Miss Barrtngton waited with impatience for Conyers's appearance at the breakfast-table,—she had received such a pleasant note from her brother, and she was so eager to read it. That notion of imparting some conception of a dear friend by reading his own words to a stranger is a very natural one. It serves so readily to corroborate all we have already said, to fill up that picture of which wo have but given the mere outline, not to speak of the inexplicable charm there is in being able to say, “Here is the man without reserve or disguise; here he is in all the freshness and warmth of genuine feeling; no tricks of style, no turning of phrases to mar the honest expression of his nature. You see him as we see him.”

“My brother is coming home, Mr. Conyers; he will be here to-day. Here is his note,” said Miss Dinah, as she shook hands with her guest “I must read it for you:—

“'At last, my dear Dinah—at last I am free, and, with all my love of law and lawyers, right glad to turn my steps homeward. Not but I have had a most brilliant week of it; dined with my old schoolfellow Longmore, now Chief Baron, and was the honored guest of the “Home Circuit,” not to speak of one glorious evening with a club called the “Unbriefed,” the pleasantest dogs that ever made good speeches for nothing!—an amount of dissipation upon which I can well retire and live for the next twelve months. How strange it seems to me to be once more in the “world,” and listening to scores of things in which I have no personal interest; how small it makes my own daily life appear, but how secure and how homelike, Dinah! You have often heard me grumbling over the decline of social agreeability, and the dearth of those pleasant speeches that could set the table in a roar. You shall never hear the same complaint from me again. These fellows are just as good as their fathers. If I missed anything, it was that glitter of scholarship, that classical turn which in the olden day elevated table-talk, and made it racy with the smart aphorisms and happy conceits of those who, even over their wine, were poets and orators. But perhaps I am not quite fair even in this. At all events, I am not going to disparage those who have brought back to my old age some of the pleasant memories of my youth, and satisfied me that even yet I have a heart for those social joys I once loved so dearly!

“'And we have won our suit, Dinah,—at least, a juror was withdrawn by consent,—and Brazier agrees to an arbitration as to the Moyalty lands, the whole of Clanebrach and Barrymaquilty property being released from the sequestration.'

“This is all personal matter, and technical besides,” said Miss Barrington; “so I skip it.”

“'Withering was finer than ever I heard him in the speech to evidence. We have been taunted with our defensive attitude so suddenly converted into an attack, and he compared our position to Wellington's at Torres Vedras. The Chief Justice said Curran, at his best, never excelled it, and they have called me nothing but Lord Wellington ever since. And now, Dinah, to answer the question your impatience has been putting these ten minutes: “What of the money part of all this triumph?” I fear much, my dear sister, we are to take little by our motion. The costs of the campaign cut up all but the glory! Hogan's bill extends to thirty-eight folio pages, and there's a codicil to it of eleven more, headed “Confidential between Client and Attorney,” and though I have not in a rapid survey seen anything above five pounds, the gross total is two thousand seven hundred and forty-three pounds three and fourpence. I must and will say, however, it was a great suit, and admirably prepared. There was not an instruction Withering did not find substantiated, and Hogan is equally delighted with him, With all my taste for field sports and manly games, Dinah, I am firmly convinced that a good trial at bar is a far finer spectacle than the grandest tournament that ever was tilted. There was a skirmish yesterday that I 'd rather have witnessed than I 'd have seen Brian de Bois himself at Ashby-de-la-Zouch. And, considering that my own share for this passage at arms will come to a trifle above two thousand pounds, the confession may be taken as an honest one.

“'And who is your young guest whom I shall be so delighted to see? This gives no clew to him, Dinah, for you know well how I would welcome any one who has impressed you so favorably. Entreat of him to prolong his stay for a week at least, and if I can persuade Withering to come down with me, we 'll try and make his sojourn more agreeable. Look out for me—at least, about five o'clock—and have the green-room ready for W., and let Darby be at Holt's stile to take the trunks, for Withering likes that walk through the woods, and says that he leaves his wig and gown on the holly-bushes there till he goes back.'”

The next paragraph she skimmed over to herself. It was one about an advance that Hogan had let him have of two hundred pounds. “Quite ample,” W. says, “for our excursion to fetch over Josephine.” Some details as to the route followed, and some wise hints about travelling on the Continent, and a hearty concurrence on the old lawyer's part with the whole scheme.

“These are little home details,” said she, hurriedly, “but you have heard enough to guess what my brother is like. Here is the conclusion:—

“'I hope your young friend is a fisherman, which will give me more chance of his company than walking up the partridges, for which I am getting too old. Let him however understand that we mean him to enjoy himself in his own way, to have the most perfect liberty, and that the only despotism we insist upon is, not to be late for dinner.

