The Shannon, after expanding into that noble sheet of water called Lough Derg, suddenly turns to the southward, and enters the valley of Killaloe, one of the most beautiful tracts of country which Ireland, so rich in river scenery, can boast. The transition from the wide lake, with its sombre background of gray mountain and rocky islands, bleak and bare, to the cultivated aspect of this favored spot, is like that experienced in passing from beneath the gloom of lowering thunder-clouds into light and joyous sunshine. Rich waving woods of every tint and hue of foliage, with here and there some spreading lawns of deepest green, clothe the mountains on either side, while in bright eddies the rapid river glides in between, circling and winding as in playful wantonness, till in the far distance it is seen passing beneath the ancient bridge of Killaloe, whose cathedral towers stand out against the sky.

On first emerging from the lake, the river takes an abrupt bend, round a rocky point, and then, sweeping back again in a bold curve, forms a little bay of deep and tranquil water, descending towards which the rich meadows are seen, dotted with groups of ancient forest trees, and backed by a dense skirting of timber. At one spot, where the steep declivity of the ground scarce affords footing for the tall ash-trees, stands a little cottage, at the extremity of which is an old square tower; this is Tubber-beg.

As you sail down the river you catch but one fleeting glance at the cottage, and when you look again it is gone! The projecting headlands, with the tall trees, have hidden it, and you almost fancy that you have not seen it. If you enter the little bay, however, and, leaving the strong current, run into the deep water under shore, you arrive at a spot which your memory will retain for many a day after.

In front of the cottage, and descending by a series of terraces to which art has but little contributed, are a number of flower-plots, whose delicious odors float over the still water, while in every gorgeous hue are seen the camellia, the oleander, and the cactus, with the tulip, the ranunculus, and the carnation,—all flourishing in a luxuriance which care and the favored aspect of this sheltered nook combine to effect. Behind and around, on either side, the dark-leaved holly, the laurustinus, and the arbutus are seen in all the profusion of leaf and blossom a mild, moist air secures, and forming a framework in which stands the cottage itself, its deep thatched eave, and porch of rustic-work trellised and festooned with creeping plants, almost blending its color with the surrounding foliage. Through the open windows a peep within displays the handsomely disposed rooms, abounding in all the evidences of cultivated taste and refinement. Books in several of the modern languages are scattered on the table, music, drawings of the surrounding scenery, in water-color or pencil,—all that can betoken minds carefully trained and exercised, and by their very diversity showing in what a world of self-stored resources their possessors must live; the easel, the embroidery-frame, the chess-board, the half-finished manuscript, the newly copied music, the very sprig of fern which marks the page in the little volume on botany,—slight things in themselves, but revealing so much of daily life!

If the cottage be an almost ideal representation of rustic elegance and simplicity, its situation is still more remarkable for beauty; for while Art has developed all the resources of the ground, Nature, in her own boundless profusion, has assembled here almost every ingredient of the picturesque, and as if to impart a sense of life and motion to the stilly calm, a tumbling sheet of water gushes down between the rocks, and in bounding leaps descends towards the Shannon, of which it is a tributary.

A narrow path, defended by a little railing of rustic-work, separates the end of the cottage from the deep gorge of the waterfall; but through the open window the eye can peer down into the boiling abyss of spray and foam beneath, and catch a glimpse of the bridge which, formed of a fallen ash-tree, spans the torrent.

Traversed in every direction by paths, some galleried along the face, others cut in the substance of the rock, you can pass hours in rambling among these wild and leafy solitudes, now lost in shade, now emerging again, to see the great river gliding along, the white sails dotting its calm surface.

Well did Mr. Kennyfeck observe to Roland Cashel that it was the most beautiful feature of his whole demesne, and that its possession by another not only cut him off from the Shannon in its handsomest part, but actually deprived the place of all pretension to extent and grandeur. The spreading woods of Tubbermore were, as it seemed, the background to the cottage scene, and possessed no character to show that they were the property of the greater proprietor.

