The little intercourse which Luttrell maintained with the world was with his agent, a gentleman who had long acted in that capacity for his family when such an office was profitable, and when portentous tin boxes on office shelves, with the name of Hamilton Lnttrell on them, told of title-deeds and estates.

To this gentleman Luttrell had applied to assist him to sell a quantity of antiquarian objects, the collecting of which had been the pursuit of many a solitary day, and in cataloguing which he had passed many a long night. At first, this taste had been adopted as a pastime—a something to impart an interest to a dreary and purposeless life; but when three deficient harvests had so far lessened his income that he was driven to obtain a small loan to live, he resolved to sell his collection, and applied to his agent to aid him, making one only condition—that the bargain should not be effected in Ireland, where his name was still well known, but with some English dealer, who might never have heard of the Luttrells.

Though the carefully-drawn catalogue which Luttrell forwarded comprised a variety of rare and curious objects all bearing upon and illustrating ancient Irish, history, they were, with a very few exceptions, of little intrinsic value. There were weapons of stone, spear-heads and javelin-points, massive clubs embossed with sharpened pebbles, bronze ornaments and clasps, strangely-shapen casques and shields, and swords of forma that bespoke an antiquity long antecedent to the Roman wars, with amulets of amber and silver. Some rings and a sword-hilt alone were gold; this latter carved with marvellous beauty of design and great artistic excellence.

At last, after many months of utter silence on the matter, he received the following letter:

“Kildare-street, Dublin.

“Dear Mr. Luttrell,—I am very sorry at the failure of all my attempts to dispose of your collection. Vangheest, however, in sending me back, as you wished, the catalogue yesterday, spoke of an American gentleman who appeared disposed to treat with you. As he is a perfect stranger to both of us, and the native of a distant country, I saw no reason for refusing him the permission which he asked, to view the collection, and, if allowed, confer with you personally.

“I have accordingly given him a few lines of introduction, and he will present himself to you as Mr. or Captain Herodotus M. Dodge, U. S. I do not opine you will find him the possessor of much antiquarian lore; but he is an outspoken, straightforward man, with whom a business matter can be readily transacted.

“I know how reluctant you are to be intruded upon, but I am aware—better, perhaps, than yourself—that you want money at this moment, and I trust you will pardon me for having transgressed your orders respecting visitors, and made this case an exception to your rule. If, however, you persist in your determination not to receive a stranger, a line addressed to Mr. D., at Carrick’s Hotel, will be in time, any day till the tenth, to prevent his visit.

“Should you deal with Mr. D., you need not give yourself any trouble about the details of the payment, as his reference to bankers and others here have perfectly satisfied me as to his respectability.

“Believe me, dear Mr. Luttrell,

“Faithfully yours,

“George Cane, for Cane and Carter.”

Luttrell was very angry at this letter. It was an insufferable liberty that Cane had taken. Cane should have written—should have asked his pleasure—should have inquired whether even the certainty of selling the collection was not overpaid for at the price of this unseemly intrusion. “There is no inn on the island. This man must be my guest, and with the variable weather here, who can tell for how long? He may feel, or affect to feel, interested about the place and its people, and prolong his stay for days!”

There was, however, one passage in the letter which pained him to the quick; it was very brief, but, to him, very significant. It ran thus: “But I am aware—better, perhaps, than you are—that you are in want of money.”

Now, Messrs. Cane and Carter had been for some time making advances—small, it is true—to Luttrell, and as well to intimate to him that he had overdrawn with them, as to imply that they did not desire a continuance of the practice, his correspondent threw in that parenthesis—so full of meaning as it was.

There was a time, as late as his own father’s day, when Messrs. Cane and Company would not have written such a letter. Not a few of the broad acres of the Luttrells had passed into their hands since that, however. They had not their country-houses and conservatories in those days; nor their sons in the “Guards;” nor a daughter married to a Viscount.

How is it that men will often grow more bitter over their fallen fortunes, when they contrast them with the prosperity of others who have never injured them? Cane had actually befriended Luttrell in many ways; in keeping the agency of the small remnant of property that belonged to him, he was really performing a kind office; but Luttrell could not, for all this, forgive him for being prosperous.

He sat down to write two notes, one to Mr. Cane, a very sharp reproof, for a liberty which he ought never to have presumed upon, and which nothing, in their respective conditions, could warrant or excuse. “While,” added he, “I am no less surprised at your remark, that you are even more than myself aware of my need of money. The observation either implies a sensitive sympathy for which I was not prepared, or a covert impertinence which I hesitate to accept as credible.

“I will not receive your friend Mr. Dodge, nor shall I again trouble you with the private and personal interests of

“Your faithful servant,

“John Hamilton Luttrell.”

The second note was even briefer. “Mr. Luttrell begs to inform Mr. H. M. Dodge that he cannot receive his visit at Arran, nor can he at present decide to dispose of his collection.”

“How is the wind, Hennesy?” asked he of his boatman.

“Strong from the east, Sir, and comin’ on harder.”

“Could you beat up to Westport, think you? I have two letters of importance to send.”

