“Perfectly—nothing better; only, my sweet Kate, when a note begins 'my dear son,' it should scarcely be signed 'your own affectionate Kate O'Donoghue.'”
Kate blushed deeply, as she tore the paper in fragments, and without A word reseated herself at the table.
“I have done better this time,” said she, as she folded the note and sealed it; while the old man, with an energy quite unusual for him, arose and rung the bell for Kerry.
“Did I ever think I could have done this,” said Kate to herself, as a tear slowly coursed along her cheek and fell on the letter; “that I could dare to recall him, when both honour and country demand his services; that I could plot for life, when all that makes life worth having is in the opposite scale?”
“You must find out master Mark, Kerry,” said the O'Donoghue, “and give him this letter; there is no time to be lost about it.”
“Sorra fear; I'll put it into his hand this day.”
“This day!” cried Kate, impatiently. “It must reach him within three hours time. Away at once—the foot of Hungry Mountain—the shealing—Bantry Bay—you cannot have any difficulty in finding him now.”
Kerry waited not for further bidding, and though not by any means determined to make any unusual exertion, left the room with such rapidity as augured well for the future.
“Well,” said Mrs. Branagan, whose anxiety for news had led her to the head of the kitchen stairs, an excursion which, at no previous moment of her life, had she been known to take, “well, Kerry, what's going on now?”
“Faix, then, I'll tell ye, ma'am,” said he, sighing; “'tis myself they're wanting to kill. Here am I setting out wid a letter, and where to, do you think? the top of Hungry Mountain, in the Bay of Bantry, that's the address—divil a lie in it.”