“And have you received no letter from Mr. Martin, from Dublin?” asked Scanlan. “None,--not a line; a note from my aunt--indeed, not from my aunt, but by her orders, written by Kate Henderson--has reached me, in which, however, there is no allusion to the property or the place.” “And yet her Ladyship said that Mr. Martin would write to you himself, in the course of the week, fully and explicitly.” “To whom was this said, sir?” “To myself, miss; there is the letter.” And Scanlan drew from his pocket-book a very voluminous epistle, in Kate Henderson's hand. “This contains the whole of her Ladyship's instructions. How all the works are to be stopped,--roads, woods, and quarries; the townlands of Carrigalone and Killybogue to be distrained; Kyle-a-Noe the same. If a tenant can be got for the demesne, it is to be let, with the shooting over the seven mountains, and the coast-fishing too. There's to be no more charges for schools, hospital, or dispensary after next November; everything is to be on the new plan, what they call 'Self-supporting.' I 'd like to know what that means. In fact, miss, by the time one half the orders given in that same letter is carried out, there won't be such another scene of misery and confusion in all Ireland as the estate of Cro' Martin.” “And this is sanctioned by my uncle?” “I suppose we must conclude it is, for he says nothing to the contrary; and Mr. Repton writes me what he calls 'my instructions,' in a way that shows his own feeling of indignation about the whole business.” Mary was silent; there was not a sentiment which could give pain that had not then its place in her heart. Commiseration, deep pity for the sorrows she was to witness unavailingly, wounded pride, insulted self-esteem,--all were there! And she turned away to hide the emotions which overcame her. For a moment the sense of self had the mastery, and she thought but of how she was to endure all this humiliation. “Am I,” said she to her own heart,--“am I to be insulted by the rivalry of Scotch stewards and gardeners, to be thrust from my place of power by some low-born creature, not even of the soil, but an alien?--to live here bereft of influence, representing nothing save the decay of our fortunes?” The torrent of her passion ran full and deep, and her bosom heaved in the agony of the moment. And then as suddenly came the reaction. “How small a share is mine in all this suffering, and how miserably selfish are even my sorrows! It is of others I should think!--of those who must leave hearth and home to seek out a new resting-place,--of the poor, who are to be friendless,--of the suffering, to whom no comfort is to come,--of the old, who are to die in distant lands,--and the young, whose hearts are never to warm to the affections of a native country!”