The letter, which was handed on board by a very wild-looking native, was written on coarse paper, and sealed with the commonest wax. It was brief, and ran thus:

“Dear Sir,—I cannot imagine that such a meeting as you propose would be agreeable to either of us; certainly the impression my memory retains of you, forbids me to believe that you would like to see me as I am, and where I am. If your desire be, however, prompted by any kind thought of serving me, let me frankly tell you that I am as much beyond the reach of such kindness as any man can be who lives and breathes in this weary world. Leave me, therefore, to myself, and forget me.

“I am grateful for your attentions to my boy, but you will understand why I cannot permit him to revisit you. I am, faithfully yours,

“John H. Luttrell.”

“Well, did I guess aright?” cried Grenfell, as Vyner stood reading the letter over for the third time; “is his answer what I predicted?”

“Very nearly so,” said the other, as he handed him the letter to read.

“It is even stronger than I looked for; and he begins ‘Dear Sir.’”

“Yes, and I addressed him ‘My dear Luttrell!’”

“Well; all the good sense of the correspondence is on his side; he sees naturally enough the worse than uselessness of a meeting. How could it be other than painful?”

“Still, I am very sorry that he should refuse me.”

“Of course you are; it is just the way a fellow in all the vigour of health walks down the ward of an hospital, and, as he glances at the hollow cheeks and sunken eyes on either side, fancies how philanthropic and good he is to come there and look at them. You wanted to go and stare at this poor devil out of that sentimental egotism. I’m certain you never suspected it, but there is the secret of your motive, stripped of all its fine illusions.”

“How ill you think of every one, and with what pleasure you think it!”

“Not a bit. I never suffer myself to be cheated; but it does not amuse me in the least to unmask the knavery.”

“Now, having read me so truthfully, will you interpret Luttrell a little?”

“His note does not want a comment. The man has no wish to have his poverty and degraded condition spied out. He feels something too low for friendship, and too high for pity; and he shrinks, and very naturally shrinks, from a scene in which every look he gave, every word he uttered, every sigh that he could but half smother, would be recalled to amuse your wife and your sister-in-law when you reached home again.”

“He never imputed anything of the kind to me,” said Vyner, angrily.

“And why not? Are we in our gossiping moments intent upon anything but being agreeable, not very mindful of private confidences or indiscreet avowals? We are only bent upon being good recounters, sensation novelists, always flattering ourselves the while as to the purity of our motives and the generosity of our judgments, when we throw into the narrative such words as the ‘poor fellow,’ the ‘dear creature.’ We forget the while that the description of the prisoner never affects the body of the indictment.”

“I declare you are downright intolerable, Grenfell, and if the world were only half as bad as you’d make it, I’d say Luttrell was the wisest fellow going to have taken his leave of it.”

“I’d rather sit the comedy out than go home and fret over its vapidness.” “Well, Mr. Crab,” said Vyner, turning suddenly to where his captain was waiting to speak with him, “what news of our spar?”

“Nothing very good, Sir. There’s not a bit of timber on the island would serve our purpose.”

“I suppose we must shift as well as we can till we make the mainland!”

“This fellow here in the boat, Sir,” said a sailor, touching his cap as he came aft, “says that his master has three or four larch-trees about the length we want.”

“No, no, Crab,” whispered Vyner; “I don’t think we can do anything in that quarter.”

“Would he sell us one of them, my man?” cried Grab to the peasant.

“He’d give it to you,” said the man, half doggedly.

“Yes, but we’d rather make a deal for it. Look here, my good fellow; do you go back and fetch us the longest and stoutest of those poles, and here’s a guinea for your own trouble. Do you understand me?”

The man eyed the coin curiously, but made no motion to touch it. It was a metal he had never seen before, nor had he the faintest clue to its value.

“Would you rather have these, then?” said Crab, taking a handful of silver from his pocket and offering it to him.

The man drew the back of his hand across his eyes, as if the sight had dazzled him, and muttered something in Irish.

“Come, say you’ll do it,” said Crab, encouragingly.

“Is there any answer for my master, to his letter, I mean?” said the man, looking at Vyner.

“No, I think not; wait a moment. No, none,” said Vyner, after a moment of straggle; and the words were not well uttered, when the fellow pushed off his boat, and struck out with all his vigour for the shore.

“What a suspicious creature your savage is; that man evidently believed you meant to bribe him to some deep treachery against his master,” said Grenfell.

“Do let the poor peasant escape,” cried Vyner, laughingly, while he hastened below to avoid any further display of the other’s malevolence, calling out to Mr. Crab to follow him. “Let us get under weigh with the land breeze this evening,” said he.

“There’s a strong current sets in here, Sir. I’d as soon have daylight for it, if it’s the same to you.”

