So come, my dear Pat, and make no delay, for joy’s not joy complAte till you’re in it—­my father sends his blessing, and Peggy her love, The family entirely is to settle for good in Ireland, and there was in the castle yard last night a bonfire made by my lord’s orders of the ould yellow damask furniture, to plase my lady, my lord says.  And the drawing-room, the butler was telling me, is new hung; and the chairs with velvet as white as snow, and shaded over with natural flowers, by Miss Nugent.  Oh! how I hope what I guess will come true, and I’ve rason to believe it will, for I dreamt in my bed last night it did.  But keep yourself to yourself—­that Miss Nugent (who is no more Miss Nugent, they say, but Miss Reynolds, and has a new-found grandfather, and is a big heiress, which she did not want in my eyes, nor in my young lord’s), I’ve a notion will be sometime, and maybe sooner than is expected, my Lady Viscountess Colambre—­so haste to the wedding.  And there’s another thing:  they say the rich ould grandfather’s coming over;—­and another thing, Pat, you would not be out of the fashion—­and you see it’s growing the fashion not to be an Absentee.—­

Your loving brother,

Larry Brady.