“Linton. Do you mean Linton?”
“Yes. He must be an excellent counsellor in all difficulties.”
Cashel did not look as if he concurred in the sentiment, but he said nothing; and Mary, half fearing that she had unwittingly given pain, was silent also. She was the first to speak.
“Do you know, Mr. Cashel, how I passed the morning? You 'd scarcely guess. It was in writing a long letter,—so long, indeed, that I began to fear, like many efforts of over-zeal, it might defeat itself, and never get read; and that letter was—to you.”
“To me! where is it, then?”
“There!” said she, pointing to some charred leaves beneath the grate. “I see your curiosity, and I have no pretension to trifle with it. But last night, late, papa dictated to me a long sermon on your account, premising that the impertinence was from one you should never see again, and one who, however indiscreet in his friendship, was assuredly sincere in it. Were the document in existence, I should probably not have to utter so many apologies; for, on the whole, it was very flattering to you.”
“And why is it not so?” cried Cashel, eagerly.
“I cannot tell you why.”
“Do you mean that you do not wish to tell, or do not know the reason?”
“I do not know the reason,” said she, firmly. “I was ill, slightly ill, this morning, and could not breakfast with papa. It was late when I arose, and he was on the very brink of starting for Dunkeeran; he seemed agitated and excited, and, after a few words of inquiry about my health, he said,—