“Well, Kerry, I want you to wait till she is leaving the room, and just whisper to her—mind now, for your life, that nobody sees nor hears you—just say that I wish to see her up here for a few seconds to-night. Do you understand me?”
“Never fear, sir, I'll do it, and sorra one the wiser.”
Kerry left the apartment as he spoke, nor was his master long doomed to suspense, for immediately after a gentle tap at the door announced Kate's presence there.
“Sit down there, my darling Kate,” cried the O'Donoghue, placing a chair beside his own, “and let me have five minutes' talk with you.”
The young girl obeyed with a smile, and returned the pressure of her uncle's hand with warmth.
“Kate, my child,” said he—speaking with evident difficulty and embarrassment, and fixing his eyes, not on her, but towards the fire, as he spoke—“Kate you have come to a sad and cheerless home, with few comforts, with no pleasure for one so young and so lovely as you are.”
“My dear uncle, how can you speak thus to me? Can you separate me in your heart from your other children? Mark and Herbert make no complaint—do you think that I could do so?”
“They are very different from you, my sweet child. The moss rose will not bear the storms of winter, that the wild thorn can brave without danger. To you this dreary house must be a prison. I know it—I feel it.”
“Nay, nay, uncle. If you think thus, it must be my fault—some piece of wilfulness of mine could alone have made you suppose me discontented; but I am not so—far from it. I love dear old Sir Archy and my cousins dearly; yes, and my uncle Miles too, though he seems anxious to get rid of me.”
The old man pressed her fingers to his lips, and turned away his head.