O'Brien did not pretend to be a philosopher when his own fortune or comfort was threatened or assailed. He chafed and fumed when things went wrong, or when he could not get his way. Now he was compelled, in a great measure, to keep silent, for there would be a want of hospitality in displaying impatience of Kilcash to Alfred. He had confided to the latter the secret of his love for Madge, and the brother had grasped his hand cordially and wished him all luck and happiness. No man existed, he had said, to whom he would sooner confide the future of his sister. How was O'Brien to act with regard to writing to Madge? There had been nothing underhand or dishonourable in telling the girl of his love that day on the Dulwich Road. The declaration had in a measure slipped from him before any suitable opportunity occurred of talking to Mr. Paulton. But speaking to Madge under the excitement of the moment and the knowledge of approaching separation was one thing, and writing clandestinely to her quite another. If he wrote to her openly, inquiries as to the nature of the correspondence would certainly be made at home, and then their secret would be found out, and the thought of being found out in anything about which an unpleasant word could be said was unendurable. In the haste of leaving Carlingford House he had made no arrangement with Madge as to writing to her. It was absolutely necessary for him to risk a letter. He would not be guilty of the subterfuge of writing under cover of one of Alfred's letters. Accordingly he wrote a bright, cheerful, chatty note to Madge, beginning "My dear Miss Paulton," and ending "Yours most sincerely, J. O'Brien." To those who were not in the secret, nothing could have been more ordinary than this letter. But its meaning was plain to Madge. Among other things, he said the Commissioners had not yet done with him, and until they had he could not count upon another visit to Dulwich; and he begged her to give his kindest regards to Mr. Paulton, and to express a hope that he might soon enjoy the pleasure of a walk on the Dulwich Road, when he would tell her father all about the Bawn salmon and the wretched Commissioners. Until then he should not bother either of them with any account of himself or the villains who were lying in wait for him. This he intended to show that he would not write to her again until he had cleared up matters with her father. And now that he had got rid of this letter--it was a task, not a pleasure, to write it--what should he do? He had told himself and Alfred that even in summer there was not anything to be done in Kilcash. But he, O'Brien, was in full health and vigour, and began to feel uneventful idleness very irksome. Boating even with the pretence of fishing was out of the question, and one grew tired of strolling along the strand or downs when fine, and looking out of the windows at the unneeded rain when wet. Against the weariness of the long evenings he had brought books, cards, and chess