“Where did you get all your law?” said he, jeeringly; but, not heeding the gibe, she went on, “I would have offered him the few shillings I had, but I was ashamed and afraid.” “How much is it?” “A little more than two pounds. You shall have it; but remember, I can do no more. I have nothing I could sell--not a ring, nor a brooch; not even a pin.” “It’s better than nothing,” muttered he, surlily, below his breath. “Let me have it.” “It is up at the Abbey. Wait, and I’ll fetch it. I’ll not be an instant.” And before he could answer she was gone. In less time than seemed possible she was back again, breathless and agitated. “Here it is,” said she, placing the money in his hand. “If you should see him, tell him how grieved I am to be of such little service to him, and give him this silk handkerchief; tell him I used to wear it round my neck, and that I sent a kiss to him in it--poor fellow! I almost wish I was with him,” muttered she, as she turned away her head, for the hot tears filled her eyes--she felt weak and sick. “I’m afraid this will do little good,” said O’Rorke, looking at the money in his open palm. “And yet I can do no more!” said she, with deep sorrow. “Wouldn’t you venture to tell your uncle how it is? Sure he might see that the disgrace, if this old man is caught and brought to trial, will spread to himself?” “I dare not--I will not,” said she, firmly. “Then I suppose the story is true, though old Peter wouldn’t believe it, that John Luttrell made you sign a paper never to see nor speak to one of your own again?” “I signed no paper, Sir, nor ever was asked to sign any. What pledges I have given my uncle are not to be discussed with you.” “Well, you don’t deny it, that’s clear.” “Have you anything more that you wish to say to me?” asked she, controlling every show of temper. “No--not a word,” said he, turning to go away. “Only, if I see old Peter--it’s not unlike that I may--he’ll be asking me how tall you are, and how you’re looking. Will you just come out from under the shade of that tree and let me have a fair look at you?” Kate took off her bonnet and threw her shawl from her, and stood forward with an air as composed and assured as might be. “Shall I tell you what I’ll say to him?” said O’Rorke, with an impudent half grin on his face. “You need not, Sir. It has no interest whatever for me. Good-by!” She took up her shawl as she spoke, and walked slowly away. O’Rorke looked after her; the mocking expression of his features changed to a look of almost hatred, and he muttered some angry words between his teeth. “I read you right, Miss Katty, when you weren’t much higher than my knee. I read you right! You may have plenty in love with you, but by my conscience you’ll never have Tim O’Rorke.” CHAPTER XLVII. HOW KATE WAS TASKED