“Kate, Kate!” sobbed Ada, “how cruel you are! You know, too, that dear papa does not mean this. It is not to hardship and privation he would send you.” “But there are reverses, Ada, a hundred times worse than any change of food or dress. There are changes of condition that seem to rend one’s very identity. Here, I had respect, attention, deference, and now, I go, Heaven knows where, to render these tributes to Heaven knows whom. Tell me of yourself, my sweet Ada. It is a far brighter theme to dwell on.” “No, no; not if I must part with you,” said she, sobbing; “but you will write to me, my own darling Kate? We shall write to each other continually till we meet again?” “If I may. If I be permitted,” said Kate, gravely. “What do you--what can you mean?” cried Ada, wildly. “You speak as though some secret enemy were at work to injure you here, where you have found none but friends who love you.” “Don’t you know, my dear Ada, that love, like money, has a graduated coinage, and that what would be a trifle to the rich man, would make the wealth of a poor one? The love your friends bear me is meted out by station; mind, dearest, I’m not complaining of this. Let us talk of Italy, rather; how happy you ought to be there!” “If I but had you, my own dearest----” “There, I hear Mademoiselle coming. Bathe your eyes, dear Ada; or, better still, run away before she sees you.” Ada took this last counsel; but scarcely had she left by one door, than Mademoiselle entered by another. CHAPTER XXXI. DERRYVARAGH A dreary day of December it was, and the rain was pouring heavily, pitilessly down in the dark gorge of Derryvaragh. The roar of mountain rivulets, swollen to torrents, filled the air, and the crashing sounds of falling timber blended with the noise of troubled waters. Beautiful as that landscape would be on a day of bright sunshine, it seemed now the dreariest scene the eye could rest on. The clouds lay low on the mountain-sides, thickening the gloom that spread around, while yellow currents of water crossed and re-crossed on every side, rending the earth, and laying bare the roots of tall trees. From a window in O’Rorke’s inn, O’Rorke himself and old Malone watched the devastation and ruin of the flood; for even there, in that wild region forgotten of men, there were little patches of cultivation--potato-gardens and small fields of oats or rye--but through which now the turbid water tore madly, not leaving a trace of vegetation as it went. “And so you saw the last of it?” said O’Rorke, as he lit his pipe and sat down at the window. “I did; there wasn’t one stone on another as I came by. The walls were shaky enough before, and all the mortar washed out of them, so that when the stream came down in force, all fell down with a crash like thunder; and when I turned round, there was nothing standing as high as your knee, and in five minutes even that was swept away, and now it’s as bare as this floore.”