“Nonsense, Catty; I have been out in rain before this. I'm more provoked about that bridge than all else. My excellent aunt will have such a laugh at my engineering skill, when she hears of it. Can't be helped, however. And so there's a dinner-party upstairs, I hear. Fanny told me there were three strangers.” “So I hear. There's a lawyer from Dublin; and a lady from I don't know where; and young Nelligan, old Dan's son. I 'm sure I never thought I 'd see the day he 'd be eating his dinner at Cro' Martin.” “And why not, Catty? What is there in his manners and conduct that should not make him good company for any one here?” “Is n't he the son of a little huckster in Oughterard? Old Dan, that I remember without a shoe to his foot?” “And is it a reproach to him that he has made a fortune by years of patient industry and toil?” “In-dus-try! toil! indeed,” said Catty, sneeringly. “How much in-dus-try or toil there is, weighing out snuff and sugar in a snug shop. Ayeh! he's an old nig-gar, the same Dan. I know him well.” “But that is no reason why you should disparage his son, Catty, who is a young gentleman of the highest ability and great promise. I never heard you speak so ungenerously before.” “Well, well, darling, don't look angry with your ould Catty, anyway. It isn't for the like of Dan Nelligan, or his son either, you'd be cross with _me!_” “Never, Catty, never,--for anybody or anything,” said the young girl, taking her hand with both her own. “But you have n't told me who the lady is. How did she arrive, and when?” “I know nothing of her. Peter came to say that the blue bedroom was wanting to-night, and he wished to torment me into asking who for?--but I wouldn't, just for that same; and so I gave him the keys without a word.” “I wonder if this note, that I found on my dressing-table, will explain anything,” said Mary, as she proceeded to break the seal. “Of all the absurd ways of my Lady aunt, she has not a more ridiculous one than this trick of writing little notes, instead of speaking. She sees me every day, and might surely say whatever she wanted to say, without embalming it in a despatch. This, I perceive, is number four hundred and seventy-six, and I presume she 's correct in the score. Only think, Catty,--four hundred little epistles like this!” And with these words she carelessly unfolded the letter and began to read it. All her indifference of manner, however, soon gave way to an expression of considerable eagerness, and she had no sooner finished the epistle than she recommenced and reread it. “You 'd never guess what tidings this brings me, Catty,” said she, laying down the paper, and looking with an expression half sad, half comical. “Maybe I might, then,” said Catty, shaking her head knowingly. “Come, out with your guess, then, old lady, and I promise to venerate your wisdom ever after if you be right,--that is, if nobody has already given you a hint on the subject.”