 'Whoop!' says he, throwing up his whip hand,
'this way.' 'Your heart's in him,' says I, 'and 'tis a murther he isn't
your own.'"

"You may leave me, Kerry," said the old man, sighing heavily, "'tis
getting near twelve o'clock."

"Good night, sir, and a safe rest to you."

"Wait a moment--stay a few minutes. Are they in the drawing-room still?"

"Yes, sir; I heerd Miss Kate singing as I came up the stairs."

"Well, Kerry, I want you to wait till she is leaving the room, and just
whisper to her--mind now, for your life, that nobody sees nor hears
you--just say that I wish to see her up here for a few seconds to-night.
Do you understand me?"

"Never fear, sir, I'll do it, and sorra one the wiser."

Kerry left the apartment as he spoke, nor was his master long doomed
to suspense, for immediately after a gentle tap at the door announced
Kate's presence there.

"Sit down there, my darling Kate," cried the O'Donoghue, placing a chair
beside his own, "and let me have five minutes' talk with you."

The young girl obeyed with a smile, and returned the pressure of her
uncle's hand with warmth.

"Kate, my child," said he--speaking with evident difficulty and
embarrassment, and fixing his eyes, not on her, but towards the fire,
as he spoke--"Kate you have come to a sad and cheerless home, with few
comforts, with no pleasure for one so young and so lovely as you are."

"My dear uncle, how can you speak thus to me? Can you separate me
in your heart from your other children? Mark and Herbert make no
complaint--do you think that I could do so?"

"They are very different from you, my sweet child. The moss rose will
not bear the storms of winter, that the wild thorn can brave without
danger. To you this dreary house must be a prison. I know it--I feel
it."

"Nay, nay, uncle. If you think thus, it must be my fault--some piece of
wilfulness of mine could alone have made you suppose me discontented;
but I am not so--far from it. I love dear old Sir Archy and my cousins
dearly; yes, and my uncle Miles too, though he seems anxious to get rid
of me."

The old man pressed her finger