"But mother, dear," Kathleen would reply, "I don't want any lord—I'll just stay with father and you, always as I am."
"Hush now, you simple child! It's just flying in the face of Providince, you are—your fortune has all been foretowld this many a year, and you've only to submit to it—though you don't desarve it."
Well, one May-day morning, when Barry O'Donoghue had been gone somewhat over a year, Kathleen More went out as usual, to take her early walk; but did not come back again. All day long they searched, far and near, but without obtaining any trace or tidings of her; but just at night, a note was found at the door of Michael's cottage, which ran thus:—
"I have taken away your daughter, and married her, before a priest. Be easy about her. She is happy, and sends her dutiful respects.
The O'Donoghue."
"Ochone!" cried Bridget More, "the Phantom Prince has come and gone off wid our darling Kathleen. I always towld you that trouble would come of them early walks;—and how do you feel, Mickey More, to have gone and made yourself father-in-law to a merman—a wicked water-wizard? Answer me that!"
"Hush now, Biddy," said Michael, "it's not the O'Donoghue at all. It's the great lord we've been waiting for so long, trying to make believe he is the Phantom Prince. Maybe, for reasons of state, he don't like to reveal himself; and maybe," he added, with a sly laugh, "he don't care to make the acquaintance of his talkative mother-in-law."
Mrs. More was very indignant at this supposition, and persisted in believing that the O'Donoghue, and no one else, had carried off and married her daughter,—and as time went by and brought, always in some mysterious way, good news, and now and then a handsome present, from Kathleen, she became reconciled to her marriage, and even proud of it. In her talks with her cronies, she would often speak of "her ladyship, my daughter Kathleen,"—or "my daughter, the Princess O'Donoghue." This greatly amused some of her neighbors, and they used to question and quiz her without mercy.
"And why don't you go and visit your daughter, Mistress More?" asked one—"Sure they invite you."
"Why, you see, Mistress Hallaghan," replied the cunning Bridget, "it's all on account of my rhumatiz—I'm thinking that the climate down there wouldn't agree with me."
But Mrs. More grew yet prouder and more important than ever, when there came another letter from the O'Donoghue, bringing the good news that she was grandmother to a fine little boy. Such grand calculations as she laid on this event. "Who knows," she said, "but that the heir will break up the long enchantment and grow up a good Christian, and come back and take possession of Ross Castle, and we'll be ruled by a rale Irish Prince once more."