“As usual, Mamma, four lines in each page, and the last a blank,” said Helen, laughing:--“'My dear mother, what blandishments have you been throwing over the War Office? They have just given me my company, which, by the ordinary rules of the service, I had no pretension to hope for, these five years to come! Our colonel, too, a perfect Tartar, overwhelms me with civilities, and promises me a leave of absence on the first vacancy. Have you seen Forester, of ours? and how do you like him? A little cold or so at first, but _you_ will not dislike that. His riding will please my father. Get him to sing, if you can; his taste and voice are both first-rate. Your worthy relative, Lord Netherby, bores me with invitations to his houses, town and country. I say “No;” but he won't be denied. Was he not rude, or indifferent, or something or other, once upon a time, to the ancient house of Darcy? Give me the _consigne_, I pray you, for I hear he has the best cock-shooting in England; and let my virtue, if possible, be rewarded by a little indulgence. Tell Helen they are all giving up powder here, and wear their hair as she does; but not one of them half as good-looking. Yours, as ever, Lionel Darcy. Hounslow, January 1st, 1800'” “Is that Sullivan, there?” said Lady Eleanor, as her daughter finished the reading of this brief epistle. “What does he mean by staring so at the window? The old man seems to have lost his senses!” “Ochone arie! ochone! ochone!” cried Tate, wringing his hands with the gestures of violent grief, as he moved up and down before the windows. “What has happened, Tate?” said Helen, as she threw open the sash to address him. “Ochone! he's kilt--he's murthered--cut down like a daisy in a May morning. And he, the iligant, fine young man!” “Whom do you mean? Speak plainly, Sullivan,” said the commanding voice of Lady Eleanor. “What is it?” “'Tis the young officer from England, my lady, that came down the night before last to see the master. Oh, murther! murther! if his honor was here, the sorra bit of this grief we 'd have to-day--ochone!” “Well, go on,” said his mistress, sternly. “And if he came down for joy, ''t is sorrow he supped for it,' the young crayture! They soon finished him.” “Once for all, sir, speak out plainly, and say what has occurred.” “It's Mr. Bagenal Daly done it all, my lady,--divil a one of me cares who hears me say it. He's a cruel man, ould as he is. He made him fight a duel, the darling young man,--the 'moral' of Master Lionel himself; and now he's kilt--ochone! ochone!” “Can this dreadful story be true, Helen?” said Lady Eleanor, as the faint color left her features. “Call Margaret; or, stay--Sullivan, is Mr. Daly here?” “That he is, never fear him. He's looking at his morning's work--he's in the room where they carried the corpse; and the fine corpse it is.” “Go tell Mr. Daly that Lady Eleanor desires to see him at once.”