She never stirred nor raised her head, till, by a rustling sound of the branches at the window, she was startled, and looked up. It was O’Rorke, who was leaning on the sill of the window, and looking in.
“Would you give me a scrap of something you were wearing—a bit of ribbon, or the like, I know you’re not fond of cutting off your hair—to give the old man? He’d rather have it than a crown jewel——”
“Take this!” cried she, snatching up a scissors, and cutting off the long and silky lock that fell in a curl upon her neck; and, turning to the table, she folded it neatly in a piece of paper. She took up her pen, too, but the thought that he could not read deterred her; for what she would have written she could not bear that other eyes than his own should trace, and she sat thinking for some minutes, when suddenly, through what train of thought impelled it is not easy to say, she cried out, “Yes, I will do it! Come back—wait a moment—or, better still, leave me to myself an instant, and I shall be ready.”
He left the window, and she sat down at the table. Without a moment’s hesitation or reflection she wrote thus:
“St. Finbar’s, Arran.
“Sir,—I make no attempt to deprecate your anger, or palliate the wrong I have done you. My offence is one that only a free pardon could coyer, and I do not dare to entreat for this. It is for something more, and less than forgiveness, I have now to ask you.
“My grandfather, a man of eighty, is in gaol, about to be tried on a charge of felony; he declares his innocence, but, having no means to pay counsel, despairs of establishing the fact. My uncle cannot help him; will you?
“When I think of the time that I had not to speak a wish till I saw it gratified, I sicken over the ingratitude which drives me to approach you as a suppliant, while I promise never again to address you.
“The bearer of the present note will take charge of your answer, should you deign to reply to your unhappy, because unworthy,
“Kate Luttrell.”