“I may go? I must go,” she said.
“My dear Nora,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan, “why that must?”
“Oh, mammy! oh, daddy! don't disappoint me,” cried the girl. “Do—do let me go, please, please.”
“Nora,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan again, “I never saw you so unreasonable in your life; you are quite carried away. Your uncle, after long years, has condescended to send you an invitation, and you speak in this impulsive, unrestrained fashion. Of course, it would be extremely nice for you to go; but I doubt for a single moment if it can be afforded.”
“Oh, daddy, daddy! please take my part!” cried Nora. “Please let me go, daddy—oh, daddy!” She rushed up to her father, flung her arms round his neck, and burst into tears.
Mrs. O'Shanaghgan rose from the table in cold displeasure. “Give me your uncle's letter,” she said.
Nora did not glance at her; she was past speaking. So much hung on this; all the future of the O'Shanaghgans; the Castle, the old Castle, the home of her ancestors, the place in which she was born, the land she loved, the father she adored—all, all their future hung upon Nora's accepting the invitation which she had asked her uncle to give her. Oh! if they ever found out, what would her father and mother say? Would they ever speak to her again? But they must not find out, and she must go; yes, she must go.
“What is it, Nora? Do leave her alone for a moment, wife,” said the Squire. “There is something behind all this. I never saw Light o' the Morning give way to pure selfishness before.”
“It isn't—it isn't,” sobbed Nora, her head buried on the Squire's shoulder.
“My darling, light of my eyes, colleen asthore, acushla machree!” said the Squire. He lavished fond epithets upon the girl, and finally took her into his arms, and clasped her tight to his breast.