Harry heard Dora breathe quick and quicker, but she said nothing.
“Then we shall get his answer to the father’s letter in eight days, I count,” said Mademoiselle; “and I have great hopes we shall never be troubled with him: we shall know if he will come or not, in eight days.”
“About that time,” said O’Shane: “but, sister O’Faley, do not nurse my child or yourself up with deceitful hopes. There’s not a man alive—not a Connal, surely, hearing what happiness he is heir to, but would come flying over post-haste. So you may expect his answer, in eight days—Dora, my darling, and God grant he may be—”
“No matter what he is, sir—I’ll die before I will see him,” cried Dora, rising, and bursting into tears.
“Oh, my child, you won’t die!—you can’t—from me, your father!” Her father threw his arms round her, and would have drawn her to him, but she turned her face from him: Harry was on the other side—her eyes met his, and her face became covered with blushes.
“Open the window, Harry!” said O’Shane, who saw the conflict; “open the window!—we all want it.”
Harry opened the window, and hung out of it gasping for breath.
“She’s gone—the aunt has taken her off—it’s over for this fit,” said O’Shane. “Oh, my child, I must go through with it! My boy, I honour as I love you—I have a great deal to say about your own affairs, Harry.”
“My affairs—oh! what affairs have I? Never think of me, dear sir—”
“I will—but can’t now—I am spent for this day—leave out the bottle of claret for Father Jos, and I’ll get to bed—I’ll see nobody, tell Father Jos—I’m gone to my room.”