The house itself was not likely to vindicate the claim the locality denied. It was built with a total disregard to aspect or architecture. It was a large four-storied edifice, to which, by way of taking off from the unpicturesque height, two wings had been planned: one of these only was finished; the other, half built, had been suffered to fall into ruin. At the back, a high brick wall enclosed a space intended for a garden, but never put into cultivation, and now a mere nursery of tall docks and thistles, whose gigantic size almost overtopped the wall. All the dirt and slovenliness of a cottier habitant—for the house was occupied by what is misnamed “a caretaker”—were seen on every hand. One of the great rooms held the family; its fellow, on the opposite side of the hall, contained a cow and two pigs; cabbage-stalks and half-rotting potato-tops steamed their pestilential vapors beneath the windows; while half-naked children added the discord, the only thing wanting to complete the sum of miserable, squalid discomfort, so sadly general among the peasantry.

If one needed an illustration of the evils of absenteeism, a better could not be found than in the ruinous, damp, discolored building, with its falling roof and broken windows. The wide and spreading lawn, thick grown with thistles; the trees broken or barked by cattle; the gates that hung by a single hinge, or were broken up piecemeal for firing,—all evidenced the sad state of neglectful indifference by which property is wrecked and a country ruined! Nor was the figure then seated on the broken doorstep an unfitting accompaniment to such a scene,—a man somewhat past the middle period of life, whose ragged, tattered dress bespoke great poverty, his worn hat drawn down over his eyes so as partly to conceal a countenance by no means prepossessing; beside him lay a long old-fashioned musket, the stock mended by some rude country hand. This was Tom Keane, the “caretaker,” who, in all the indolent enjoyment of office, sat smoking his “dudeen,” and calmly surveying the process by which a young heifer was cropping the yearling shoots of an ash-tree.

Twice was his name called by a woman's voice from within the house before he took any notice of it.

“Arrah, Tom, are ye asleep?” said she, coming to the door, and showing a figure whose wretchedness was even greater than his own; while a certain delicacy of feature, an expression of a mild and pleasing character, still lingered on a face where want and privation had set many a mark. “Tom, alanah!” said she, in a tone of coaxing softness, “sure it's time to go down to the post-office. Ye know how anxious the ould man is for a letter.”

“Ay, and he has rayson, too,” said Tom, without stirring.

“And Miss Mary herself was up here yesterday evening to bid you go early, and, if there was a letter, to bring it in all haste.”

“And what for need I make haste?” said the man, sulkily. “Is it any matther to me whether he gets one or no? Will I be richer or poorer? Poorer!” added he, with a savage laugh; “be gorra! that wud be hard, anyhow. That's a comfort old Oorrigan hasn't. If they turn him out of the place, then he'll know what it is to be poor!”

“Oh, Tom, acushla! don't say that, and he so good to us, and the young lady that was so kind when the childer had the measles, comin' twice—no, but three times a day, with everything she could think of.”

“Wasn't it to please herself? Who axed her?” said Tom, savagely.

“Oh, dear! oh, dear!” sighed the woman. “Them's the hard words,—'to please herself!'”

“Ay, just so! When ye know them people as well as me, you 'll say the same. That's what they like,—to make themselves great among the poor; giving a trifle here, and a penny there; making gruel for this one, and tay for that; marchin' in as if they owned the house, and turning up their noses at everything they see. 'Why don't you sweep before the door, Nancy?'—'Has the pig any right to be eating there out of the kish with the childer?'—'Ye ought to send that child to school'—and, 'What's your husband doing?'—That's the cry with them. 'What's your husband doing? Is he getting the wheat in, or is he at the potatoes?' Tear and ages!” cried he, with a wild energy, “what does any one of themselves do from morning till night, that they 're to come spyin' after a poor man, to ax 'Is he workin' like a naygur?' But we 'll teach them something yet,—a lesson they 're long wanting. Listen to this.”