“Be it so. To-morrow morning, then, Crab;” and, so saying, he took up a book, and tried to interest himself with it.

The peasant meanwhile gained the land, and made the best of his way homeward.

“Tell the master there’s no answer, Molly,” said he, as she stood wiping the perspiration from her face with her apron at the door of a long, low-roofed building, into which all the assembled guests were congregated.

“Indeed, and I won’t, Tim Hennesy,” said she, tartly. “‘Tis enough is on my own bones to-day, not to be thinking of letters and writings. Go in and help Dan Neven with that long trunk there, and then bring a hatchet and a hammer.”

The man obeyed without a word; and, having assisted to deposit a heavy deal box like a sea-chest in the place assigned it, perceived that several others of varions sizes and shapes lay around; all of which formed objects of intense curiosity to the visitors, if one were to judge from the close scrutiny they underwent, as well as the frequent tapping by knuckles and sticks, to assist the explorer to a guess at what was contained within.

A word or two will explain the scene. When Molly Ryan came to inform her master that the relatives of his late wife intended to sail by the evening’s tide, and wished to pay their respects to him personally, before departure, he excused himself on some pretext of illness; but to cover his want of courtesy, he directed her to tell them that they were free to take, each of them, some memorial of her that was gone, and ordered Molly to have all the boxes that contained her effects conveyed into the long storehouse.

“Let them take what they like, Molly,” said he, abruptly, as though not wishing to discuss the matter at more length.

“And as much as they like?” asked she.

“Yes, as much as they like,” said he, motioning that he would be left in peace and undisturbed.

Loud and full were the utterances of praise that this munificence evoked. “Wasn’t he the real gentleman?” “Wasn’t it the heart’s blood of a good stock?” “Wasn’t it like one of the ‘ould race,’ that could think of an act at once so graceful and so liberal?” “After all, it wasn’t proud he was. It was just a way he had; and ‘poor Shusy, that was gone,’ was the lucky woman to have been his wife.” “To be sure, it was a solitary kind of life she led, and without friends or companions; but she had the best of everything.” Such were the first commentaries. Later on, gratitude cooled down to a quiet rationalism, and they agreed that he was only giving away what was no use to him. “He’ll surely not marry again, and what could he do with cloaks, and shawls, and gowns, that would only be motheaten if he kept them?”

“These two here is linen,” said Molly, with an air of decision, “and I suppose you don’t want to see them.”

A murmur of disapproval ran through the meeting. They wanted to see everything. His Honour’s munificence was not limited. It included all that was once hers; and a very animated discussion ensued as to what constituted personal properties.

“Maybe you’d like the crockery too,” said Molly, indignantly, for she began to feel ashamed of the covetousness.

“Well see everything,” said old Peter Hogan, “and we’ll begin with this.” So saying, he inserted a chisel beneath one of the pine planks, and soon displayed to the company a large chest full of house linen. The articles were neither costly nor remarkable, but they seemed both to the beholders; and sheets, and napkins, and pillow-cases, and tablecloths were all scrutinised closely, and unanimously declared to be perfection.

The crockery and glass were next examined, and even more enthusiastically approved of. Some curious china and some specimens of old Venetian glass, family relics, that ven connoisseurship might have valued, really amazed them, and many an epithet in Irish went round as a cup or a goblet was passed from hand to hand to be admired.

The clothes were the last to be examined, and with all their heightened expectations the reality surpassed what they looked for. Hats, and shawls, and silk gowns, scarfs, and bonnets, and ribbons, soon covered every box and bench around, and covetous eyes sparkled as each longed for some special prize in this vast lottery. “I remember the day she wore that brown silk at chapel,” said one. “That’s the blue tabinet she had on at the christening.” “There’s the elegant, shawl she had on at the fair at Ennis.” “But look at this—isn’t this a real beauty?” cried one, who drew forth a bright dress of yellow satin, which seemed never to have been worn.

“Don’t you think you could pick and choose something to plaze ye, now?” said Molly, who was in reality not a little frightened by all this enthusiasm.

“It is true for you, Molly Ryan,” said Peter. “There’s something for everybody, and since the company trusts it to me to make the division, this is what I do. The crockery and glass for Mr. Rafter, the linen for myself, and the clothes to be divided among the women when we get home.

“So that you’ll take everything,” cried Molly.

“With the blessin’ of Providence ‘tis what I mean,” said he; and a full chorus of approving voices closed the speech.

“The master said you were to choose what plazed you—”

“And it’s what we’re doing. We are plazed with everything, ‘and why wouldn’t we?’ Wasn’t she that’s gone our own blood, and didn’t she own them? The pillow she lay on and the cup she dhrunk out of is more to us than their weight in goold.”

