And thus they sat till a late hour of the night talking and listening, old Catty answering each inquiry of the young girl by some anecdote or trait of him she still persisted in calling “Master Barry,” till, in the ardor of listening, Mary herself caught up the phrase, and so designated her own father. “How unlike my uncle in everything!” exclaimed Mary, as she reflected over some traits the old woman had just recorded. “And were they not very fond of each other?” “That they were: at least I can answer for Master Barry's love; and to be sure, if having a reason was worth anything, your uncle ought to love him more than one man ever did another.” Old Catty uttered these words with a slow and almost muttering accent; they seemed as if the expression of a thought delivered involuntarily--almost unconsciously. Mary was attracted by the unwonted solemnity of her accent, but still more by an expression of intense meaning which gathered over the old woman's brows and forehead. “Ay, ay,” muttered she, still to herself, “there's few brothers would do it. Maybe there's not another living but himself would have done it.” “And what was it, Catty?” asked Mary, boldly. “Eh!--what was I saying, darling?” said Catty, rousing herself to full consciousness. “You were telling of my father, and some great proof of affection he gave my uncle.” “To be sure he did,” said the old woman, hastily. “They were always fond of each other, as brothers ought to be.” “But this one particular instance of love,--what was it, Catty?” The old woman started, and looked eagerly around the room, as though to assure herself that they were alone; then, drawing her chair close to Mary's, she said, in a low voice: “Don't ask me any more about them things, darling. 'T is past and gone many a year now, and I 'd rather never think of it more, for I 've a heavy heart after it.” “So, then, it is a secret, Catty?” said Mary, half proudly. “A secret, indeed,” said Catty, shaking her head mournfully. “Then you need only to have said so, and I'd not have importuned you to tell it; for, to say truth, Catty, I never knew you had any secrets from me.” “Nor have I another, except this, darling,” said Catty; and she buried her face within her hands. And now both sat in silence for some minutes,--a most painful silence to each. At last Mary arose, and, although evidently trying to overcome it, a feeling of constraint was marked in her features. “You'd never guess how late it is, Catty,” said she, trying to change the current of her thoughts. “You 'd not believe it is past three o'clock; how pleasantly we must have talked, to forget time in this way!” But the old woman made no reply, and it was clear that she had never heard the words, so deeply was she sunk in her own reflections.