The O'Donoghue pondered for a second or two, endeavouring to frame some distinct notion from these scanty materials, and then said-- “Send Master Mark to me.” At the same instant he drew aside the curtain, and broke the seal of the letter. The first few lines, however, seemed to satisfy his curiosity, although the epistle was written in a close hand, and extended over three sides of the paper; and he threw it carelessly on the bed, and lay down again once more. During all this time, however, Kerry managed to remain in the room, and, while affecting to arrange clothes and furniture, keenly scrutinized the features of his master. It was of no use, however. The old man's looks were as apathetic as usual, and he seemed already to have forgotten the missive Kerry had endowed with so many terrors and misfortunes. “Herbert has passed a favourable night,” said Mark, entering a few moments after. “The fever seems to have left him, and, except for debility, I suppose there is little to ail him. What!--a letter! Who is this from?” “From Kate,” said the old man listlessly. “I got as far as 'My dear uncle;' the remainder must await a better light, and, mayhap, sharper eyesight too--for the girl has picked up this new mode of scribbling, which is almost unintelligible to me.” As the O'Donoghue was speaking, the young man had approached the window, and was busily perusing the letter. As he read, his face changed colour more than once. Breaking off, he said-- “You don't know, then, what news we have here? More embarrassment--ay, by Jove, and a heavier one than even it seems at first sight. The French armies, it appears, are successful all over the Low Countries, and city after city falling into their possession; and so, the convents are breaking up, and the Sacré Cour, where Kate: is, has set free its inmates, who are returning to their friends. She comes here.” “What!--here?” said the O'Donoghue, with some evidence of doubt at intelligence so strange and unexpected. “Why, Mark, my boy, that's impossible--the house is a ruin; we haven't a room; we have no servants, and have nothing like accommodation for the girl.” “Listen to this, then,” said Mark, as he read from the letter:--“You may then conceive, my dear old papa--for I must call you the old name again, now that we are to meet--how happy I am to visit Carrig-na-curra once more. I persuade myself I remember the old beech wood in the glen, and the steep path beside the waterfall, and the wooden railings to guard against the precipice. Am I not right? And there's an ash tree over the pool, lower down. Cousin Mark climbed it to pluck the berries for me, and fell in, too. There's memory for you!” “She'll be puzzled to find the wood now,” said the O'Donoghue, with a sad attempt at a smile. “Go on, Mark.”