“So it is, then, Sir Marmaduke, that has been staying at the lodge these some weeks past. That was Mark's secret--poor dear boy, he wouldn't tell me, fearing it would annoy me. Well, what is it he wants.” “To visit you, O'Donoghue.” “What nonsense; the mischiefs done already. The mortgage is forclosed; and as for Carrignacurra, they can do nothing before the next term; Swaby says so, at least.” “Can ye no' comprehend. It is no law document; but a ceevil way to make your acquaintance. Sir Marmaduke wad pay his respects to ye.” “Well, let him come,” said O'Donoghue, laughing; “he's sure to find me at home. The sheriff takes care of that for him. Mark will be here to-morrow or next day; I hope he won't come before that.” “The answer must be a written one,” said M'Nab; “it wad na be polite to gie the flunkie the response.” “With all my heart, Archy, so that I am not asked to indite it. Miles O'Donoghue are the only words I have written for many a year”--and he added, with a half bitter laugh--“it would have been as well for poor Mark, if I had forgotten even that same.” Sir Archibald retired to write the answer, with many a misgiving as to the substance of the epistle; for while deeply gratified at heart, that his favourite, Herbert, had acquitted himself so nobly, his own pride was mortified, as he thought over the impressions a visit to the O'Donoghue household might have on the mind of a “haughty Southern,” for such in his soul he believed him. There was no help for it, however; the advances were made in a spirit so very respectful, every line breathed such an evident desire, on the writer's part, to be well received, that a refusal, or even a formal acceptance of the proffered visit, was out of the question. His reply, then, accepted the intended honour, with a profession of satisfaction; apologising for his omission in calling on Sir Marmaduke, on the score of ill health, and concluded by a few words about Herbert, for whom many inquiries were made in the letter. This, written in the clear, but quaint, old-fashioned characters of the writer's time, and signed, “O'Donoghue,” was carefully folded, and enclosed in a large square envelope, and with it in his hand, M'Nab re-entered the breakfast room. “Wad you like to hear the terms of the response, O'Donoghue, before I seal it up?” asked Sir Archy, with an air of importance. “No, no; I am sure it's all right and proper. You mentioned, of course, that Mark was from home, but we were expecting him back every day.” “I didna make ony remark o' that kind. I said ye wad be happy to see him, and felt proud at the honour of making acquaintance wi' him.” “Damn me if I do, then, Archy,” broke in the old man roughly. “For so great a stickler for truth as yourself, the words were somewhat out of place. I neither feel pride nor honour on the subject. Let it go, however, and there's an end to it.”