Having done this and dispatched her letter, she walked briskly back to the Castle. She saw Nora wandering about in the avenue. Nora, hatless and gloveless, was playing with the dogs. She seemed to have forgotten all about her keen disappointment of the morning. When she saw her mother coming up the avenue she ran to meet her.
“Why, mammy,” she said, “how early you are out! Where have you been?”
“I dislike extremely that habit you have, Nora, of calling me mammy; mother is the word you should address your parent with. Please remember in future that I wish to be called mother.”
“Oh, yes, mother!” answered Nora. The girl had the sweetest temper in the world, and no amount of reproof ever caused her to answer angrily. “But where have you been?” she said, her curiosity getting the better of her prudence.
“Again, Nora, I am sorry to say I must reprove you. I have been to the village on business of my own. It is scarcely your affair where I choose to walk in the morning.”
“Oh, of course not, mam—I mean mother.”
“But come with me down this walk. I have something to say to you.”
Nora eagerly complied. There was something in the look of her mother's eyes which made her guess that the usual subject of conversation—her own want of deportment, her ignorance of etiquette—was not to be the theme. She felt her heart, which had sunk like lead within her, rise again to the surface. Her eyes sparkled and smiles played round her rosy lips.
“Yes, mother,” she said; “yes.”
“All impulse,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan—she laid her hand on Nora's arm—“all impulse, all Irish enthusiasm.”