“About that time,” said O’Shane: “but, sister O’Faley, do not nurse my child or yourself up with deceitful hopes. There’s not a man alive--not a Connal, surely, hearing what happiness he is heir to, but would come flying over post-haste. So you may expect his answer, in eight days--Dora, my darling, and God grant he may be--” “No matter what he is, sir--I’ll die before I will see him,” cried Dora, rising, and bursting into tears. “Oh, my child, you won’t die!--you can’t--from me, your father!” Her father threw his arms round her, and would have drawn her to him, but she turned her face from him: Harry was on the other side--her eyes met his, and her face became covered with blushes. “Open the window, Harry!” said O’Shane, who saw the conflict; “open the window!--we all want it.” Harry opened the window, and hung out of it gasping for breath. “She’s gone--the aunt has taken her off--it’s over for this fit,” said O’Shane. “Oh, my child, I must go through with it! My boy, I honour as I love you--I have a great deal to say about your own affairs, Harry.” “My affairs--oh! what affairs have I? Never think of me, dear sir--” “I will--but can’t now--I am spent for this day--leave out the bottle of claret for Father Jos, and I’ll get to bed--I’ll see nobody, tell Father Jos--I’m gone to my room.” The next morning O’Tara came to breakfast. Every person had a different question to ask him, except Dora, who was silent. Corny asked what kind of man Black Connal was. Mademoiselle inquired whether he was most French or English; Ormond, whether he was going to be married. To all these questions O’Tara pleaded ignorance: except with respect to the sports of the field, he had very little curiosity or intelligence. A ray of hope again darted across the mind of Corny. From his knowledge of the world, he thought it very probable that a young officer in the French brigade would be well contented to be heir to his brother’s fortune, without encumbering himself with an Irish wife, taken from an obscure part of the country. Corny, therefore, eagerly inquired from O’Tara what became of White Connal’s property. O’Tara answered, that the common cry of the country was, that all White Connal’s profitable farms were leasehold property, and upon his own life. Poor Corny’s hopes were thus frustrated: he had nothing left to do for some days but to pity Harry Ormond, to bear with the curiosity and impatience of Mademoiselle, and with the froward sullenness of Dora, till some intelligence should arrive respecting the new claimant to her destined hand. CHAPTER XIV