“What need of more, uncle; do we want a choice of roads, if we see a straight path before us?”
“Yes, dearest—but it will be said I should not have suffered you to do this—that in accepting a loan.”
“A loan!” uttered she, reproachfully.
“As that, or nothing, can I ever touch a farthing of it,” replied the O'Donoghue. “No, no! Distress and hardship have been a weary load this many a year; but all sense of honour is not yet obliterated in this poor heart.”
“Be it as you please, my dear, dear uncle,” said the affectionate girl; “only let it not cost you another painful thought, to rob me of so many happy ones. There now, we must never speak of this any more;” and, so saying, she kissed him twice, and rose from her chair. “We are going to the 'Lodge' to-morrow, to spend the day; Herbert is so well that he comes with us.”
“And Mark—what of him, dearest?”
“Mark will be none of us, sir. We are either too gay, or too frivolous, or too silly, or too something or other, for his solemn humour, and he only frowns and stares at us; but all that will pass away soon; I shall find out the key to his temper yet, and then, make him pay for all his arrears of sulkiness.”
“It is our changed condition, my love, that has made him thus,” said the father, anxious to excuse the young man's morose habits.
“The poorer courage his, then,” replied the high-spirited girl, “I have no patience for a man who acts but the looking-glass to fortune—frowns when she frowns, and smiles when she smiles. No! Give me the temper that can enjoy the sunshine, and brave the storm—take all the good the world affords, and show a bold heart to resist the evil.”
“My own brother, my poor dear Mark, spoke there,” cried the old man, in an ecstacy, as, springing up, he flung his arms about her; “and that's your philosophy, sweet Kate?”