Visitors at the O'Donoghue house were generally of a character which Kerry felt necessary to close the door against. They unhappily came, not with the ceremonial of a visiting card, but with some formidable missive of the law, in the shape of a distress warrant--a latitat--or that meeker and less-dreaded engine, a protested bill. It was, then, with a considerable relief to his anxieties, that his eye caught the flutter of a lady's dress, as he peeped from the small casement beside the door, and his heart expanded in a little thanksgiving of its own, as he unbarred the portal to admit her. Having informed his visitors that the family were at home, he preceded them to the drawing-room, with a step, the noise of which happily drowned the tittering it was impossible to subdue, at beholding him. To prevent the awkwardness which Sir Marmaduke foresaw might arise, from the blundering announcement Kerry would inevitably make of their names, he having repeated over and over as he went along, by way of refreshing his memory, “Sir Marmaduke, Sir Marmaduke Travers,” the old gentleman stepped forward as the door opened, and presented himself by name, introducing his daughter at the same time. The O'Donoghue, seated in his chair, half rose, for it was one of his gouty days, and he could not stir without great difficulty, and with an air and voice which bespoke the gentleman, welcomed his guests. Herbert's eyes gleamed with delight as he gazed on the party; and Sir Archibald, bowing with an ancient grace that would have suited a courtier of a century previous, presented chairs to each, going through the ceremonial of a new obeisance to every one of the group. Kate O'Donoghue was not in the room, nor Mark--the latter, indeed, had not returned to the castle since the day previous.