Harold had naturally expected to find at the hotel a letter urging him to take the first train for the south. He had seen a great deal of the Connellys during their stay in the United States, and Jack and he had become firm friends. He had crossed at this unusual season mainly on Jack’s account--on Jack’s account and his sister’s; so it was little wonder if the young man considered himself ill used. He felt that he had been lured across the Irish Channel--across the Atlantic Ocean itself--on false pretences. But in a moment the cloud lifted from his brow, a quick smile stirred under his yellow moustache, and his eyes brightened, for a waiter handed him a letter. It lay, address uppermost, on the salver, and bore the Ballydoon postmark, and the handwriting was the disjointed scrawl which he had often ridiculed, but now welcomed as Jack Connolly’s. This is what Hayes read as he sipped his coffee: _Lisnahoe_, December 23d. MY DEAR HAROLD: Home I come from Ballinasloe yesterday, and find your letter, the best part of a week old, kicking about among the bills and notices of meets that make the biggest end of my correspondence. You must be destroyed entirely, my poor fellow, if you’ve been three days in dear dirty Dublin, and you not knowing a soul in it. Come down at once, and you’ll find a hearty welcome here if you won’t find much else. I don’t see why you couldn’t have come anyhow, without waiting to write; but you were always so confoundedly ceremonious. We’re rather at sixes and sevens, for the governor’s got “in howlts” with his tenants and we’re boycotted. It’s not bad fun when you’re used to it, but a trifle inconvenient in certain small ways. Let me know what train you take and I’ll meet you at the station. You must be here for Christmas Day anyhow. Polly sends her regards, and says she knew the letter was from you, and she came near opening it. I’m sure I wish she had, and answered it, for I’m a poor fist at a letter. Yours truly, JACK CONNOLLY.