“I 'd like to see you look more grateful for your good for time, Tony,” said she, gravely.
“I'm not ungrateful, mother; but up to this I have not thought much of the matter. I suspect, however, I was never designed for a life of ease and enjoyment Do you remember what Dr. Stewart said one day?—'You may put a weed in a garden, and dig round it and water it, and it will only grow to be a big weed after all.'”
“I hope better from Tony,—far better,” said she, sharply. “Have you answered M'Carthy's letter? Have you arranged where you are to meet the lawyers?”
“I have said in Dublin. They couldn't come here, mother; we have no room for them in this crib.”
“You must not call it a 'crib' for all that. It sheltered your father once, and he carried a very high head, Tony.”
“And for that very reason, dear mother, I'm going to make it our own home henceforth,—without you 'd rather go and live in that old manor-house on the Nore; they tell me it is beautiful.”
“It was there your father was born, and I long to see it,” said she, with emotion. “Who 's that coming in at the gate, Tony?”
“It is Dolly,” said he, rising, and going to the door to meet her.
“My dear Dolly,” cried he, as he embraced her, and kissed her on either cheek; “this brings me back to old times at once.”
If it was nothing else, the total change in Tony's appearance abashed her; the bronzed and bearded man, looking many years older than he was, seemed little like the Tony she had seen last; and so she half shrank back from his embrace, and, with a flushed cheek and almost constrained manner, muttered some words of recognition.