“‘Who stole a horse?’ cries I; but he didn’t hear me—more’s the pity.
“So you’ll perceive, my dear boy, that I have found out something, at all events, but not so much as I intended; for I’ll prove to Father O’Toole, that he’s no match for Father McGrath. But what I find out must be reserved for another letter, seeing that it’s not possible to tell it to you in this same. Praties look well, but somehow or another clothes don’t grow upon trees in ould Ireland; and one of your half quarterly bills, or a little prize-money, if it found its way here, would add not a little to the respectability of the family appearance. Even my cassock is becoming too holy for a parish priest; not that I care about it so much, only Father O’Toole, the baste! had on a bran new one—not that I believe that he ever came honestly by it, as I have by mine—but, get it how you may, a new gown always looks better than an ould one, that’s certain. So no more at present from your loving friend and confessor,
“Urtagh McGrath.”
“Now, you’ll observe, Peter,” said O’Brien, after I had read the letter, “that, as I supposed, your uncle meant mischief when he went over to Ireland. Whether the children are both girls or both boys, or your uncle’s is a boy, and the other is a girl, there’s no knowledge at present. If an exchange was required, it’s made, that’s certain; but I will write again to Father McGrath, and insist upon his finding out the truth, if possible. Have you any letter from your father?”
“None, I am sorry to say. I wish I had, for he would not have failed to speak on the subject.”
“Well, never mind, it’s no use dreaming over the matter; we must do our best when we get to England ourselves, and in the meantime trust to Father McGrath. I’ll go and write to him while my mind’s full of it.” O’Brien wrote his letter, and the subject was not started again.