“‘--It is soon told--there is none; and what’s more, Sir Within no longer hears from or writes to them. Although, therefore, my own connexion with this family has ceased, there is no reason why this should influence yours; and I would, above all things, avoid, if I were you, letting _my_ fortunes interfere with _your_ own. You can, and with truth, declare that you had nothing whatever to do with any step I have taken; that I went my own way, and never asked you for the road. My guardian, Sir Within, wrote, it is true, to Mr. Luttrell of Arran, but received no answer. It will be my duty to write to him in a few days, and not improbably with the same result. “‘You seem anxious to know if I have grown tall, and whether I am still like what I was as a child. I believe I may say, Yes, to both questions; but I shall send you, one of these days, a sketch from a picture of me, which the painter will this year exhibit at the Academy. It is called a great likeness. And last of all, you ask after my soul. I am sorry, dear grandfather, that I cannot be as certain of giving you as precise intelligence on this point as I have done on some others. It may satisfy you, however, perhaps, if I say I have not become a Protestant----’” “God bless her for that!” said Malone, fervently. “‘--although our excellent housekeeper here, Mrs. Simcox, assures me that such a change would be greatly to my advantage, in this world and in that to come; but if her knowledge of the former is the measure of what she knows of the latter, I shall require other counsel before I read my recantation.’” “What does she mean by that?” asked Malone. “‘‘Tis another way of saying, ‘I won’t play a card till I see the money down on the table.’” “How can that be? Which of us knows what’s going to happen here or in the next world?” “Maybe the Protestants does! Perhaps that’s the reason they’re always so dark and downcast now.” Malone shook his head in despair; the problem was too much for him, and he said, “Read on.” “‘That I am not without the consolations of the Church you will be glad to hear, as I tell you that a French priest, the Abbé Gerard, dines here every Sunday, and sings with me in the evening.’” “Sings with her. What makes them sing?” “Religion, of coorse,” said O’Rorke, with a grin of derision. “Listen to me, Peter Malone,” cried he, in a stern voice; “when people is well off in the world, they no more think of going to heaven the way you and I do, than they’d think of travellin’ a journey on a low-backed car.” “Go on with the reading,” muttered Malone. “I have read enough of it, Peter Malone. You are cute enough to see by this time what a fine-hearted, generous, loving creature you have for a granddaughter. At all events, the dose you’ve taken now, ought to be enough for a day. So put up the physic”--here he handed him the letter--“and whenever you feel in want of a little more, come back, and I’ll measure it out for you!”