“Do you indeed think so?” cried Mary, eagerly.
“Do I know it—could I swear it?” said Catty. “He was never much given to study himself, except it was books of travel like 'Robinson Crusoe,' and the like; and then, after reading one of them books he 'd be off for days together, and we 'd be looking for him over the whole country, and maybe find him in the middle of Kyle's Wood up a tree; or once, indeed, it was in the island of Lettermullen we got him. He built a mud-house, and was living there with a goat and two rabbits that he reared himself, and if he was n't miserable when they brought him away home! I remember his words well,—'Maybe,' says he, 'the time will come that I 'll go where you can't come after me;' and ye see that's what he's done, for nobody knows where he wasn't wandering these last eight or nine years.”
When Catty got upon this theme she could not be brought to quit it,—nor, indeed, did Mary try,—for though she had heard these stories of her father's boyish days over and over again, she never wearied of them; they had all the fascination of romance for her, with the stronger interest that grew out of her love for one who, she was told, had so loved herself. Besides this, she felt in her own heart the same promptings to a life of action and adventure. All the incidents and accidents of an eventful existence were the very things to delight her, and one of her happiest daydreams was to fancy herself her father's companion in his wanderings by flood and field.
And thus they sat till a late hour of the night talking and listening, old Catty answering each inquiry of the young girl by some anecdote or trait of him she still persisted in calling “Master Barry,” till, in the ardor of listening, Mary herself caught up the phrase, and so designated her own father.
“How unlike my uncle in everything!” exclaimed Mary, as she reflected over some traits the old woman had just recorded. “And were they not very fond of each other?”
“That they were: at least I can answer for Master Barry's love; and to be sure, if having a reason was worth anything, your uncle ought to love him more than one man ever did another.” Old Catty uttered these words with a slow and almost muttering accent; they seemed as if the expression of a thought delivered involuntarily—almost unconsciously.
Mary was attracted by the unwonted solemnity of her accent, but still more by an expression of intense meaning which gathered over the old woman's brows and forehead. “Ay, ay,” muttered she, still to herself, “there's few brothers would do it. Maybe there's not another living but himself would have done it.”
“And what was it, Catty?” asked Mary, boldly.
“Eh!—what was I saying, darling?” said Catty, rousing herself to full consciousness.
“You were telling of my father, and some great proof of affection he gave my uncle.”