“There, you see. And what can I do?” he cried, appealing to Miss Usher; and his tone expressed despair. “Leave her to Mrs. Hogan of the hotel,” replied the lady; “she will talk to her in her own fashion, and by-and-by, when she has had a good rest--you know she has been sitting up nursing Katty for three whole nights--she will be different. At present she is overwrought and out of herself. It is a startling change for a girl--much less one of her impulsive and passionate nature--to lose an identity and a mother, and to find a father, all within the same week. Give her time, a good sleep, and some nourishing food. I should certainly permit her to attend the funeral, and I would arrange for her to have a long interview with Mike Mahon; he has been haunting the hotel. By-and-by he will turn her thoughts to her own mother in a manner, and in speech, we could never emulate.” “That is an excellent idea. Yes, she must then begin to realise things a little. At present, of course, she is suffering from want of rest, from grief, and from the first sad wrench. At present----” “At present she is like some newly-caught bird,” continued Miss Usher, “most miserably unhappy.” “I suppose every bliss has its drawback. This, which has been a supreme joy to me, is agony to her!” “Leave her to herself for two or three days, and you will see a difference; her own friends will be your strongest allies. They will be so proud of her rank and uplifting that no matter _how_ she desired it, they would never suffer her to return to Foley’s Corner, and live among them as Mary of the gate.” “Thank you, Miss Usher; you give me wonderful comfort and encouragement, and I will take your advice--do all you say: go with her to the funeral, and allow her to remain here for a time. I _had_ hoped to carry her off to-morrow. Of course, I have a great deal to do, as your brother points out. I must immediately make a new will, and I have to prepare my friends, and----” “Would you permit me to offer yet another piece of advice?” “Certainly. I shall be only too glad to accept it.” “Leave Mary here with me for, say, a fortnight, or even a month, and then return and fetch her. Yes, it may be terribly against the grain, but it will well repay you in the long run.” “How?” and he looked at her sharply. “You see, if you take the girl away now, a grief-stricken, reluctant captive, who has not had time to realise herself and her new position, she will fret and pine--she will receive, and give, a wrong impression.” “But she is beautiful--you admit that?” “Yes, but she is Mary Foley; she does not know how to dress, or enter a room, or arrange her hair, or even behave at table. She drinks out of a saucer; she uses her own knife for butter and salt.” “May I ask how you know?”