“I wonder if I am getting old?” he said. “I declare I feel a bit tired. Come along here, Nora, and cheer me up. What news have you this evening, little woman?”
“Oh, father! don't you know?”
“Well, your eyes look bright enough. What is it, girleen?”
“I am going away to Dublin to-morrow.”
“You? Bless you! so you are,” said the Squire, with a hearty laugh. “Upon my soul I forgot all about it. Well, and you are going to have a good time, and you'll forget the old dad—eh?—you'll forget all about the old dad?”
“Father, father, you know better,” said Nora—she flung her arms round his neck and laid her soft cheek against his—“as if I could ever forget you for a single moment,” she said.
“I know it, a-colleen; I know it, heart's asthore. Of course you won't. I am right glad you are going; it will be a nice change for you. And what about the bits of duds—eh?—and the pretty trinkets? Why, you'll be going into grand society; you'll be holding your little head like a queen. Don't you forget, my pet, that you're Irish through and through, and that you come of a long line of brave ancestors. The women of your house never stooped to a shabby action, Nora; and never one of them sacrificed her honor for gold or anything else; and the men were brave, girleen, very brave, and had never fear in one of them. You remember that, and keep yourself upright and brave and proud, and come back to the old dad with as pure and loving a heart as you have now.”
“Oh, father, of course, of course. But you will miss me? you will miss me?”
“Bedad! I expect I shall,” said the Squire; “but I am not going to fret, so don't you imagine it.”
“Have you,” said Nora in a low whisper—“have you done anything about-about the mortgage?”