Among the unexplained phenomena of the period is one very remarkable and, doubtless, pregnant circumstance—the species of lull or calm in the movements of the United Irish party, which was conspicuous throughout the entire of the summer and autumn of 1796. The spring opened on them with hopes high, and expectations confident. Tone's letters from Paris breathed encouragement; the embarrassments of England promised favourably for their cause; and many who wavered before, were found now willing to embrace the enterprize. To this state of ardent feeling succeeded an interval of doubt and uneasiness; conflicting statements were circulated, and mens' minds were shaken, without any apparent cause. A vague fear of betrayal and treachery gained ground; yet no one was able to trace this dread to any definite source. The result, however, was evident in the greater caution of all concerned in the scheme—a reserve, which seemed to threaten a total abandonment of the undertaking; such, at least, it appeared to those who, like Mark O'Donoghue, having few or no opportunities of intercourse with the leaders, were disposed to take their impressions from the surface of events. As for him, his correspondence had ceased with Lanty's treachery. He neither knew the real names nor addresses of those to whom he had formerly written, and had not a single acquaintance to whom he could look for advice and assistance.

All Sir Archy's endeavours to win his confidence had failed, not from any distrust either in his judgment or his good faith, but because Mark regarded his secret as a sacred depository, in which the honour of others was concerned; and however disposed to seek advice for himself, he would not compromise their safety for the sake of his own advantage. Unable to extort a confidence by entreaty, and well aware how little efficiency there lay in menace, Sir Archy abandoned the attempt, and satisfied himself by placing in Mark's hands Hemsworth's letter, significantly hinting his own doubts of the writer's integrity.

Mark sat himself down in the garden, to study the epistle; and however artfully conceived, the experience his own career opened, displayed the dishonesty of the writer at every line.

“I am the obstacle to his plans—my presence here is somehow a thwarting influence against him,” said he, as he folded up the paper. “I must remain at every hazard; nor is there much, so long as I bound my wanderings by these great mountains—he will be a bolder than Hemsworth who captures me here.”

Guided by this one determination, and trusting that time might clear up some of the mysteries that surrounded him, Mark waited, as men wait for an event that shall call upon their faculties or their courage for some unusual effort. The same reverses of fortune that had taught him distrust, had also inculcated the lesson of patience; but it was the patience of the Indian warrior, who will lie crouching in concealment for days long, till the moment of his vengeance has arrived. And thus, while to others he seemed an altered character, less swayed by rash impulses, and less carried away by anger, the curbed up passions became only more concentrated by repression. He mixed little with the others, rarely appearing save at meal times, and then, seldom taking any part in the conversation around. He did not absent himself from home, as before, for whole days or weeks long, but spent his time mostly in his own chamber, where he read and wrote for hours—strange and unusual habits for one who had never sought or found amusement save in the fatigues of the hunting-field. His manner, too, was no longer the same. Calmer and more self-possessed than before, he neither seemed to feel momentary bursts of high spirits or depression. The tone of his mind was indeed sad, but it was the sadness that indicated strength and constancy to endure, fully as much as it betrayed the pain of suffering. The altered features of his character impressed themselves on every thing he did; and there was an air of quiet gentleness in his demeanour, quite foreign to his former rough and abrupt manner. Upon none did these things make so great an impression as on Kate: her woman's tact enabled her to see them differently, and more correctly than the rest. She saw that a mighty change had come over him: that no mere check of disappointment, no baffled ambition, could have done this: neither could she attribute it to any feeling towards herself, for he was never more coolly distant than now. She guessed, then, rightly, that it was the first step towards freedom, of a mind enthralled by its own strong passions. It was the struggling energy to be free, of a bold and daring spirit, that learned at length to feel the lowering influences of ill-directed ambition. How ardently she wished that some career were open to him, now—some great path in life: she did not fear its dangers or its trials—his nature suggested any thing save fear! How sad to think, that energy like his should be suffered to wane, and flicker, and die out, for want of the occasion to display its blaze. She could not avoid communicating these thoughts to Sir Archy, who for some time past had watched the growing change in the youth's manner. The old man listened attentively as she spoke, and his glistening eye and heightened colour showed how her girlish enthusiasm moved him; and while some reminiscence of the past seemed to float before him, his voice trembled as he said—

“Alas! my sweet child, the world offers few opportunities like those you speak of, and our political condition rejects them totally. The country that would be safe, must give little encouragement to the darings of youthful energy. His rewards are higher here, who seeks out some path well trod and beaten, and tries by industry and superior skill to pass by those who follow it also. The talents men prize are those available for some purpose of every-day life. Gifts that make mankind wiser and happier, these, bring fame and honour; while the meteor brilliancy of mere heroism can attract but passing wonder and astonishment.”

“You mistake Mark, my dear uncle—you undervalue the change that is worked in his character. He is not deficient in ability, if he but suffer himself to rely upon it, rather than on the casual accidents of fortune. If Herbert were but here——”

“Herbert comes home to-night. I had thought to keep my secret for a surprise, but you have wrested it from me.”

“Herbert coming home! Oh, how happy you have made me! The brothers once more together, how much each may benefit the other. Nay, uncle, you must not smile thus. Superior as Herbert is in the advantages that training and study impart, Mark has gifts of determination and resolve, as certain to win success. But, here he comes—may I not tell him of Herbert's coming?”

