Light O The Morning | Page 3

hundreds and
thousands of times, she was never tired of listening to the history of a
trim life of which she knew absolutely nothing. The orderly,
well-dressed servants, the punctual meals, the good and abundant food,
the nice dresses, the parties, the solid education, the discipline so
foreign to her own existence, all--all held their proper fascination. But
although she listened with delight to these stories of a bygone time, she
never envied her mother those periods of prosperity. Such a life would
have been a prison to her; so she thought, although she never spoke her
thought aloud.
Mrs. O'Shanaghgan began the old tale to-night, telling it with a little
more verve even than usual. She ended at last with a sigh.
"Oh, the beautiful old times!" she said.
"But you didn't know father then," answered Nora, a frown coming to
her brows, and an angry feeling for a moment visiting her warm heart.
"You didn't have father, nor Nora, nor Terry."
"Of course not, darling, and you make up for much; but, Nora dear,
although I love my husband and my children, I hate this country. I hate
it!"

"Don't, mother," said Nora, with a look of pain. She started to her feet.
At that moment loud, strong steps were heard in the hall; a hearty voice
exclaimed:
"Where's Light o' the Morning? Where have you hidden yourself,
witch?"
"It's father," said Nora. She said the words with a sort of gasp of
rejoicing, and the next moment had dashed out of the room.

CHAPTER II
.
"SOME MORE OF THE LAND MUST GO."
Squire O'Shanaghgan was a tall, powerfully built man, with deep-set
eyes and rugged, overhanging brows; his hair was of a grizzled gray,
very thick and abundant; he had a shaggy beard, too, and a long
overhanging mustache. He entered the north parlor still more noisily
than Nora had done. The dogs yelped with delight, and flung
themselves upon him.
"Down, Creena! down, Cushla!" he said. "Ah, then, Nora, they are as
bewitching as yourself, little woman. What beauties they are growing,
to be sure!"
"I reared them," said Nora. "I am proud of them both. At one time I
thought Creena could not live; but look at her now--her coat as black as
jet, and so silky."
"Shut the door, won't you, Patrick?" said his wife.
"Bless me! I forgot," said the Squire. He crossed the room, and, with an
effort after quietness, closed the door with one foot; then he seated
himself by his wife's side.
"Better, Eileen?" he said, looking at her anxiously.
"I wish you would not call me Eileen," she said. "I hate to have my
name Irishized."
The Squire's eyes filled with suppressed fun.
"Ah, but you are half-Irish, whether you like it or not," he said. "Is not
she, colleen? Bless me, what a day it has turned out! We are getting
summer weather at last. What do you say to going for a drive,
Eileen--Ellen, I mean? Black Bess is eating her head off in the stables. I
want to go as far as Murphy's place, and you might as well come with

me."
"And I too?" said Nora.
"To be sure, child. Why not? You run round to the stables, Norrie, and
give the order."
Nora instantly left the room, the dogs following her.
"What ails her?" said the Squire, looking at his wife.
"Ails her, Pat? Nothing that I know of."
"Then you know very little," was his answer. "I never see that sort of
anxious frown between the colleen's brows without knowing there's
mischief in the wind. Somebody has been worrying her, and I won't
have it." He put down his great hand with a thump on the nearest table.
"Don't, Pat. You quite shatter my nerves."
"Bless you and your nerves, Ellen. I want to give them all possible
consideration; but I won't have Light o' the Morning worried."
"You'll spoil that girl; you'll rue it yet."
"Bless her heart! I couldn't spoil her; she's unspoilable. Did you ever
see a sweeter bit of a thing, sound to the core, through and through?"
"Sweet or not," said the mother, "she has got to learn her lesson of life;
and it is no good to be too tender with her; she wants a little bracing."
"You have been trying that on--eh?"
"Well, not exactly, Pat; but you cannot expect me to keep all our
troubles to ourselves. There's that mortgage, you know."
"Bother the mortgage!" said the Squire. "Why do you harp on things
the way you do? I'll manage it right enough. I am going round to see
Dan Murphy now; he won't be hard on an old friend."
"Yes; but have you not to pay up?"
"Some day, I suppose."
"Now listen, Patrick.