“'Tis a letter from your sweetheart, then,” said she, with a spice of jealous malice in her manner, for Lanty had more than once paid his addresses to Mary, whose wealth was reported to be something considerable. “May be it is, and may be it is not,” was the cranky reply. “Well, she'll have a saving husband, any way,” said Mary, tartly, “and one that knows how to keep a good grip of the money.” The horse-dealer made no answer to this enconium on his economy, but with eyes fixed on the ground, pondered on his loss; meanwhile Mrs. M'Kelly's curiosity, piqued by her ineffectual efforts to obtain information, grew each instant stronger, and at last became irrepressible. “Can't you say what it is you've lost? sure there's many a one goes by, here, of a Saturday to market--and if you leave the token--” “There's no use in it--sorra bit,” said he, despondingly. “You know your own saycrets best,” said Mary, foiled at every effort; “and they must be the dhroll saycrets too, when you're so much afraid of their being found out.” “Troth then,” said Lanty, as a ray of his old gallantry shot across his mind; “troth then, there isn't one I'd tell a saycrct too as soon as yourself, Mary M'Kelly; you know the most of my heart already, and Why wouldn't you know it all?” “Faix it's little I care to hear about it,” said Mary, with an affectation of indifference, the most finished coquetry could not have surpassed. “Ye may tell it, or no, just as ye plaze.” “That's it now,” cried Lanty--“that's the way of women, the whole world over; keep never minding them, and bad luck to peace or case you get; and then try and plaze them, and see what thanks you have. I was going to tell you all about it.” “And why don't you?” interrupted she, half fearing lest she might have pulled the cord over-tight already; “why don't you tell it, Lanty dear?” These last words settled the matter. Like the feather that broke the camel's back, these few and slight syllables were all that was wanting to overcome the horse-dealer's resistance. “Well, here it is now,” said he, casting, as he spoke, a cautious glance around, lest any chance listener should overhear him. “There was in that pocket-book, a letter, sealed with three big seals, that Father Luke gave me yesterday morning, and said to me, 'Lanty Lawler, I'm going over to Ballyvourney, and after that, I'm going on to Cork, and it's mighty likely I'll go as far as Dublin, for the Bishop may be there, and if he is, I must follow him; and here's a letter,' says he, 'that you must give the O'Donoghue with your own hands'--them was the words--'with your own hands, Lanty; and now swear you'll not leave it to any one else, but do as I tell you;' and, faix, I took my oath of it, and see, now, it's lost; may I never, but I don't know how I'll ever face him again; and sure God knows what was in it.” “And there was three seals on it,” said Mary, musingly, as if such extraordinary measures of secrecy could bode nothing good.