“'Your loving brother,

“'Peter Barrington.

“'There is no fatted calf to feast our return, Dinah, but Withering has an old weakness for a roast sucking-pig. Don't you think we could satisfy it?'”

Conyers readily caught the contagion of the joy Miss Barrington felt at the thought of her brother's return. Short as the distance was that separated him from home, his absences were so rare, it seemed as though he had gone miles and miles away, for few people ever lived more dependent on each other, with interests more concentrated, and all of whose hopes and fears took exactly the same direction, than this brother and sister, and this, too, with some strong differences on the score of temperament, of which the reader already has an inkling.

What a pleasant bustle that is of a household that prepares for the return of a well-loved master! What feeling pervades twenty little offices of every-day routine! And how dignified by affection are the smallest cares and the very humblest attentions! “He likes this!” “He is so fond of that!” are heard at every moment It is then that one marks how the observant eye of love has followed the most ordinary tricks of habit, and treasured them as things to be remembered. It is not the key of the street door in your pocket, nor the lease of the premises in your drawer, that make a home. Let us be grateful when we remember that, in this attribute, the humblest shealing on the hillside is not inferior to the palace of the king!

Conyers, I have said, partook heartily of Miss Barring-ton's delight, and gave a willing help to the preparations that went forward. All were soon busy within doors and without. Some were raking the gravel before the door; while others were disposing the flower-pots in little pyramids through the grass plats; and then there were trees to be nailed up, and windows cleaned, and furniture changed in various ways. What superhuman efforts did not Conyers make to get an old jet d'eau to play which had not spouted for nigh twenty years; and how reluctantly he resigned himself to failure and assisted Betty to shake a carpet!

And when all was completed, and the soft and balmy air sent the odor of the rose and the jessamine through the open windows, within which every appearance of ease and comfort prevailed, Miss Barrington sat down at the piano and began to refresh her memory of some Irish airs, old favorites of Withering's, which he was sure to ask for. There was that in their plaintive wildness which strongly interested Conyers; while, at the same time, he was astonished at the skill of one at whose touch, once on a time, tears had trembled in the eyes of those who listened, and whose fingers had not yet forgot their cunning.

“Who is that standing without there?” said Miss Barrington, suddenly, as she saw a very poor-looking countryman who had drawn close to the window to listen. “Who are you? and what do you want here?” asked she, approaching him.

“I 'm Terry, ma'am,—Terry Delany, the Major's man,” said he, taking off his hat.

“Never heard of you; and what 's your business?”

“'T is how I was sent, your honor's reverence,” began he, faltering at every word, and evidently terrified by her imperious style of address. “'Tis how I came here with the master's compliments,—not indeed his own but the other man's,—to say, that if it was plazing to you, or, indeed, anyhow at all, they 'd be here at five o'clock to dinner; and though it was yesterday I got it, I stopped with my sister's husband at Foynes Gap, and misremembered it all till this morning, and I hope your honor's reverence won't tell it on me, but have the best in the house all the same, for he's rich enough and can well afford it.”

“What can the creature mean?” cried Miss Barrington. “Who sent you here?”

“The Major himself; but not for him, but for the other that's up at Cobham.”

“And who is this other? What is he called?”

“'Twas something like Hooks, or Nails; but I can't remember,” said he, scratching his head in sign of utter and complete bewilderment.

“Did any one ever hear the like! Is the fellow an idiot?” exclaimed she, angrily.

“No, my lady; but many a one might be that lived with ould M'Cormick!” burst out the man, in a rush of unguardedness.

“Try and collect yourself, my good fellow,” said Miss Barrington, smiling, in spite of herself, at his confession, “and say, if you can, what brought you here?”

“It's just, then, what I said before,” said he, gaining a little more courage. “It's dinner for two ye're to have; and it's to be ready at five o'clock; but ye 're not to look to ould Dan for the money, for he as good as said he would never pay sixpence of it, but 't is all to come out of the other chap's pocket, and well affordin' it. There it is now, and I defy the Pope o' Rome to say that I did n't give the message right!”

“Mr. Conyers,” began Miss Barrington, in a voice shaking with agitation, “it is nigh twenty years since a series of misfortunes brought us so low in the world that—” She stopped, partly overcome by indignation, partly by shame; and then, suddenly turning towards the man, she continued, in a firm and resolute tone, “Go back to your master and say, 'Miss Barrington hopes he has sent a fool on his errand, otherwise his message is so insolent it will be far safer he should never present himself here again!' Do you hear me? Do you understand me?”

“If you mane you'd make them throw him in the river, the divil a straw I 'd care, and I would n't wet my feet to pick him out of it!”

“Take the message as I have given it you, and do not dare to mix up anything of your own with it.”

