“There now, Peety,” said her son, turning towards the mendicant; “it's all settled--wait now for a minute till I write a couple of notes, which you must deliver for me.” Peety sat accordingly, and commenced to lay down for his daughter's guidance and conduct such instructions as he deemed suitable to the situation she was about to enter and the new duties that necessarily devolved upon her. In due time Hycy appeared, and placing two letters in Peety's hands, said--“Go, Peety, to Gerald Cavanagh's, of Fenton's Farm, and if you can get an opportunity, slip that note into Kathleen's hands--this, mark, with the corner turned down--you won't forget that?” “No, sir.” “Very well--you're then to proceed to Tom M'Mahon's, and if you find Bryan, his son, there, give him this; and if he's at the mountain farm of Ahadarra, go to him. I don't expect an answer from Kathleen Cavanagh, but I do from Bryan M'Mahon; and mark me, Peety.” “I do, sir.” “Are you sure you do?” “Sartin, sir.” “Silent as the grave then is the word in both cases--but if I ever hear--” “That's enough, Masther Hycy; when the grave spakes about it so will I.” Peety took the letters and disappeared with an air rendered important by the trust reposed in him; whilst Mrs. Burke looked inquiringly at her son, as if her curiosity were a good deal excited. “One of them is to Kate or Kathleen Cavanagh, as they call her,” said Hycy, in reply to her looks; “and the other for Bryan M'Mahon, who is soft and generous--_probatum est_. I want to know if he'll stand for thirty-five--and as for Kate, I'm making love to her, you must know.” “Kathleen Cavanagh,” replied his mother; “I'll never lend my privileges to sich match.” “Match!” exclaimed Hycy, coolly. “Ah,” she replied warmly; “match or marriage will never--” “Marriage!” he repeated, “why, my most amiable maternal relative, do you mean to insinuate to Hycy the accomplished, that he is obliged to propose either match or marriage to every girl he makes love to? What a prosaic world you'd have of it, my dear Mrs. Burke. This, ma'am, is only an agreeable flirtation--not but that it's possible there may be something in the shape of a noose matrimonial dangling in the background. She combines, no doubt, in her unrivalled person, the qualities of Hebe, Venus, and Diana--Hebe in youth, Venus in beauty, and Diana in wisdom; so it's said, but I trust incorrectly, as respects one of them--good-bye, mother--try your influence as touching Crazy Jane, and report favorably-- “'Friend of my soul, this goblet sip, 'Twill chase the pensive tear. &c.'” CHAPTER II.--Gerald Cavanagh and his Family --Tom M'Mahon's return from Dublin.