Sir Archy smiled and nodded, and the happy girl was the next moment at Mark's side, relating with delight her pleasant news.

Mark listened with pleasure to the intelligence. Any little jealousy he once felt for acquirements and attainments above his own, had long since given way to a better and more brotherly feeling; and he ardently desired to meet and converse with him again.

“And yet, Kate, how altered may he be from what we knew him, who is to say the changes time may not have wrought in him?”

“Such are not always for the worse, Mark,” said Kate, timidly, for she felt how the allusion might be taken.

A slight tinge of red coloured Mark's cheek, and his eye was lighted with a look of pleasure. He felt the flattery in all its force, but did not dare to trust himself with a reply.

“I wonder,” said he, after a lengthened pause—“I wonder how Herbert may feel on seeing, once more, our wild glen. Will these giant rocks and bold ravines appeal to his heart with the same sympathies as ever; or will the habits of the life he has left, cling to him still, and make him think this grandeur only desolation?”

“You did not feel so, surely, Mark?” said Kate, as she turned upon him a look of affectionate interest.

“Me?—I think so? No! This valley was to me a place of rest—a long sought-for haven. I came not here from the gay and brilliant world, rich in fascinations and pleasures. I had not lived among the great and learned, to hear the humble estimate they have of our poor land. I came back here like the mariner whose bark puts back shattered by the storm, and baffled by the winds, unable to stem the tide that leads to fortune. Yes, shipwrecked in every thing.” “Herbert, Herbert,” cried Kate.

At the same moment a chaise, advancing at full gallop, turned from the road into the avenue towards the house. The boy caught sight of the figures in the garden, flung open the door, and springing out, rushed towards them.

“My dear, dear Kate,” was his first exclamation, as he kissed her affectionately; his next, in a tone of unqualified surprise, was—“What a fine fellow you have grown, Mark!” and the two brothers were locked in each other's arms.

The sentiment which thus burst from him in the first moment of surprise, was the very counterpart of Mark's own feeling on beholding Herbert. Time had worked favourably for both. On the elder brother, the stamp of manhood more firmly impressed, had given an elevation to the expression of his features, and a character of composure to his air; while with Herbert, his career of study alternating with a life passed among cultivated and polished circles, had converted the unformed stripling into a youth of graceful and elegant demeanour. The change was even greater in him than in his brother. In the one case it was, as it were, but the growth and development of original traits of character; in the other, new and very different features were distinguishable. His thoughts, his expressions, his very accent was changed; yet through this his old nature beamed forth, bright, joyous, and affectionate as ever. It was the same spirit, although its flights were bolder and more daring—the same mind, but its workings more powerful and more free. The one had placed his ambition so high, he scarcely dared to hope; the other had already tasted some of the enjoyments of success—life had even already shed around him some of its fascinations, and quickened the ardour of his temper. A winner in the race of intellect, he experienced that thrilling ecstasy which acknowledged superiority confers; he knew what it was to feel the mastery over others, and, even now, the flame of ambition was lighted in his heart, and its warm glow tingled in his veins and throbbed in every pulse. In vain should they who knew him once, seek for the timid, bashful boy, that scarcely dared to make an effort from very dread of failure. His flashing eye and haughty brow told of victory; still around his handsome mouth the laughing smile of happy youth showed that no ungenerous feeling, no unworthy pride, had yet mingled with his nature.

“They tell me you have swept the University of its prizes, Herbert—is not this so?” said Mark, as he leaned his arm affectionately on his shoulder.

“You would think but poorly of my triumphs, Mark,” replied Herbert, with a smile. “The lists I fight in, peril not life or limb.”

“Still, there is honour in the game,” said Mark. “Wherever there is success on one side, and failure on the other—wherever there is hope to win, and dread to lose—there, the ambition is never unworthy.”

“But what of you, Mark? Tell me of yourself. Have you left a buck in the glen, or is there a stray grouse on the mountain? What have you been doing since we met?”

Mark coloured and looked confused, when Kate, coming to the rescue, replied—

“How can you ask such a question, Herbert? What variety does life afford in this quiet valley? Is it not the very test of our happiness, that we can take no note of time? But here comes my uncle.”

Herbert turned at the words, and rushed to meet the old man.

“Have you won baith, Herbert,” cried he—“baith premiums? Then I must gie you twa hands, my dear boy,” said he, pressing him in a fond embrace. “Were the competitors able ones? Was the victory a hard one? Tell me all, every thing about it.”

And the youth, with bent down head and rapid utterance, related, in a low voice, the event of his examination.

“Go on, go on,” said Sir Archy M'Nab, aloud—“tell me what followed.”

And Herbert resumed in the same tone as before.

“Ha!” cried Sir Archy, in an accent of irrepressible delight, “so they said your Latin smacked of Scotland. They scented Aberdeen in it. Well, boy, we beat them—they canna deny that. The prize is ours—the better that it was hardly fought for.”

And thus they continued for some time to talk, as they walked side by side through the garden; the old man's firm step and joyous look telling of the pride that filled his heart, while Herbert poured forth in happy confidence the long-treasured thoughts that crowded his brain; nor did they cease their converse, till Kerry came to summon the youth to his father's room.

“He's awake now,” said Kerry, gazing with undisguised rapture on the tall and handsome youth; “and it's a proud man he ought to be this day, that has the pair like ye.”

The young men smiled at the flattery, and arm in arm took then-way towards the house.