Light O' the Morning: The Story of an Irish Girl by L. T. Meade (best chinese ebook reader .TXT) 📕

roof and under my tuition, I shall insist on your doing a couple of hours' good reading daily.”

“Very well, mother; I am quite agreeable.”

“I suppose you have quite forgotten your music?”

“No, I remember it, and I should like to play very much indeed; but the old piano—you must know yourself, mother dear, that it is impossible to get any music out of it.”

Mrs. O'Shanaghgan uttered a groan.

“We seem to be beset with difficulties at every step,” she said. “It is such a mistake your father going to Dublin now, and throwing away his little capital. Has he said anything to you about the mortgage, by the way, Nora?”

Nora colored.

“A little,” she answered in a low voice.

“Ah, I see—told it as a secret; so like the Irish, making mysteries about everything, and then blabbing them out the next minute. I don't want, my dear, to encroach upon your father's secrets, so don't be at all afraid. Now, bring down your Markham's History of England and Alison's History of Europe, and I will set you a task to prepare for me for to-morrow.”

Nora went slowly out of the room. She hated Markham's History of England. She had read it five or six times, and knew it by heart. She detested George and Richard and Mary, and their conversations with their mother were simply loathsome to her. Alison's History, however, was tougher metal, and she thought she would enjoy a good stiff reading of it. She was a very intelligent girl, and with advantages would have done well.

She returned with the books. Her mother carelessly marked about twenty pages in each, told her to read them in the course of the day, and to come to her the next morning to be questioned.

“You can go now,” she said. “I was very busy yesterday, and have a headache. I shall lie down and go to sleep.”

“Shall I draw down the blind, mother?”

“Yes, please; and you can put that rug over me. Now, don't run shouting all over the house; try to remember you are a young lady. Really and truly, no one would suppose that you and Terence were brother and sister. He will do great credit to my brother George; he will be proud of such a handsome young fellow as his nephew.”

Nora said nothing; having attended to her mother's comforts, she left the room. She went out into the sunshine. In her hand she carried the two books. Her first intention was to take them down to one end of the dilapidated garden and read them steadily. She was rather pleased than otherwise at her mother's sudden and unlooked-for solicitude with regard to her education. She thought it would be pleasant to learn even under her mother's rather peculiar method of tutelage; but, as she stood on the terrace looking across the exquisite summer scene, two of the dogs, Creena and Cushla, came into view. They rushed up to Nora with cries and barks of welcome. Down went the books on the gravel, and off ran the Irish girl, followed by the two barking dogs. A few moments later she was down on the shore. She had run out without her hat or parasol. What did that matter? The winds and sea-breezes had long ago taken their own sweet will on Nora's Irish complexion; they could not tan skin like hers, and had given up trying; they could only bring brighter roses into her cheeks and more sweetness into her dark-blue eyes. She forgot her troubles, as most Irish girls will when anything calls off their attention, and ran races with the dogs up and down the shore. Nora was laughing, and the dogs were barking and gamboling round her, when the stunted form of Hannah Croneen was seen approaching. Hannah wore her bedgown and her short blue serge petticoat; her legs and feet were bare; the breezes had caught up her short gray locks, and were tossing them wildly about. She looked very elfin and queer as she approached the girl.

“Why, then, Miss Nora, it's a word I want with you, a-colleen.”

“Yes—what is it, Hannah?” answered Nora. She dropped her hands to her sides and turned her laughing, radiant face upon the little woman.

“Ah, then, it's a sight for sore eyes you are, Miss Nora. Why, it is a beauty you are, Miss Nora honey, and hondsomer and hondsomer you gets every time I see yez. It's the truth I'm a-telling yez, Miss Nora; it's the honest truth.”

“I hope it is, Hannah, for it is very pleasant hearing,” answered Nora. “Do I really get handsomer and handsomer? I must be a beauty like my grandmother.”

“Ah, she was a lady to worship,” replied Hannah, dropping a courtesy to the memory; “such ways as she had, and her eyes as blue and dark as the blessed night when the moon's at the full, just for all the world like your very own. Why, you're the mortal image of her; not a doubt of it, miss, not a doubt of it. But there, I want to say a word to yez, and we need not spend time talking about nothing but mere looks. Looks is passing, miss; they goes by and leaves yez withered up, and there are other things to think of this blessed morning.”

“To be sure,” answered Nora.

“And it's I that forgot to wish yez the top of the morning,” continued the little woman. “I hear the masther and Masther Terry has gone to foreign parts—is it true, miss?”

“It is not true of my father,” replied Nora; “he has only gone to Dublin.”

“Ah, bless him! he's one in a thousand, is the Squire,” said Hannah. “But what about the young masther, him with the handsome face and the ways?—aye, but he aint got your nice, bonny Irish ways, Miss Nora—no, that he aint.”

“He has gone to England for a time to visit some of my mother's relations,” replied Nora. “I am, sure it will do him a great deal of good, and dear mother is so pleased. Now, then, Hannah, what is it?”

Hannah went close to the girl and touched her on her arm.

“What about your promise to Andy Neil?” she asked.

“My promise to Andy Neil,” said Nora, starting and turning pale. “How do you know about it?”

“A little bird told me,” replied Hannah. “This is what it said: 'Find out if Miss Nora, the bonniest and handsomest young lady in the place, has kept her word to Andy.' Have you done it, Miss Nora? for it's word I have got to take the crayther, and this very night, too.”

“Where?” said Nora. “Where are you going to meet him?”

“In the haunted glen, just by the Druid's Stone,” replied the woman.

“At what hour?”

“Tin o'clock, deary. Aw, glory be to God! it's just when the clock strikes tin that he'll be waiting for me there.”

“I have no message,” said Nora.

“Are you