“If she's like what I remember her as a child,” replied Mark, “your plan would be a bad one for its object. Tell her the place is a ruin, and she'd give the world to see it for bare curiosity; say, there was a likelihood of a rebellion, and she would risk her life to be near it; and as for a fever, we never were able to keep her out of the cabins when there was sickness going. Faith, I believe it was the danger, and not the benevolence, of the act charmed her.” “You are no' far wrang. I mind her weel--she was a saucy cutty; and I canna forget the morning she gave me a bunch o' thistles on my birth day, and ca'ed it a 'Scotch bouquey.'” “You had better read the letter in any case,” said Mark, as he presented the epistle. Sir Archy took it, and perused it from end to end without a word; then laying it open on his knee, he said-- “The lassie's heart is no' far wrang, Mark, depend upon it. Few call up the simple memories o' childish days, if they have no' retained some of the guileless spirit that animated them. I wad like to see her mysel',” said he, after a pause. “But what have we here in the postscript?”--and he read aloud the following lines:-- “I have too good a recollection of a Carrig-na-curra household, to make any apology for adding one to the number below stairs, in the person of my maid, Mademoiselle Hortense, from whose surprise and astonishment at our Irish mountains I anticipate a rich treat. She is a true Parisian, who cannot believe in any thing outside the Boulevards. What will she think of Mrs. Branagan and Kerry O'Leary?--and what will they think of her?” “Lord save us, Mark, this is an awfu' business; a French waiting woman here! Why, she might as weel bring a Bengal tiger! I protest I'd rather see the one than the other.” “She'll not stay long; make your mind easy about her; nor will Kate either, if she need such an attendant.” “True enough, Mark, we maun let the malady cure itsel'; and so, I suppose, the lassie must even see the nakedness o' the land wi' her ain eyes, though I'd just as soon we could 'put the cover on the parritch,' as the laird said, 'and make the fules think it brose.' It's no ower pleasant to expose one's poverty.” “Then you'll write the letter,” said Mark, rising, “and we must do what we can, in the way of preparation. The time is short enough too, for that letter was written almost a month ago--she might arrive this very week.” As he spoke, the shuffling sounds of feet were heard in the corridor outside; the young man sprung to the door, and looked out, and just caught sight of Kerry O'Leary, with a pair of boots under his arm, descending the stairs. “That fellow, Kerry--listening as usual,” said Mark. “I heard him at my door about a fortnight since, when I was talking to Herbert, and I sent a bullet through the pannel--I thought it might cure him.” “I wonder it did na kill him!” exclaimed M'Nab in horror.