put up with the letters, a circular or two, and, at long intervals, a
letter for Mrs. O'Shanaghgan, and perhaps one from an absent friend
for the Squire. No one was excited, as a rule, about the post at the
Castle, and Nora's ill-suppressed anxiety was sufficiently marked now
to make even her father look at her in some surprise. To the girl's
relief, her mother unexpectedly came to the rescue.

"She thinks, perhaps, Terence will write," she said; "but I told him
not to worry himself writing too often. Stamps cost money, and the
boy will need every penny to keep up a decent appearance at my
brother's."

"All the same, perhaps he will be an Irish boy enough to write a
letter to his own sister," said the Squire. "So here goes; we'll
look and see if there is anything inside here for you, my little
Norrie."

The Squire unlocked the bag and emptied the contents on the table.
They were very meager contents; nothing but the newspaper and one
letter. The Squire took it up and looked at it.

"Here we are," he said; "it is for you, my dear."

"For me," said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan, holding out her hand. "Pass it
across, Nora."

"No, it is not for you, my lady, as it happens. It is for Nora.
Here, Norrie, take it."

Nora took it up. She was shivering now, and her hand could scarcely