“We might, Sir,” said the man, doubtingly, “but its more likely we’d be blown out to sea.”

“How long is this gale likely to last?”

“It’s the season of these winds, your honour, and we’ll have, maybe, three weeks or a month of them, now.”

“In that case, you must try it. Take three men with you, and the large yawl; put some provisions and water on board; perhaps a little ballast, too.”

“That we will, Sir. She’ll take a ton more, at least, to carry sail in this weather.”

“Are you afraid to go?” asked Luttrell, and his voice was harsh, and his manner stern.

“Afraid! devil a bit afraid!” said the man, boldly, and as though the imputation had made him forget his natural respect.

“I’d not ask you to do what I’d not venture on myself.”

“We all know that well, Sir,” said the boatman, recovering his former manner. “‘Tis only that, maybe, we’ll be more time about it than your honour thinks. We’ll have to make a long stretch out beyond Spanish Bay, perhaps, near ‘the Cobbles.’”

“I don’t care how you do it, but mind that these two letters reach Westport by Monday night, on Tuesday morning at farthest. This is for the post, this for the person whose name is on it, and who will be at Carrick’s Hotel. Give it if you can into his own hands, and say that there is no answer required.”

“You bade me remind you, Sir, that the next time the boat went over to Westport, that I was to take Master Harry, and get him measured for some clothes; but of course you’d not like to send him in this weather.”

“I think not; I think there can be no doubt of that,” cried Luttrell, half angrily. “It’s not when the strong easterly gales have set in, and a heavy sea is coming up from the south’ard, that I’d tell you to take a boy——” He stopped suddenly, and turning fiercely on the sailor, said, “You think I have courage enough to send you and a boat’s crew out, and not to send my son. Speak out, and say it. Isn’t that what you mean?”

“It is not, Sir. If you towld me to take the child, I wouldn’t do it.”

“You wouldn’t do it?” cried Luttrell, passionately. “I would not, Sir, if you never gav’ me another day’s pay.” “Leave the room—leave the house, and prepare to give up your holding. I’ll want that cabin of yours this day month. Do you hear me?” “I do, Sir,” said the man, with a lip pale and quivering. “Send Sam Joyce here.” “He’s only up out of the fever since Monday, Sir.”

“Tell Maher I want him, then; and mind me, Sir,” added he, as the man was leaving the room, “no story-telling, no conspiring, for if Dan Maher refuses to obey my orders, whatever they are, he’ll follow you, and so shall every man of you, if I leave the island without a family except my own.”

“Don’t send your child out, anyways,” said the man.

“Leave the room, Sir,” said Luttrell, imperiously; and the man, cowed and crestfallen, closed the door and withdrew.

As though to carry corroboration to the sailor’s warning, a fierce blast struck the window at the moment, making the old woodwork rattle, and threatening to smash it in, while the dark sky grew darker, and seemed to blend with the leaden-coloured sea.

“I want you to go over to Westport, Maher,” said Luttrell to a hard-featured, weather-beaten man of about fifty, who now stood wet and dripping at the door.

“Very well, Sir,” was the answer.

“Take the big yawl, and any crew you please. Whenever all is ready, come up here for your orders.”

“Very well, Sir,” said the man, and retired.

“Where’s Master Harry, Molly?” cried Luttrell, advancing into the passage that led toward the kitchen.

“He’s out on the rocks, Sir, watching the sea.”

“Call him in here. I want to speak to him. What are you doing here, Sir? I told you to leave this.” This stern speech was addressed to Hennesy, who, with evident signs of sorrow on his face, stood half hid beside the door.

“I was hopin’ your honour wouldn’t torn me out after nine years’ sarvice, when I never did or said one word to displaze you.”

“Away with you—be off—I have no time to parley with fellows like you. Come in here, Harry,” and he laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder, and led him into his room. “I’m sending a boat over to Westport; would you like to go in her?”

“Wouldn’t I?” said the boy, as his eyes flashed wildly.

“You are in want of clothes, and you could go to Sweeney’s and get measured for a suit.”

“I do not care for the clothes; but I’d like the sail. Isn’t Tim Hennesy to go?”

“Hennesy is not to go. Maher is to command the boat.”

“I’d rather have Tim; but I don’t care.”

“Be ready, then, in half an hour.”

“I’m ready now.”

“I mean, get another coat, something warmer, for you’ll be out one night at least; and put your woollen wrapper round your throat. Molly will give it to you.”

“There’s thunder!” cried the boy; “I hope it won’t lull the wind. It’s blowing fiercely now.”

“You’re a good swimmer, ain’t you?”

“I can beat every one but Tim.”

“And what would you do if you were upset?”

“Hold on by the boat, or a spar.”

“Till you were picked up? But if none came to pick you up?”

“Hold on still, till I was near enough to swim.”

“And if you didn’t get near enough?”

“Go down, I suppose,” said the boy, with a laugh. “One can always do that!”

Luttrell nodded, and after a moment said, “Get ready now, for here’s Maher coming for orders.”