"Thanks be to God!" exclaimed the woman, raising her eyes and hands for
one moment to heaven. "'Tis long sence she wrote to me, the poor
darlint, and it's many a time I lie awake and think o' the child all
alone wid sthrangers not of her own blood. Whisht, boy, but you are
worse nor meself I make no doubts"--as Dermot snatched the letter from
her and hastily tore open the envelope. His face was pale with
excitement and dread, for he feared, with a lover's jealous fear, that
this was an announcement of Eily's marriage with some of the grand folks
she had talked about.
"Rade it, Dermot; 'tis long sence I was at school, and the writin's not
aisy."
Dermot obeyed, and this is the letter he spelt out slowly, with no
little difficulty and several interruptions--
"Miss Vandaleur is sorry to tell Mrs. Joyce that
her daughter Eily has been suffering from a severe
illness; she has been in hospital for three weeks
with brain fever, and until a few days ago was
unable to give her mother's address. She is now
much better, and the doctors hope to allow her to
leave soon; she is being taken every care of by
friends, but if some one could be spared to come
such a long distance to see her, it would be the
best thing for the poor girl, as she is always
wishing for her home, and seems tired of living in
London.
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