Then she tears open the envelope, and reads as follows:—
"Dear Little Kit,—Owing you all the love and allegiance in the world for having helped me once, I come to you again. How am I to pass this long day without a glimpse of her? It is a love-sick swain who doth entreat your mercy. Does any happy thought run through your pretty head? If so, my man is waiting for it somewhere; befriend me a second time.
"Ever yours,
"Brian."
Prompt action is as the breath of her nostrils to Kit. Drawing pen and ink towards her, without a moment's hesitation, she scribbles an answer to Desmond:—
"We are going towards Ballyvoureen this afternoon, to take a pudding to old Biddy Daly: any one chancing to walk there also might meet us. Count upon me always.
"Kit."
This Machiavellian epistle, which she fondly believes to be without its equal in the matter of depth, she folds carefully, and, enclosing it in an envelope void of address or anything (mark the astuteness of that!), calls to Bridget to return to her.
"You will find the boy you mentioned as being by birth a Madden," she says, austerely, "and give him this; and you will refrain from gossiping and idle talking with him, which is not convenient."
It would be impossible to describe the tone in which she says this. Bridget, much disgusted, takes the note silently, and with sufficient nervousness to make itself known. Indeed, she is so plainly impressed by Kit's eloquence that the latter's heart sings aloud for joy.
"Yes, miss," she says, in a very subdued voice, and goes away with indignant haste, to tell cook, as she passes through the kitchen, that "Faix, Miss Kit might be her own gran'mother,—she is so ould an' quare in her ways."