On the next morning after breakfast Neville was taken into his uncle’s chamber, but there was an understanding that there was to be no conversation on disagreeable subjects on this occasion. His aunt remained in the room while he was there, and the conversation was almost confined to the expression of thanks on the part of the Earl to his nephew for coming, and of hopes on the part of the nephew that his uncle might soon be well. One matter was mooted as to which no doubt much would be said before Neville could get away. “I thought it better to make arrangements to stay a fortnight,” said Fred,—as though a fortnight were a very long time indeed.

“A fortnight!” said the Earl.

“We won’t talk of his going yet,” replied Lady Scroope.

“Supposing I had died, he could not have gone back in a fortnight,” said the Earl in a low moaning voice.

“My dear uncle, I hope that I may live to see you in your own place here at Scroope for many years to come.” The Earl shook his head, but nothing more was then said on that subject. Fred, however, had carried out his purpose. He had been determined to let them understand that he would not hold himself bound to remain long at Scroope Manor.

Then he wrote a letter to his own Kate. It was the first time he had addressed her in this fashion, and though he was somewhat of a gallant gay Lothario, the writing of the letter was an excitement to him. If so, what must the receipt of it have been to Kate O’Hara! He had promised her that he would write to her, and from the moment that he was gone she was anxious to send in to the post-office at Ennistimon for the treasure which the mail car might bring to her. When she did get it, it was indeed a treasure. To a girl who really loves, the first love letter is a thing as holy as the recollection of the first kiss. “May I see it, Kate?” said Mrs. O’Hara, as her daughter sat poring over the scrap of paper by the window.

“Yes, mamma,—if you please.” Then she paused a moment. “But I think that I had rather you did not. Perhaps he did not mean me to shew it.” The mother did not urge her request, but contented herself with coming up behind her child and kissing her. The reader, however, shall have the privilege which was denied to Mrs. O’Hara.

DEAREST KATE,

I got here all alive yesterday at four. I came on as fast as ever I could travel, and hardly got a mouthful to eat after I left Limerick. I never saw such beastliness as they have at the stations. My uncle is much better,—so much so that I shan’t remain here very long. I can’t tell you any particular news,—except this, that that old cat down at Castle Quin,—the one with the crisp-curled wig,—must have the nose of a dog and the ears of a cat and the eyes of a bird, and she sends word to Scroope of everything that she smells and hears and sees. It makes not the slightest difference to me,—nor to you I should think. Only I hate such interference. The truth is old maids have nothing else to do. If I were you I wouldn’t be an old maid.

I can’t quite say how long it will be before I am back at Ardkill, but not a day longer than I can help. Address to Scroope, Dorsetshire,—that will be enough;—to F. Neville, Esq. Give my love to your mother.—As for yourself, dear Kate, if you care for my love, you may weigh mine for your own dear self with your own weights and measures. Indeed you have all my heart.

Your own F. N.

There is a young lady here whom it is intended that I shall marry. She is the pink of propriety and really very pretty;—but you need not be a bit jealous. The joke is that my brother is furiously in love with her, and that I fancy she would be just as much in love with him only that she’s told not to.—A thousand kisses.

It was not much of a love letter, but there were a few words in it which sufficed altogether for Kate’s happiness. She was told that she had all his heart,—and she believed it. She was told that she need not be jealous of the proper young lady, and she believed that too. He sent her a thousand kisses; and she, thinking that he might have kissed the paper, pressed it to her lips. At any rate his hand had rested on it. She would have been quite willing to shew to her mother all these expressions of her lover’s love; but she felt that it would not be fair to him to expose his allusions to the “beastliness” at the stations. He might say what he liked to her; but she understood that she was not at liberty to shew to others words which had been addressed to her in the freedom of perfect intimacy.

“Does he say anything of the old man?” asked Mrs. O’Hara.

“He says that his uncle is better.”

“Threatened folks live long. Does Neville tell you when he will be back?”

“Not exactly; but he says that he will not stay long. He does not like Scroope at all. I knew that. He always says that,—that—”

“Says what, dear?”

“When we are married he will go away somewhere,—to Italy or Greece or somewhere. Scroope he says is so gloomy.”

“And where shall I go?”

“Oh, mother;—you shall be with us, always.”

“No, dear, you must not dream of that. When you have him you will not want me.”

“Dear mother. I shall want you always.”

“He will not want me. We have no right to expect too much from him, Kate. That he shall make you his wife we have a right to expect. If he were false to you—”

“He is not false. Why should you think him false?”

“I do not think it; but if he were—! Never mind. If he be true to you, I will not burden him. If I can see you happy, Kate, I will bear all the rest.” That which she would have to bear would be utter solitude for life. She could look forward and see how black and tedious would be her days; but all that would be nothing to her if her child were lifted up on high.

It was now the beginning of April, which for sportsmen in England is of all seasons the most desperate. Hunting is over. There is literally nothing to shoot. And fishing,—even if there were fishing in England worth a man’s time,—has not begun. A gentleman of enterprise driven very hard in this respect used to declare that there was no remedy for April but to go and fly hawks in Holland. Fred Neville could not fly hawks at Scroope, and found that there was nothing for him to do. Miss Mellerby suggested—books. “I like books better than anything,” said Fred. “I always have a lot of novels down at our quarters. But a fellow can’t be reading all day, and there isn’t a novel in the house except Walter Scott’s and a lot of old rubbish. By-the-bye have you read ‘All Isn’t Gold That Glitters?’” Miss Mellerby had not read the tale named. “That’s what I call a good novel.”

Day passed after day and it seemed as though he was expected to remain at Scroope without any definite purpose, and, worse still, without any fixed limit to his visit. At his aunt’s instigation he rode about the property and asked questions as to the tenants. It was all to be his own, and in the course of nature must be his own very soon. There could not but be an interest for him in every cottage and every field. But yet there was present to him all the time a schoolboy feeling that he was doing a task; and the occupation was not pleasant to him because it was a task. The steward was with him as a kind of pedagogue, and continued to instruct him during the whole ride. This man only paid so much a year, and the rent ought to be so much more; but there were circumstances. And “My Lord” had been peculiarly good. This farm was supposed to be the best on the estate, and that other the worst. Oh yes, there were plenty of foxes. “My Lord” had always insisted that the foxes should be preserved. Some of the hunting gentry no doubt had made complaints, but it was a great shame. Foxes had been seen, two or three at a time, the very day after the coverts had been drawn blank. As for game, a head of game could be got up very soon, as there was plenty of corn and the woods were large; but “My Lord” had never cared for game. The farmers all shot the rabbits on their own land. Rents were paid to the day. There was never any mistake about that. Of course the land would require to be revalued, but “My Lord” wouldn’t hear of such a thing being done in his time. The Manor wood wanted thinning very badly. The wood had been a good deal neglected. “My Lord” had never liked to hear the axe going. That was Grumby Green and the boundary of the estate in that direction. The next farm was college property, and was rented five shillings an acre dearer than “My Lord’s” land. If Mr. Neville wished it the steward would show him the limit of the estate on the other side tomorrow. No doubt there was a plan of the estate. It was in “My Lord’s” own room, and would shew every farm with its acreage and bounds. Fred thought that he would study this plan on the next day i............