“Then I suppose the story is true, though old Peter wouldn’t believe it, that John Luttrell made you sign a paper never to see nor speak to one of your own again?”
“I signed no paper, Sir, nor ever was asked to sign any. What pledges I have given my uncle are not to be discussed with you.”
“Well, you don’t deny it, that’s clear.”
“Have you anything more that you wish to say to me?” asked she, controlling every show of temper.
“No—not a word,” said he, turning to go away. “Only, if I see old Peter—it’s not unlike that I may—he’ll be asking me how tall you are, and how you’re looking. Will you just come out from under the shade of that tree and let me have a fair look at you?”
Kate took off her bonnet and threw her shawl from her, and stood forward with an air as composed and assured as might be.
“Shall I tell you what I’ll say to him?” said O’Rorke, with an impudent half grin on his face.
“You need not, Sir. It has no interest whatever for me. Good-by!” She took up her shawl as she spoke, and walked slowly away.
O’Rorke looked after her; the mocking expression of his features changed to a look of almost hatred, and he muttered some angry words between his teeth. “I read you right, Miss Katty, when you weren’t much higher than my knee. I read you right! You may have plenty in love with you, but by my conscience you’ll never have Tim O’Rorke.”