“This is a strange kind of scrawl enough,” said the old man; “it runs thus:—'Dear Tom, we are starting for your wild regions this evening—two drags and a mail phaeton. I have sent Gipsy and the white fetlocked colt by Hericks, and will bring Tom Edwards with me. The mare looks well, but fleshy; you must look to it that we haven't heavy ground—'”
“Oh, I know who that's from,” said Linton, hastily taking the letter from Corrigan's hand; “it's Lord Charles Frobisher,—a silly fellow, that never thinks of anything but horse-racing and training.”
“He would seem to speculate on something of the kind here,” said Corrigan; “at least, it looks very like premeditation, this sending off grooms and racers.”
“He does so everywhere he goes,” said Linton, affecting to laugh; “a surgeon would no more travel without his lancets, than Charley without some chance of a 'match;' but what's this?
“Dear Mr. Cashel,—I and my little girl are already en route for your hospitable castle, too happy to assist in the celebration of your house-warming—”
“Oh, that's Meek,” said Linton. “And now for this rugged little hand here.
“Lady Janet and Sir Andrew MacFarline—”
“Strange style,—the lady first,” interposed Miss Leicester.
“She is always so,” said Linton, continuing the perusal—
—“will reach Tubbermore by Tuesday, and have only to request that their apartments may not have a north aspect, as Lady J. has still a heavy cold hanging over her. Sir A.'s man, Flint, will arrange the rooms himself and, with Mr. Cashel's permission, give directions about double doors—if there be none.