Another and fuller murmur approved these sentiments.

“And who is to have this?” cried one of the women, as she drew forth from a small pasteboard box an amber necklace and cross, the one solitary trinket that belonged to her that was gone. If not in itself an object of much value, it was priceless to the eyes that now gazed on it, and each would gladly have relinquished her share to possess it.

“Maybe you’d have the dacency to leave that for his Honour,” said Molly, reprovingly.

Less, perhaps, in accordance with the sentiment than in jealous dread lest another should obtain it, each seemed to concur with this recommendation.

“There’s something in what Molly says,” said old Peter, with the air of a judge delivering a charge. “If his Honour houlds to a thing of the kind, it would be hard to refuse it to him; but if he doesn’t, or if it would only be more grief to be reminding him of what’s gone——— Let me finish what I have to say, Molly,” added he, with some irritation, as a sneering laugh from her interrupted his speech.

“There’s an old pair of shoes of hers in the room within. I’ll go for them, and then you’ll have everything,” said she; and she darted an angry glance around, and left the spot.

“I’ll wear this—this is for me!” cried a little girl, taking the amber necklace from the case and putting it on. And, a buzz of Astonishment at the audacity ran around. She was about eleven years of age, but her dark blue eyes and long lashes made her seem older. It was one of those beautiful faces which appear to suggest that with years the delicate loveliness must be lost, so perfect the accordance between the expression and the feature. She had a mass of golden-brown hair, which fell in long curls over a neck of perfect whiteness; but even these traits were less striking than the air of gracefulness that really implied a condition far above that of her rank in life; and, as she stood in the midst to be admired, there was a haughty consciousness of her claim for admiration that was as triumphant in that assembly as ever was the proud assertion of beauty in a court.

“It becomes you well, Kitty O’Hara, and you shall have it, too,” cried old Hogan, who was her grandfather, and whose pride in her took the shape of the boldest aspirations for her future. “Ain’t I right?” cried he, appealing to, those around him. “Look at her, and say if she isn’t a picture!”

With a full burst of assent all broke in at this appeal, and still she stood there unabashed, almost unmoved, indeed, by the admiring looks and enthusiastic words around her.

“Isn’t that the making of a lady, ay, and as elegant a lady as ever stepped?” cried the old man, as his eyes ran over with proud notion. “And as sure as my name is Peter Hogan, it’s diamonds will be round the same neck yet! Yes, my darling, yer ould grandfather won’t be to the fore to see it, but there’s some here that will. Mark the words I’m saying now; lay them up in your hearts, and see if I’m not telling the truth. There she stands before you that’ll raise her family, and make a name for them far and wide.”

While he delivered this boastful speech, the girl turned her eyes from him, a slight flush deepened the colour of her cheek, and a scarcely perceptible eagerness showed itself on the parted lips, but her attitude was unchanged, and a slight nod of the head, in token of assent, was the only notice she took of his words.

“Yes, come in, my dear,” cried Hogan at this moment—“come in, Master Harry; there’s none here but your own kith and kin, and here’s a nice little wife, or a sweetheart, for you.” As he said this, he drew from the doorway, where he lingered, the boy, who now came forward with a shamefaced and reluctant look. “There they stand,” said the old man, as he placed them side by side, “and I defy the world to show me a purtier couple.”

The boy turned a long and steady look at the girl—something for the beauty, and something, too, doubtless, there was for the ornaments that heightened it—and she bore the scrutiny without a shadow of constraint; but there was even more, for, as he continued to stare at her, she smiled half superciliously, and said at last, with a faint smile, “I hope I’m not so ugly that I frighten you!”

There was just that pertness in the speech that stood for wit with the company, and they laughed loud and heartily at what they fancied to be a repartee.

“Did ye ever see a purtier—did ye ever see as purty?” cried old Hogan.

“Yes I did, this very evening, on board of that schooner there. There’s one ten times as handsome, and she is a lady, too.”

Insolent as were the words, the look and manner with which he gave them were far more so. It was like the speech of a proud noble to his vassals, who actually derived a sense of pleasure in the measure of outrage he could dare to mete out to them. The boy turned his haughty stare around at each in turn, as though to say, “Who is there to gainsay me?” and then left the place.

“Isn’t that a worthy twig of the ould tree?” cried old Hogan, passionately. “The world hasn’t done with the Luttrells yet! But I know well who puts these thoughts in the child’s head. It’s Molly Ryan, and no other. Taching him, as she calls it, to remember he’s a gentleman.”

The company endorsed all the indignation of the speaker, but, soon recalled to more practical thoughts, proceeded to nail down the trunks and boxes, and prepared to carry them down to the seaboard.