My mother impressed a consolatory kiss upon her husband’s cheek.
“Read it, love,” said he. “You and I have no secrets, Emily.”
The lady broke the seal, and looked at the signature.
“Who is Constantine Mac Donough?” she inquired.
“A very singular old man; a distant relation of my mother. Many years ago, my father and he quarrelled at an election. They fought in half an hour,—left the ground after three shots had been discharged,—and both refused a reconciliation. What was the cause of quarrel, I never could discover from my father; indeed, I question whether the worthy man himself even knew what it was distinctly; and with Mr. Mae Donough, of course, I never had even any acquaintance. He lives a bachelor, and report states, that he is very wealthy and very eccentric.”
“Lived! my love; the old man’s dead.”
“Dead!” exclaimed my father. “And has left you heir to all his property?”
The Colonel sprang from his chair—his solitary arm encircled my mother’s waist, as he pressed her passionately to his heart.
“Emily,” said he, “when the sad tidings arrived this morning that we were houseless, I felt only for the boy and thee. Well, before the same sun went down, dove-like you came, the harbinger of happiness. The ‘barren heritage’ I quitted with regret, will be amply replaced by the rich lands of Killucan; and, once more, a peaceful home—such as we had in England, love—is ours. Never despond, Emily—and even in his darkest hour let an Irishman trust to the lady of the wheel—for I verily believe, if there be a spot on earth for which the blind baggage has a particular fancy, blessed Saint Patrick! that island is your own.”