I find that Mr. Neville is very fond of shooting,—­so much so that before we knew anything of him except his name we had heard that he had been on our coast after seals and sea birds.  We have very high cliffs near here,—­some people say the highest in the world, and there is one called the Hag’s Head from which men get down and shoot sea-gulls.  He has been different times in our village of Liscannor, and I think he has a boat there or at Lahinch.  I believe he has already killed ever so many seals.

I tell you all this for a reason.  I hope that it may come to nothing, but I think that you ought to know.  There is a widow lady living not very far from Liscannor, but nearer up to the cliffs.  Her cottage is on papa’s property, but I think she holds it from somebody else.  I don’t like to say anything to papa about it.  Her name is Mrs. O’Hara, and she has a daughter.

When Lady Scroope had read so far, she almost let the paper drop from her hand.  Of course she knew what it all meant.  An Irish Miss O’Hara!  And Fred Neville was spending his time in pursuit of this girl!  Lady Scroope had known what it would be when the young man was allowed to return to his regiment in spite of the manifold duties which should have bound him to Scroope Manor.

   I have seen this young lady,

continued Lady Mary,

and she is certainly very pretty.  But nobody knows anything about them; and I cannot even learn whether they belong to the real O’Haras.  I should think not, as they are Roman Catholics.  At any rate Miss O’Hara can hardly be a fitting companion for Lord Scroope’s heir.  I believe they are ladies, but I don’t think that any one knows them here, except the priest of Kilmacrenny.  We never could make out quite why they came here,—­only that Father Marty knows something about them.  He is the priest of Kilmacrenny.  She is a very pretty girl, and I never heard a word against her;—­but I don’t know whether that does not make it worse, because a young man is so likely to get entangled.

I daresay nothing shall come of it, and I’m sure I hope that nothing may.  But I thought it best to tell you.  Pray do not let him know that you have heard from me.  Young men are so very particular about things, and I don’t know what he might say of me if he knew that I had written home to you about his private affairs.  All the same if I can be of any service to you, pray let me know.  Excuse haste.  And believe me to be,

   Yours most sincerely,

   Mary Quin.

A Roman Catholic;—­one whom no one knew but the priest;—­a girl who perhaps never had a father!  All this was terrible to Lady Scroope.  Roman Catholics,—­and especially Irish Roman Catholics,—­were people whom, as she thought, every one should fear in this world, and for whom everything was to be feared in the next.  How would it be with the Earl if this heir also were to tell him some day that he was married?  Would not his grey hairs be brought to the grave with a double load of sorrow?  However, for the present she thought it better to say not a word to the Earl.