Neville had been forced to get his leave of absence renewed on the score of his uncle’s health, and had promised to prolong his absence till the end of April. When doing so he had declared his intention of returning to Ennis in the beginning of May; but no agreement to that had as yet been expressed by his uncle or aunt. Towards the end of the month his brother came to Scroope, and up to that time not a word further had been said to him respecting Kate O’Hara.

He had received an answer from Kate to his letter, prepared in a fashion very different from that of his own. He had seated himself at a table and in compliance with the pledge given by him, had scrawled off his epistle as fast as he could write it. She had taken a whole morning to think of hers, and had recopied it after composing it, and had then read it with the utmost care, confessing to herself, almost with tears, that it was altogether unworthy of him to whom it was to be sent. It was the first love letter she had ever written,—probably the first letter she had ever written to a man, except those short notes which she would occasionally scrawl to Father Marty in compliance with her mother’s directions. The letter to Fred was as follows;—

ARDKILL COTTAGE, 10th April, 18—.

MY DEAREST FRED,

I received your dear letter three or four days ago, and it made me so happy. We were sorry that you should have such an uncomfortable journey; but all that would be over and soon forgotten when you found yourself in your comfortable home and among your own friends. I am very glad to hear that your uncle is better. The thought of finding him so ill must have made your journey very sad. As he is so much better, I suppose you will come back soon to your poor little Kate.

There is no news at all to send you from Liscannor. Father Marty was up here yesterday and says that your boat is all safe at Lahinch. He says that Barney Morony is an idle fellow, but as he has nothing to do he can’t help being idle. You should come back and not let him be idle any more. I think the sea gulls know that you are away, because they are wheeling and screaming about louder and bolder than ever.

Mother sends her best love. She is very well. We have had nothing to eat since you went because it has been Lent. So, if you had been here, you would not have been able to get a bit of luncheon. I dare say you have been a great deal better off at Scroope. Father Marty says that you Protestants will have to keep your Lent hereafter,—eighty days at a time instead of forty; and that we Catholics will be allowed to eat just what we like, while you Protestants will have to look on at us. If so, I think I’ll manage to give you a little bit.

Do come back to your own Kate as soon as you can. I need not tell you that I love you better than all the world because you know it already. I am not a bit jealous of the proper young lady, and I hope that she will fall in love with your brother. Then some day we shall be sisters;—shan’t we? I should like to have a proper young lady for my sister so much. Only, perhaps she would despise me. Do come back soon. Everything is so dull while you are away! You would come back to your own Kate if you knew how great a joy it is to her when she sees you coming along the cliff.

Dearest, dearest love, I am always your own, own

KATE O’HARA.

Neville thought of showing Kate’s letter to Miss Mellerby, but when he read it a second time he made up his mind that he would keep it to himself. The letter was all very well, and, as regarded the expressions towards himself, just what it should be. But he felt that it was not such a letter as Miss Mellerby would have written herself, and he was a little ashamed of all that was said about the priest. Neither was he proud of the pretty, finished, French hand-writing, over every letter of which his love had taken so much pains. In truth, Kate O’Hara was better educated than himself, and perhaps knew as much as Sophie Mellerby. She could have written her letter quite as well in French as in English, and she did understand something of the formation of her sentences. Fred Neville had been at an excellent school, but it may be doubted whether he could have explained his own written language. Nevertheless he was a little ashamed of his Kate, and thought that Miss Mellerby might perceive her ignorance if he shewed her letter.

He had sent for his brother in order that he might explain his scheme and get his brother’s advice;—but he found it very difficult to explain his scheme to Jack Neville. Jack, indeed, from the very first would not allow that the scheme was in any way practicable. “I don’t quite understand, Fred, what you mean. You don’t intend to deceive her by a false marriage?”

“Most assuredly not. I do not intend to deceive her at all.”

“You must make her your wife, or not make her your wife.”

“Undoubtedly she will be my wife. I am quite determined about that. She has my word,—and over and above that, she is dearer to me than anything else.”

“If you marry her, her eldest son must of course be the heir to the title.”

“I am not at all so sure of that. All manner of queer things may be arranged by marriages with Roman Catholics.”

“Put that out of your head,” said Jack Neville. “In the first place you would certainly find yourself in a mess, and in the next place the attempt itself would be dishonest. I dare say men have crept out of marriages because they have been illegal; but a man who arranges a marriage with the intention of creeping out of it is a scoundrel.”

“You needn’t bully about it, Jack. You know very well that I don’t mean to creep out of anything.”

“I’m sure you don’t. But as you ask me I must tell you what I think. You are in a sort of dilemma between this girl and Uncle Scroope.”

“I’m not in any dilemma at all.”

“You seem to think you have made some promise to him which will be broken if you marry her;—and I suppose you certainly have made her a promise.”

“Which I certainly mean to keep,” said Fred.

“All right. Then you must break your promise to Uncle Scroope.”

“It was a sort of half and half promise. I could not bear to see him making himself unhappy about it.”

“Just so. I suppose Miss O’Hara can wait.”

Fred Neville scratched his head. “Oh yes;—she can wait. There’s nothing to bind me to a day or a month. But my uncle may live for the next ten years now.”

“My advice to you is to let Miss O’Hara understand clearly that you will make no other engagement, but that you cannot marry her as long as your uncle lives. Of course I say this on the supposition that the affair cannot be broken off.”

“Certainly not,” said Fred with a decision that was magnanimous.

“I cannot think the engagement a fortunate one for you in your position. Like should marry like. I’m quite sure of that. You would wish your wife to be easily intimate with the sort of people among whom she would natura............