“How like your father you said these words, Tony!” cried she, looking at him with a gaze of love and pride together; “it was his very voice too.”
“I meant to have spoken to her on poor M'Grader's behalf,—I promised him I would; but if you tell me it is of no use—”
“I tell you more, Tony,—I tell you it would be cruel; it would be worse than cruel,” cried she, eagerly.
“Then I 'll not do it, and I 'll write to him to-day, and say so, though, Heaven knows, I 'll be sorely puzzled to explain myself; but as he is a true man, he 'll feel that I have done all for the best, and that if I have not served his cause it has not been for any lack of the will!”
“If you wish it, Tony, I could write to Mr. M'Gruder myself. A letter from an old body like me is sometimes a better means to break a misfortune than one from a younger hand. Age deals more naturally with sorrow, perhaps.”
“You will be doing a kind thing, my dear mother,” said he, as he drew her towards him, “and to a good fellow who deserves well of us.”
“I want to thank him, besides, for his kindness and care of you, Tony; so just write his address for me there on that envelope, and I 'll do it at once.”
“I'm off for a ramble, mother, till dinner-time,” said Tony, taking his hat.
“Are you going up to the Abbey, Tony?”
“No,” said he, blushing slightly.