In due time Hycy appeared, and placing two letters in Peety's hands, said—“Go, Peety, to Gerald Cavanagh's, of Fenton's Farm, and if you can get an opportunity, slip that note into Kathleen's hands—this, mark, with the corner turned down—you won't forget that?”
“No, sir.”
“Very well—you're then to proceed to Tom M'Mahon's, and if you find Bryan, his son, there, give him this; and if he's at the mountain farm of Ahadarra, go to him. I don't expect an answer from Kathleen Cavanagh, but I do from Bryan M'Mahon; and mark me, Peety.”
“I do, sir.”
“Are you sure you do?”
“Sartin, sir.”
“Silent as the grave then is the word in both cases—but if I ever hear—”
“That's enough, Masther Hycy; when the grave spakes about it so will I.”
Peety took the letters and disappeared with an air rendered important by the trust reposed in him; whilst Mrs. Burke looked inquiringly at her son, as if her curiosity were a good deal excited.
“One of them is to Kate or Kathleen Cavanagh, as they call her,” said Hycy, in reply to her looks; “and the other for Bryan M'Mahon, who is soft and generous—probatum est. I want to know if he'll stand for thirty-five—and as for Kate, I'm making love to her, you must know.”