He took, as he spoke, a soiled and ragged newspaper from his pocket, and after seeking some minutes for the place, he read, in a broken voice:—

“'The days to come'—ay, here it is—'The days to come.—Let the poor man remember that there is a future before him that, if he have but courage and boldness, will pay for the past. Turn about's fair play, my lords and gentlemen! You 've had the pack in your own hands long enough, and dealt yourselves all the trumps. Now, give us the cards for a while. You say our fingers are dirty; so they are, with work and toil, black and dirty! but not as black as your own hearts. Hurrah! for a new deal on a bran-new table: Ireland the stakes, and the players her own stout sons!' Them's fine sintiments,” said he, putting up the paper. “Fine sintiments! and the sooner we thry them the better. That's the real song,” said he, reciting with energy,—

He sprang to his feet as he concluded, shouldering his musket, strode out as if in a marching step, and repeating to himself, as he went, the last line of the song. About half an hour's brisk walking brought him to a low wicket which opened on the high road, a little distance from which stood the small village of Derraheeny, the post-town of the neighborhood. The little crowd which usually assembled at the passing of the coach had already dispersed, when Tom Keane presented himself at the window, and asked, in a tone of voice subdued almost to softness,—

“Have you anything for Mr. Corrigan this morning, ma'am?”

“Yes; there are two letters and a newspaper,” replied a sharp voice from within. “One-and-fourpence to pay.”

“She did n't give me any money, ma'am, but Miss Mary said—”

“You can take them,” interrupted the post-mistress, hastily handing them out, and slamming the little window to at the same instant.

“There's more of it!” muttered Tom; “and if it was for me the letters was, I might sell my cow before I 'd get trust for the price of them!” And with this reflection he plodded moodily homeward. Scarcely, however, had he entered the thick plantation than he seated himself beneath a tree, and proceeded to take a careful and strict scrutiny of the two letters; carefully spelling over each address, and poising them in his hands, as if the weight could assist his guesses as to the contents. “That's Mr. Kennyfeck's big seal. I know it well,” said he, gazing on the pretentious coat-of-arms which emblazoned the attorney's letter. “I can make nothing of the other at all. 'Cornelius Corrigan, Esq., Tubber-beg, Derraheeny,'—sorra more!” It was in vain that he held it open, lozenge fashion, to peep within; but one page only was written, and he could not see that. Kennyfeck's letter was enclosed in an envelope, so that here, too, he was balked, and at last was fain to slip the newspaper from its cover,—a last resource to learn something underhand! The newspaper did not contain anything peculiarly interesting, save in a single paragraph, which announced the intention of Roland Cashel, Esq., of Tubbermore Castle, to contest the county at the approaching general election. “We are informed,” said the writer, “on competent authority, that this gentleman intends to make the ancestral seat his chief residence in future, and that already preparations are making to render this princely mansion in every respect worthy of the vast fortune of its proprietor.”

“Faith, and the 'princely mansion' requires a thing or two to make it all perfect,” said Tom, with a sardonic laugh; while in a lower tone he muttered,—“maybe, for all the time he 'll stay there, it's not worth his while to spend the money on it.” Having re-read the paragraph, he carefully replaced the paper in its cover, and continued his way, not, however, towards his own home, but entering a little woodland path that led direct towards the Shannon. After passing a short distance, he came to a little low edge of beech and birch, through which a neat rustic gate led and opened upon a closely shaven lawn. The neatly gravelled walk, the flower-beds, the delicious perfume that was diffused on every side, the occasional peeps at the eddying river, and the cottage itself seen at intervals between the evergreens that studded the lawn, were wide contrasts to the ruinous desolation of the “Great House;” and as if unwilling to feel their influence, Tom pulled his hat deeper over his brows, and never looked at either side as he advanced. The part of the cottage towards which he was approaching contained a long veranda, supported by pillars of rustic-work, within which, opening by three large windows, was the principal drawing-room. Here, now, at a small writing-table, sat a young girl, whose white dress admirably set off the graceful outline of her figure, seen within the half-darkened room; her features were pale, but beautifully regular, and the masses of her hair, black as night, which she wore twisted on the back of the head, like a cameo, gave a character of classic elegance and simplicity to the whole.

