One morning as Miss O’Faley, Mr. O’Shane, and Ormond, were at breakfast, Dora, who was usually late, not having yet appeared, Miss O’Faley saw a little boy running across the fields towards the house. “That boy runs as if he was bringing news,” said she. “So he has a right to do,” said Corny: “if I don’t mistake that’s the post; that is, it is not the post, but a little _special_ of my own--a messenger I sent off to _catch post_.” “To do what?” said Mademoiselle. “Why, to catch post,” said Corny. “I bid him gallop off for the life and _put across (lake_ understood) to the next post town, which is Ballynaslugger, and to put in the letters that were too late here at that office there; and to bring back whatever he found, with no delay--but gallop off for the bare life.” This was an operation which the boy performed, whenever requisite, at the imminent hazard of his neck every time, to say nothing of his chance of drowning. “Well, Catch-post, my little rascal,” said King Corny, “what have you for us the day?” “I got nothing at all, only a wetting for myself, plase your honour, and one bit of a note for your honour, which I have here for you as dry as the bone in my breast.” He produced the bit of a note, which, King Corny’s hands being at that time too full of the eggs and the kettle to receive graciously, was laid down on the corner of the table, from which it fell, and Miss O’Faley picking it up, and holding it by one corner, exclaimed, “Is this what you call dry as a bone, in this country? And mighty clean, too--faugh! When will this entire nation leave off chewing tobacco, I wonder! This is what you style clean, too, in this country?” “Why, then,” said the boy, looking close at the letter, “I thought it was clane enough when I got it--and give it--but ‘tis not so clane now, sure enough; this corner--whatever come over it--would it be the snuff, my lady?” The mark of Miss O’Faley’s thumb was so visible, and the snuff so palpable, and the effort to brush it from the wet paper so disastrous, that Miss O’Faley let the matter rest where it was. King Corny put silver into the boy’s hand, bidding him not be too much of a rogue; the boy, smiling furtively, twitched the hair on his forehead, bobbed his head in sign of thanks, and drawing, not shutting, the door after him, disappeared. “As sure as I’m Cornelius O’Shane, this is White Connal _in propria persona_,” said he, opening the note. “Mon Dieu! Bon Dieu! Ah, Dieu!” cried Mdlle. O’Faley. “Hush! Whisht!” cried the father--“here’s Dora coming.” Dora came in. “Any letter for me?” “Ay, darling, one for _you_.” “Oh, give it me! I’m always in a desperate hurry for my letters: where is it?” “No--you need not hold out your pretty hand; the letter is _for you_, but not to you,” said King Corny; “and now you know--ay, now you guess--my quick little blusher, who ‘tis from.”