This relieved him: but he soon found that
the sense of relief experienced from it was not permitted to last long.
Dora, his favorite sister, glided over to his side and gently taking
his hand in hers began to play with his fingers, whilst a roguish
laugh, that spoke a full consciousness of his secret, broke her pale but
beautiful features into that mingled expression of smiles and blushes
which, in one of her years, gives a look of almost angelic purity
and grace. After about a minute or two, during which she paused, and
laughed, and blushed, and commenced to whisper, and again stopped,
she at last put her lips to his ear and whispered:--"Bryan, I know the
reason you don't like Hycy."
"You do?" he said, laughing, but yet evidently confused in his
turn;--"well--an'--ha!--ha!--no, you fool, you don't."
"May I never stir if I don't!"
"Well, an' what is it?"
"Why, bekaise he's coortin' Kathleen Cavanagh--now!"
"An' what do I care about that?" said her brother.
"Oh, you thief!" she replied; "don't think you can play upon me. I know
your saycret."
"An' maybe, Dora," he replied, "I have my saycrets. Do you know who was
inquirin' for you to-day?"
"No," she returned, "nor I don't care either--sorra bit."
"I met James Cavanagh there below"--he proceeded, still in a whisper,
and he fixed his eyes upon her countenance as he spoke.
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