“Faix, I won't. It's trouble enough I have without that! I 'll tell him there's no dinner for him here to-day, and that, if he 's wise, he won't come over to look for it.”

“There, go—be off,” cried Conyers, impatiently, for he saw that Miss Barrington's temper was being too sorely tried.

She conquered, however, the indignation that at one moment had threatened to master her, and in a voice of tolerable calm said,—

“May I ask you to see if Darby or any other of the workmen are in the garden? It is high time to take down these insignia of our traffic, and tell our friends how we would be regarded in future.”

“Will you let me do it? I ask as a favor that I may be permitted to do it,” cried Conyers, eagerly; and without waiting for her answer, hurried away to fetch a ladder. He was soon back again and at work.

“Take care how you remove that board, Mr. Conyers,” said she. “If there be the tiniest sprig of jessamine broken, my brother will miss it. He has been watching anxiously for the time when the white bells would shut out every letter of his name, and I like him not to notice the change immediately. There, you are doing it very handily indeed. There is another holdfast at this corner. Ah, be careful; that is a branch of the passion-tree, and though it looks dead, you will see it covered with flowers in spring. Nothing could be better. Now for the last emblem of our craft,—can you reach it?”

“Oh, easily,” said Conyers, as he raised his eyes to where the little tin fish hung glittering above him. The ladder, however, was too short, and, standing on one of the highest rungs, still he could not reach the little iron stanchion. “I must have it, though,” cried he; “I mean to claim that as my prize. It will be the only fish I ever took with my own hands.” He now cautiously crept up another step of the ladder, supporting himself by the frail creepers which covered the walls. “Help me now with a crooked stick, and I shall catch it.”

“I'll fetch you one,” said she, disappearing within the porch.

Still wistfully looking at the object of his pursuit, Conyers never turned his eyes downwards as the sound of steps apprised him some one was near, and, concluding it to be Miss Barrington, he said, “I'm half afraid that I have torn some of this jessamine-tree from the wall; but see here's the prize!” A slight air of wind had wafted it towards him, and he suatched the fish from its slender chain and held it up in triumph.

“A poacher caught in the fact, Barrington!” said a deep voice from below; and Conyers, looking down, saw two men, both advanced in life, very gravely watching his proceedings.

Not a little ashamed of a situation to which he never expected an audience, he hastily descended the ladder; but before he reached the ground Miss Barrington was in her brother's arms, and welcoming him home with all the warmth of true affection. This over, she next shook hands cordially with his companion, whom she called Mr. Withering.

“And now, Peter,” said she, “to present one I have been longing to make known to you. You, who never forget a well-known face, will recognize him.”

“My eyes are not what they used to be,” said Barrington, holding out his hand to Conyers, “but they are good enough to see the young gentleman I left here when I went away.”

“Yes, Peter,” said she, hastily; “but does the sight of him bring back to you no memory of poor George?”

“George was dark as a Spaniard, and this gentleman—But pray, sir, forgive this rudeness of ours, and let us make ourselves better acquainted within doors. You mean to stay some time here, I hope.”

“I only wish I could; but I have already overstayed my leave, and waited here only to shake your hand before I left.”

“Peter, Peter,” said Miss Dinah, impatiently, “must I then tell whom you are speaking to?”

Barrington seemed pazzled. He looked from the stranger to his sister, and back again.

She drew near and whispered in his ear: “The son of poor George's dearest friend on earth,—the son of Ormsby Conyers.”

“Of whom?” said Barrington, in a startled and half-angry voice.

“Of Ormsby Conyers.”

Barrington trembled from head to foot; his face, for an instant crimson, became suddenly of an ashy paleness, and his voice shook as he said,—

“I was not—I am not—prepared for this honor. I mean, I could not have expected that Mr. Conyers would have desired—Say this—do this for me, Withering, for I am not equal to it,” said the old man, as, with his hands pressed over his face, he hurried within the house, followed by his sister.

“I cannot make a guess at the explanation my friend has left me to make,” cried Withering, courteously; “but it is plain to see that your name has revived some sorrow connected with the great calamity of his life. You have heard of his son, Colonel Barrington?”

“Yes, and it was because my father had been his dearest friend that Miss Barrington insisted on my remaining here. She told me, over and over again, of the joy her brother would feel on meeting me—”

“Where are you going,—what's the matter?” asked Withering, as a man hurriedly passed out of the house and made for the river.

“The master is taken bad, sir, and I 'm going to Inistioge for the doctor.”

“Let me go with you,” said Conyers; and, only returning by a nod the good-bye of Withering, he moved past and stepped into the boat.

“What an afternoon to such a morning!” muttered he to himself, as the tears started from his eyes and stole heavily along his cheeks.