Without, and under the veranda, an old man, tall, and slightly bowed in the shoulders, walked slowly up and down. It needed not the careful nicety of his long queue., the spotless whiteness of his cambric shirt and vest, nor the perfection of his nicely fitting nankeen pantaloons, to bespeak him a gentleman of the past day. There was a certain suave gentleness in his bland look, an air of easy courtesy in his every motion, a kind of well-bred mannerism in the very carriage of his gold-headed cane, that told of a time when the graces of deportment were a study, and when our modern careless freedom had been deemed the very acme of rudeness. He was dictating, as was his wont each morning, some reminiscence of his early life, when he had served in the Body-Guard of Louis XVI., and where he had borne his part in the stormy scenes of that eventful era. The memory of that most benevolent monarch, the fascinations of that queen whom to serve was to idolize, had sufficed to soften the hardships of a life which, from year to year, pressed more heavily, and were at last, after many a straggle, impressing their lines upon a brow where age alone had never written grief.

On the morning in question, instead of rapidly pouring forth his recollections, which usually came in groups, pressing one upon the other, he hesitated often, sometimes forgetting “where he was,” in his narrative, and more than once ceasing to speak altogether; he walked in revery, and seeming deeply preoccupied.

His granddaughter had noticed this change; but cautiously abstaining from anything that might betray her consciousness, she sat, pen in hand, waiting, her lustrous eyes watching each gesture with an intensity of interest that amounted to actual suffering.

“I fear, Mary,” said he, with an effort to smile, “we must give it up for to-day. The present is too strong for the past, just as sorrow is always an overmatch for joy. Watching for the post has routed all my thoughts, and I can think of nothing but what tidings may reach me from Dublin.”

“You have no fears, sir,” said she, rising, and drawing her arm within his, “that your application could be rejected. You ask nothing unusual or unreasonable,—a brief renewal of a lease where you have expended a fortune.”

“True, true, dear child. Let us, however, not look on the case with our eyes alone, but see it as others may.. But here comes Tom.—Well, what news, Tom; are there letters?”

“Yes, sir, here's two; there's one-and-fourpence to be paid.”

“Let me see them,” cried the old man, impatiently, as he snatched them, and hastily re-entered the house.

“Is Cathleen better to-day?” said the young lady, addressing the peasant.

“Yes, miss, glory be to God, she's betther. Thanks to yourself and Him. Oh, then, it's of yer beautiful face she does be dramin' every night. Says she, 'It's Miss Mary, I think, is singing to me, when I hear the birds in my sleep.'”

“Poor child, give her this little book for me, and say I 'll come up and see her this evening, if I can. Mrs. Moore will send her the broth; I hope she 'll soon be able to eat something. Good-bye, Tom.”

A deep-drawn heavy sigh from within the cottage here made her abruptly conclude the interview and hasten in. The door of her grandfather's little dressing-room was, however, locked; and after a noiseless effort to turn the handle, she withdrew to the drawing-room to wait in deep anxiety for his coming.

The old man sat with his head supported on both hands, gazing steadfastly at two open letters which lay on the table before him; had they contained a sentence of death, his aspect could scarce have been more sad and sorrow-struck. One was from Mr. Kennyfeck, and ran thus:

The second letter was as follows:—

“The ruin is now complete,” said the old man. “I have struggled for years with poverty and privation to ward off this hour; but, like destiny, it will not be averted! Despoiled of fortune; turned from the home where I have lived from my childhood; bereft of all! I could bear up still if she were left to me; but now, he threatens to take her, my child, my hope, my life! And the world will stand by him, and say, 'He is her father!' He, that broke the mother's heart,—my own darling girl!—and now comes to rob me—a poor helpless old man—of all my companionship and my pride. Alas, alas! the pride, perhaps, deserves the chastisement. Poor Mary, how will she ever learn to look on him with a daughter's affection?—What a life will hers be! and this deception,—how will it, how can it ever be explained? I have always said that he was dead.”

