“And you are bored to death at Cro' Martin, too, if I mistake not?” said he, with a very significant dryness. “I should think I was, sir; and nothing very astonishing in the confession, besides.” “And Dublin, madam?” “Don't speak of it. If one must endure prison discipline, at least let us have a cell to ourselves. Good-morning, Miss Martin. I hope you enjoyed your party on the water?” This speech was addressed to Mary, who now entered the room dressed in a plain morning costume, and in her quiet, almost demure look resembling in nothing the dripping and dishevelled figure that sprung from the boat. “Good-morning, aunt,” said she, gayly. “Good-morning, uncle,” kissing, as she spoke, his cheek, and patting him fondly on the shoulder. “I saw you out on the rocks as we were coming in.” “Pooh, pooh!” said he, in affected indifference. “I knew there was no danger--” “Yes, but there was, though,” said she, quickly. “If we had n't set all sail on her, she 'd have been pooped to a certainty; and I can tell you I was in a rare fright, too.” “Oh, indeed; you confess to such an ignoble emotion?” said Lady Dorothea, with a sneer. “That I do, aunt, for I had poor Madge Lennan's little boy on my lap all the time; and if it came to a swim, I don't see how he was to be saved.” “You 'd not have left him to his fate, I suppose?” said Lady Dorothea. “I scarcely know what I should have done. I sincerely hope it would have been my best; but in a moment like that, within sight of home, too--” Her eyes met her uncle's as she said this; he had raised them from his newspaper, and bent them fully on her. There was that in their expression which appealed so strongly to her heart that instead of finishing her speech she sprung towards him and threw her arms around his neck. “Quite a scene; and I detest scenes,” said Lady Dorothen, as she arose and swept out of the room contemptuously; but they neither heard the remark nor noticed her departure. CHAPTER IV. MAURICE SCANLAN, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW. About an hour after the occurrence mentioned in our last chapter, the quiet little village of Kilkieran was startled by the sharp clattering sounds of horses' feet, as Mr. Scanlan's tandem came slinging along; and after various little dexterities amid stranded boats, disabled anchors, and broken capstans, drew up at the gate of the Osprey's Nest. When men devise their own equipage, they invariably impart to it a strong infusion of their own idiosyncrasy. The quiet souls who drag through life in chocolate-colored barouches, with horses indifferently matched, give no clew to their special characteristics; but your men of tax-carts and tandems, your Jehus of four-in-hand teams, write their own biographies in every detail of the “turn-out.” [Illustration: 068]