“Come in here,” said Joan, pushing open the door of a small room off the kitchen which served for a species of larder,--“come in here.” “I have come on a sad errand,” said Mary, taking her hand between both her own, “and I would that it had fallen to any other than myself. It is for you to decide that! have not come in vain.” “What is it? tell me what it is?” cried Joan, as a sudden paleness spread over her features. “These are days of sorrow and mourning everywhere,” said Mary, gloomily. “Can you not guess what my tidings may be? No, no,” cried she, as a sudden gesture of Joan interrupted her,--“no, not yet; he is still alive, and entreats to see you.” “To curse me again, is it?” cried the other, wildly; “to turn me from the door, and pray down curses on me,--is it for that he wants to see me?” “Not for that, indeed,” said Mary; “it is to see you--to give you his last kiss--his last blessing--to forgive you and be forgiven. Remember that he is alone, deserted by all that once were his. Your father and mother and sisters are all gone to America, and poor old Mat lingers on,--nay, the journey is nigh ended. Oh, do not delay, lest it be too late. Come now--now.” “And if I see him once, can I ever come back to this?” cried Joan, in bitter agony. “Will I ever be able to hear his words and live as I do now?” [Illustration: 162] “Let your own good heart guide you for that,” cried Mary; “all I ask is that you should see him and be with him. I have pledged myself for your coming, and you will not dishonor my words to one on his death-bed.” “And I 'll be an outcast for it. Tom will drive me from the door and never see me again. I know it,--I know _him_!” “You are wrong, Joan Landy.” “Joan!--who dares to call me Joan Landy when I'm Mrs. Magennis of Barnagheela? and if _I'm_ not _your_ equal, I 'm as good as any other in the barony. Was it to insult me you came here to-night, to bring up to me who I am and where I came from? That 's the errand that brought you through the storm! Ay,” cried she, lashed to a wilder passion by her own words,--“ay! ay! and if you and yours had their will we 'd not have the roof to shelter us this night. It 's only to-day that we won the trial against you.” “Whatever my errand here this night,” said Mary, with a calm dignity, “it was meant to serve and not insult you. I know, as well as your bitterest words can tell me, that this is not my place; but I know, too, if from yielding to my selfish pride I had refused your old grandfather this last request, it had been many a year of bitter reproach to me.” “Oh, you 'll break my heart, you will, you will!” cried Joan, bitterly. “You 'll turn the only one that's left against me, and I 'll be alone in the world.” “Come with me this night, and whatever happen I 'll befriend you,” said Mary. “And not desert me because I 'm what I am?” “Never, Joan, never!”