“'Tis truth I'm telling ye then; I heerd it all between the master and Master Mark, and afterwards with ould Sir Archy, and the three of them is in a raal fright about the maid; they say she'll be the divil for impidence.” “Will she then!” said Mrs. Branagan, with an eye glistening in anticipation of battle. “The never a day's peace or ease we're to have again, when she's here--'tis what the master says. 'I pity poor Mrs. Branagan,' says he; 'she's a quiet crayture that wont take her own part, and----'” “Won't I? Be my conscience, we'll soon see that.” “Them's his words--'and if Kerry and she don't lay their heads together to make the place too hot for her, she'll bully the pair of them.'” “Lave it to myself--lave it to me alone, Kerry O'Leary.” “I was thinking that same, ma'am,” said Kerry, with a droll leer as he spoke; “I'd take the odds on you any day, and never ask the name of the other horse.” “I'll lay the mark of my fingers on her av she says 'pays,'” said Mrs. Branagan, with an energy that looked like truth. Meanwhile, Kerry, perceiving that her temper was up, spared nothing to aggravate her passion, retailing every possible and impossible affront the new visitor might pass off on her, and expressing the master's sorrows at the calamities awaiting her. “If she isn't frightened out of the country at once, there's no help for it,” said he at last. “I have a notion myself, but sure maybe it's a bad one.” “What is it then?--spake it out free.” “'Tis just to wait for the chaise--she'll come in a chaise, it's likely.” But what was Kerry's plan, neither Mrs. Branagan nor the reader are destined to hear, for at that moment a loud summons at the hall door--a very unusual sound--announced the arrival of a stranger; Kerry, therefore, had barely time for a hasty toilet with a pocket-comb, before a small fragment of looking-glass he carried in his pocket, as he hastened to receive the visitor. CHAPTER XVII. KATE O'DONOGHUE Before Kerry O'Leary had reached the hall, the object around whose coming all his schemes revolved, was already in her uncle's arms. “My dear, dear Kate!” said the old man, as he embraced her again and again, while she, overcome by a world of conflicting emotions, concealed her face upon his shoulder. “This is Mark, my dearest girl--cousin Mark.” The girl looked up, and fixed her large full eyes upon the countenance of the young man, as, in an attitude of bashful hesitation, he stood, uncertain how far the friendship of former days warranted his advances. She, too, seemed equally confused; and when she held out her hand, and he took it half coldly, the meeting augured but poorly for warmth of heart on either side. “And Herbert--where is he?” cried she eagerly, hoping to cover the chilling reception by the inquiry--“and my uncle Archy----”