Such, in broken half-sentences, were the words he spoke, while thick-coming sobs almost choked his utterance.

“This cannot be helped,” said he, taking up the pen and writing his name across the bill. “So much I can meet by selling our little furniture here; we shall need it no more, for we have no longer a home. Where to, then?”

He shook his hands in mournful despair, and walked towards the window. Mary was standing outside, in the little flower-garden, assisting the old gardener to fasten some stray tendrils of a japonica between two trees.

“We must try and shelter this window, Ned,” said she, “from the morning sun. It comes in too strongly here in papa's library. By next summer, I hope to see a thick trellis of leaves across the whole casement.”

“By next summer,” repeated the old man, from within, with a trembling voice; “and who will be here to see it?”

“This little hedge, too, must be overgrown with that creeping plant we got from America, the white liana. I want the beech to be completely hid beneath the blossoms, and they come out in May.”

“In May!” said the poor old man, with an accent of inexpressible sadness, as though the very promise of spring had unfolded a deep vista of years of suffering. “But why care for the home, if she, who made its sunshine, is taken from me? What matters it where I linger on, or how, the last few hours of a life, bereft of its only enjoyment,—she, that in my old age renewed all the memories of my early and my happy days.”

He sat down and covered his face with his hands; and when he withdrew them, the whole character and expression of the countenance had changed: a dull, meaningless look had replaced the mild and cheerful beam of his soft blue eyes; the cheeks were flattened, and the mouth, so ready with its gentle smile, now remained partly open, and slightly drawn to one side. He made an effort to speak, but a thickened guttural utterance rendered the words scarcely intelligible. He approached the window and beckoned with his hand. The next instant, pale with terror, but still composed and seeming calm, Mary was beside him.

“You are not well, dear papa,” she said, with a great effort to appear at ease. “You must lie down—here will do—on this sofa; I 'll close the curtain, and send over for Tiernay,—he said he should be back from Limerick this morning.”

A gentle pressure of her hand to his lips, and a faint smile, seemed to assent.

She opened the window, and whispered a few words to the gardener; and then, closing it noiselessly, drew the curtain, and sat down on a low stool beside the sofa where he lay.

So still and motionless did he remain that she thought he slept,—indeed, the long-drawn breathing, and the repose of his attitude, betokened sleep.

Mary did not venture to move, but sat, one hand clasped in his, the other resting on his forehead, still and silent.

The darkened room, the unbroken silence, the figure of him in whom was centred her every thought and hope, lying sick before her, sank with a dreary weight upon her heart; and in the gloom of her sorrow dark foreboding of future evil arose, vague terrors of trials, new and hard to bear! That strange prescience, which never is wanting in great afflictions, and seems itself a Heaven-sent warning to prepare for the coming blow, revealed a time of sore trouble and calamity before her. “Let him be but spared to me,” she cried, in her heart-uttered prayer, “and let me be so fashioned in spirit and temper that I may minister to him through every hour,—cheering, consoling, and encouraging; giving of my youth its gift of hopefulness and trust, and borrowing of his age its serenity and resignation. But oh that I may not be left solitary and alone, unfriended and unsupported!” A gush of tears, the first she shed, here burst forth, and, in the transport of her grief, brought calm to her mind once more.

A low tap at the window, and a voice in whisper aroused her. “It is the doctor, miss,—Dr. Tiernay,” said the gardener.

A motion to admit him was all her reply, and with noiseless step the physician entered and approached the sofa. He felt the pulse, and listened to the respiration of the sick man; and then, withdrawing the curtain so as to let the light fall upon his features, steadily contemplated their expression. As he looked, his own countenance grew graver and sadder; and it was with an air of deep solemnity that he took Mary's hand and led her from the room.

With a weight like lead upon her heart Mary moved away. “When did it happen?” whispered he, when he had closed the door behind them.

“Happen!” gasped she, in agony; “what do you mean?”

“I meant when—this—occurred,” replied he, faltering; “was he in his usual health this morning?”

