Nora sat down again, trembling. Mrs. O'Shanaghgan gave her a cold stare, and helped herself languidly to a small snippet of leathery toast.
“Our cook gets worse and worse,” she said as she broke it. “Dear, dear! I think I must make a change. I have heard of an excellent cook just about to leave some people of the name of Wilson in the town. They are English people, which accounts for their having a good servant.”
At that moment the redoubtable Pegeen did thrust in her head, holding the post-bag at arm's length away from her.
“Here's the post, Miss Nora,” she said; “maybe you'll fetch it, miss. I'm a bit dirty.”
Nora could not restrain herself another moment. She rushed across the room, seized the bag, and laid it by her father's side. As a rule, the post-bag was quickly opened, and its small contents dispersed. These consisted of the local paper for the Squire, which was always put up with the letters, a circular or two, and, at long intervals, a letter for Mrs. O'Shanaghgan, and perhaps one from an absent friend for the Squire. No one was excited, as a rule, about the post at the Castle, and Nora's ill-suppressed anxiety was sufficiently marked now to make even her father look at her in some surprise. To the girl's relief, her mother unexpectedly came to the rescue.
“She thinks, perhaps, Terence will write,” she said; “but I told him not to worry himself writing too often. Stamps cost money, and the boy will need every penny to keep up a decent appearance at my brother's.”
“All the same, perhaps he will be an Irish boy enough to write a letter to his own sister,” said the Squire. “So here goes; we'll look and see if there is anything inside here for you, my little Norrie.”
The Squire unlocked the bag and emptied the contents on the table. They were very meager contents; nothing but the newspaper and one letter. The Squire took it up and looked at it.
“Here we are,” he said; “it is for you, my dear.”
“For me,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan, holding out her hand. “Pass it across, Nora.”