“Every word of it, Tim O’Rorke.”
“Here goes, then:
“‘March 27,18—.
Dalradem Castle, N. Wales.
“‘My dear old Grandfather,—I sit down to write you a very long letter—-’”
“God bless her! God bless the darlin’!” said the old man, interrupting; “show me the words, Tim—show them to me.”
“Indeed I will not do any such thing. It’s just as much as I’ll do is to read it out—‘a very long letter, and I hope and trust it will serve for a very long time, and save me, besides, from the annoyance of your friend and secretary, Mr. O’Rorke.’ Listen to this, Peter Malone,—‘from your secretary, Mr. O’Rorke, who, I suppose, having no treason to occupy him, is good enough to bestow his leisure upon me.’ Did you ever hear more impudence than that in all your born days? Did you believe she’d be bowld enough to insult the man that condescended to serve her?”
“She’s young, she’s young, Tim! Would you have her as wise as you and me? The crayture!”