“Yes, perfectly,—a little less composed; anxious about his letters; uneasy at the delay,—but no more.”

“You do not know if he received any unpleasant tidings, or heard anything to distress him?”

“He may have done so,” answered she, sadly, “for he locked his door and read over his letters by himself. When I saw him next, he was standing at the window, and beckoning to me.”

A gentle tap at the door here interrupted the colloquy, and the old housekeeper whispered, “The master, miss, wants to spake with the doctor; he's better now.”

“Oh, let me see him,” cried Mary, springing towards the door. But Dr. Tiernay interposed gently, and said, “No, this might prove dangerous; remain here till I have seen and spoken with him.” Mary assented by a gesture, and sat down without speaking.

“Sit down, Tiernay,” said the sick man, as the doctor came to his bedside,—“sit down, and let me speak while I have strength. Everything is against us, Tiernay. We are not to get the renewal; this young Mr. Cashel wants the cottage,—we must turn out. I'll have to do so, even before the gale-day; but what matter about me! It 's that poor child I 'm thinking of—” Here he stopped, and was some minutes before he could resume. “There,—read that; that will tell you all.”

Tiernay took the crumpled letter, which the old man had all this while held firmly in his closed grasp, and read it.

“Well, that 's bad news, is n't it?” said Corrigan. “Not the bill,—I don't mean that; but he 's coming back; do you see the threat?—he's coming back again.”

“How can he?” said the doctor. “The man committed a forgery. How will he dare to return here and place his neck in a halter?”

“You forget whose evidence alone can convict him,—mine; the name he forged was mine, the sum he took was mine,—nearly all I had in the world; but he has nothing to fear from me, whatever I may have to dread from him.”

“How can he have any terror for you!”

“He can take her away,—not from me, for she 'll soon be separated by a stronger hand than his; but I can't bear to think that she 'll be in his power. Tiernay, this is what is cutting into my heart now as I lie here, and leaves me no rest to think of the brief minutes before me. Tell me, is there no way to avoid this? Think of something, my old friend,—take this weight off my dying heart, and my last breath will bless you.”

“Are there any relations, or friends?”

“None, not one; I 'm the last of the tree,—the one old rotten branch left. I was thinking of a nunnery, Tiernay, one of those convents in France or the Low Countries; but even there, if he found her out, he could legally demand her to be restored to him,—and he would find her, ay, that he would! There never was a thing yet that man could n't do when he set his heart on it; and the more the obstacles, the greater his wish. I heard him say it with his own lips, that he never had any fancy for my poor Lucy till he overheard her one day saying that 'she never hated any one till she knew him.' From that hour, he swore to himself she should be his wife! Heaven knows if the hate was not better bestowed than the love; and yet, she did love him to the last,—ay, even, after cruelty and desertion, ay, after his supposed death; when she heard that he married another, and was living in splendor at Cadiz, ay,—Tiernay! after all that, she told me on her death-bed, she loved him still!”

“I think the nunnery is the best resource,” said the doctor, recalling the sick man from a theme where his emotions were already too powerfully excited.

“I believe it is,” said the old man, with more of energy than before; “and I feel almost as if Providence would give me strength and health to take her there myself, and see her safe before I die. Feel that pulse now: isn't it stronger?”

“You are better, much better already,” said the doctor; “and now, keep quiet and composed. Don't speak—if it was possible, I 'd say, don't think—for a few hours. The worst is nigh over.”

“I thought so, Tiernay. I felt it was what old Joe Henchy used to call 'a runaway knock.'” And, with a faint smile, the old man pressed his hand, and said, “Good-bye.”

Scarcely, however, had the doctor reached the door, when he called him back.

“Tiernay,” said he, “it's of no use telling me to lie still, and keep quiet, and the rest of it. I continue, asleep or awake, to think over what's coming. There is but one way to give me peace,—give me some hope. I 'll tell you now how that is to be done; but, first of all, can you spare three days from home?”

“To be sure I can; a week, if it would serve you. Where am I to go?”

