“Is here to answer for himsel',” said M'Nab, quietly, as he came rapidly forward and kissed her on either cheek; and, with an arm leaning on each of the old men, she walked forward to the drawing-room. “And are you alone, my dear child--have you come alone?” said the O'Donoghue. “Even so, papa;--my attached and faithful Hortense left me at Bristol. Sea sickness became stronger than affection. She had a dream, besides, that she was lost, devoured, or carried off by a merman--I forget what. And the end was, she refused to go further, and did her best to persuade me to the same opinion. She didn't remember that I had sent on my effects, and that my heart was here already.” “My own dearest child!” said O'Donoghue, as he pressed her hand fervently between his own. “But how have ye journeyed by yoursel'?” said Sir Archy, as he gazed on the slight and delicate figure before him. “Wonderfully well, uncle. During the voyage every one was most polite and attentive to me. There was a handsome young Guardsman who would have been more, had he not been gentleman enough to know that I was a lady. And, once at Cork, I met, the very moment of landing, with a kind old friend, Father Luke, who took care of me hither. He only parted with me at the gate, not wishing to interfere, as he said, with our first greetings. But I don't see Herbert--where is he?” “Poor Herbert has been dangerously ill, my dear,” said the father, “I scarcely think it safe for him to see you.” “No, no,” interposed Sir Archy, feelingly. “If the sight of her can stir the seared heart of an auld carle like mysel', it wad na be the surest way to calm the frenzied blood of a youth.”