“That is what Mrs. Coles remarked to me: If the young lady only saw the place she was going to, she’d not think of shopping.” Kate made no answer. “Not but, as Mrs. Coles observed, some good substantial winter clothing--that capital stuff they make now for Lower Canada--would be an excellent thing to take. You are aware, Miss, it is a perpetual winter there?” A short nod, that might mean anything, was all her reply. “And above all, Miss Luttrell,” continued he, unabashed by her cold manner--“above all, a few books! Mr. L., from what I hear, has none that would suit a young lady’s reading. His studies, it seems, are of an antiquarian order; some say--of course people _will_ say so--he dips a little into magic and the black art.” Perhaps, after all, it was the study most appropriate to the place. “I suppose it is a lonesome spot?” said she, with a faint sigh, and not well heeding what she said. “Desolate is the name for it--desolate and deserted! I only know it by the map; but, I declare to you, I’d not pass a week on it to own the fee simple.” “And yet I am going there of my own free will, Sir,” said she, with a strangely meaning smile. “That’s exactly what puzzles Mrs. C. and myself,” said he, bluntly; “and, indeed, my wife went so far as to say, ‘Has the dear young creature nobody to tell her what the place is like? Has she no friend to warn her against the life she is going to?’” “Tell her from me, Sir, that I know it all. I saw it when I was a child, and my memory is a tenacious one. And tell her, too, that bleak and dreary as it is, I look forward to it with a longing desire, as an escape from a world of which, even the very little I have seen, has not enamoured me. And now, Sir, enough of me and my fortunes, let us talk of the road. Whenever you are sufficiently rested to begin your journey, you will find me ready.” “You’ll stop probably a day in Dublin?” “Not an hour, Sir, if I can get on. Can we leave this to-night?” “Yes; I have ordered the carriages to take us to the pier at nine, and a cart for your luggage.” “My luggage is there, Sir,” said she, pointing to the bundle, and smiling at the astonishment his face betrayed; “and when you tell your wife that, Sir, she will, perhaps, see I am better fitted for Arran than she suspected.” Albeit the daily life of Mr. Coles gave little scope to the faculty, he was by nature of an inquiring disposition, not to add that he well knew to what a rigid cross-examination he would be subjected on his return to his wife, not merely as to the look, manner, and mien of the young lady, but as to what account she gave of herself, where she came from, and, more important still, why she came. It was his fancy, too, to imagine that he was especially adroit in extracting confidences; a belief, be it observed, very generally held by people whose palpable and pushing curiosity invariably revolts a stranger, and disposes him to extreme reserve.