“To Dublin, Tiernay. You 'll have to go up there, and see this young man, Cashel, yourself, and speak to him for me. Tell him nothing of our present distress or poverty, but just let him see who it is that he is turning out of the lands where their fathers lived for hundreds of years. Tell him that the Corrigans is the oldest stock in the whole country; that the time was, from the old square tower on Garraguin, you could n't see a spot of ground that was n't our own! Tell him,”—and, as he spoke, his flashing eye and heightened color showed how the theme agitated and excited him,—“tell him that if he turns us from hearth and home, it is not as if it was like some poor cotter—” He paused, his lips trembled, and the big tears burst from his eyes and rolled heavily down his face. “Oh! God forgive me for saying the words!” cried he, in an accent of deep agony. “Why wouldn't the humblest peasant that ever crouched to his meal of potatoes, beside the little turf fire of his cabin, love his home as well as the best blood in the land? No, no, Mat, it's little kindness we 'd deserve on such a plea as that.”

“There, there, don't agitate yourself. I know what you mean, and what you'd like me to say.”

“You do not,” rejoined the old man, querulously, “for I have n't said it yet. Nor I can't think of it now. Ah, Mat,” here his voice softened once more into its habitual key, “that was a cruel thought of me a while ago; and faith, Mr. Cashel might well suspect, if he heard it, that I was n't one of the old good blood of the Corrigans, that could talk that way of the poor; but so it is. There is n't a bad trait in a man's heart that is not the twin-brother of his selfishness. And now I'll say no more; do the best you can for us, that's all. I was going to bid you tell him that we have an old claim on the whole estate that some of the lawyers say is good,—that the Crown have taken off the confiscation in the time of my great father, Phil Corrigan; but sure he would n't mind that,—besides, that's not the way to ask a favor.”

“You must n't go on talking this way; see how hot your hand is!”

“Well, maybe it will be cold enough soon! There is another thing, Mat. You must call on Murphy, with the bill of sale of the furniture and the books, and get money to meet these bills. There they are; I indorsed them this morning. Tell Green it's no use sending me the other bills; I 'll not have means to take them up, and it would be only disgracing my name for nothing to write it on them. I 'll be longing to see you back again, Mat, and hear your tidings; so God bless you, and send you safe home to us.”

“I 'll set off to-night,” said the doctor, rising, and shaking his hand. “Your attack is passed over, and there's no more danger, if you 'll keep quiet.”

“There's another thing, Mat,” said the sick man, smiling faintly, and with a strange meaning. “Call at 28 Drogheda Street, and ask the people to show you the room Con Corrigan fought the duel in with Colonel Battley. It was only twelve feet long and ten wide, a little place off the drawing-room, and the colonel would n't even consent that we should stand in the corners. Look and see if the bullet is in the wall still. The old marquis used to have it fresh painted red every year, on the anniversary of the day. Oh, dear, oh, dear, but they were the strange times, then! ay, and pleasant times too.” And with such reflections on the past, he fell off into a dreamy half-consciousness, during which Tiernay stole from the room and left him alone.

Faint and trembling with agitation, Mary Leicester was standing all this while at the door of the sick chamber. “Did I hear aright, Doctor?” said she; “was that his voice that sounded so cheerfully?”

“Yes, my dear Miss Mary, the peril is by; but be cautious. Let him not speak so much, even with you. This is a sweet quiet spot,—Heaven grant he may long enjoy it!”

Mary's lips muttered some words in audibly, and they parted. She sat down alone, in the little porch under the eave. The day was a delicious one in autumn, calm, mellow, and peaceful; a breeze, too faint to ripple the river, stirred the flowers and shook forth their odor. The cottage, the leafy shade, through which the tempered sunlight fell in fanciful shapes upon the gravel, the many colored blossoms of the rich garden, the clear and tranquil river, the hum of the distant waterfall,—they were all such sights and sounds as breathe of home and home's happiness; and so had she felt them to be till an unknown fear found entrance into her heart and spread its darkness there. What a terrible sensation comes with a first sorrow!