On the morning after her arrival at Ballinamoyle, Adelaide was forcibly struck with the strange coincidence of circumstances that had conducted her to this place, so remote from the scenes in which she had once expected to have passed her life. That day two years, she had no expectation of becoming an inhabitant of the British isles; and one fortnight had just elapsed since she received Mrs. O'Sullivan's letter, announcing her intention of undertaking the journey they had accomplished. Her meeting with Colonel Desmond seemed like seeing an inhabitant of another world, who could dive into thoughts, and was acquainted with occurrences unknown to those she was surrounded by. Though but four years had revolved since they last met, from the unexpected nature of the events that had marked them, they seemed, to memory, longer in duration than all those which had smoothly rolled away, ere their giant days rose on the wheel of fate, robed in the strongest hues of joy or sorrow. She felt grieved her journey was now at an end, as she had derived much amusement from it, and knew she should, in future, associate much less with Colonel Desmond. "I wonder, (thought she,) what description of being this Mr. O'Sullivan is, we have come so far to see—Poor little Caroline! I hope he will be more affectionate to her than her mother and sisters are."

When Adelaide repaired to the breakfast room, and proceeded to open the door, her hand trembled on the lock, for she heard Caroline's joyous voice within, followed by an expression of fondness; and recollected, with bitterness of heart, that in that room was no relative, who would greet her entrance with a face of gladness.—She could not go in at that moment, and retreated a few steps. "Why am I so overpowered this morning? (thought she,) I ought to be more than usually happy, in reflecting, that dearest Caroline is this day introduced to her father's family; the happy one will soon arrive, when I shall be restored to mine, so coÛte qui coÛte, I go in." Armed with this magnanimous resolution, she entered the room, and her eyes were instantly attracted by one of the most venerable figures she had ever beheld. An old gentleman, dressed in mourning, was sitting with little Caroline on his knee; his face, as he bent his gray head to gaze on her infant beauties, was expressive of every benevolent feeling, whilst his dignified figure impressed the beholder with an awe, which was tempered, but not entirely removed, by the benignity of his countenance. In him was seen all that was reverend in age—in the cherub he caressed all that was blooming in youth. Her silken hair hung, in waving ringlets, on a cheek that mocked the rose's hue; her transparent skin showed the blue veins, that meandered on a brow as spotless as the mountain snow. The dark blue eye, that threw its melting ray on his, seemed to call forth fires that long had slept beneath those silver brows; and as her ivory arm hung round his neck, the youthful softness of her hand was more than usually apparent from the contrast it formed with the withered cheek it pressed. "Dearest Caroline! may he prove a fond parent to you!" was the ardent wish of Adelaide's heart, as she gazed on the happy child, and her venerable relative. Mr. O'Sullivan, looking up, rose to receive her; and the little girl, springing gaily forward, took her hand, saying, "This is my own dear Adele Wildenheim, I told you about, uncle; I love her better than any body in the world; if you will let me live with you, and will keep her too, I shall be so happy!" Whilst Caroline looked inquiringly up in his face to read the success of her proposition; the old man smiled on the lovely girl thus introduced to him, and holding out his hand cordially to her, said, "Your name is well known to me, Miss Wildenheim. Baron Wildenheim was the friend and benefactor of my deceased brother, and his child is truly welcome to my roof." Adelaide's cheek glowed with the most vivid blushes as she felt a tear trickle down; the accents faltered on her lips when she attempted to speak, and a deep sigh burst from Mr. O'Sullivan's breast as he recollected, that the daughter he had lost in the bloom of youth was, in his eyes at least, as lovely as the beautiful girl they now rested on.

At this moment Miss Fitzcarril and Mrs. O'Sullivan entered the room; the latter acting the amicable, aspired to rest her fat hand on the bony arm of the stately Theresa, who, with smiles of unconscious exultation at her own towering height, and with an air of condescension, bent her long neck over her right shoulder, towards her rotund companion, as if the words she addressed to her would not otherwise be within hearing distance. The one stalked forward, sweeping after her a long train of the thickest tabinet; the other (though certainly not a figure for a Zephyr) fluttered in gauze, whose transparent texture a Roman would have compared to "the woven wind," her habiliment being about as long as that of the sapient dame well known in nursery history, after her unfortunate rencontre with the mischievous pedler.

When Mrs. O'Sullivan espied her brother-in-law, she bustled up to him with an appearance of lively pleasure; but an observer, with half the penetration of Adelaide, might have seen a temporary expression of disappointment cloud his features, as from his brother he had never received the slightest hint, that might lead him to form an idea of what she really was, either in manner or appearance; and the beauty of her daughter and elegance of her ward had made him expect to find her far different in both; however, this expression was but transient, and he received her with his usual hospitality, and told her with much warmth and sincerity, how much he admired the charming little Caroline. The Miss Webberlys and their brother made their appearance shortly after Mrs. O'Sullivan's entrance; and the groupe were all assembled round the breakfast-table when Father Dermoody came into the room, whom Miss Fitzcarril and the master of the house rose to receive with the utmost respect, whilst his manner united the humility he felt as a man with the dignity he derived from his sacred office. When he approached them, the motion of his hand, and the raised expression of his countenance, told Adelaide that he passed that silent benediction she had so often witnessed abroad. His benevolent looks seemed to extend it to all, though a slight tinge on his cheek, and a half mournful glance of his eye, betrayed that he felt it would be scorned by some. A reverential bend of Adelaide's graceful figure, and the mild seriousness that chastened her smile of acknowledgement as her eye met his, conveyed to the venerable priest that she at least understood him, and thankfully received his pious aspirations. He looked in vain for the sign, that should have marked their conformity of faith, and sighed deeply, then muttered half under his breath, "In all else how like!"

The English ladies soon found Miss Fitzcarril's gunpowder tea quite too potent for their nerves, and diluted it in a manner that astonished her; for this good lady, in her extensive patronage of vagrants, included smugglers and pedlers, from whom she procured the finest teas and brandies, for to these articles her ideas of parsimony did not extend; and as she kept the latter entirely for her male friends, she thought the former in their utmost strength the peculiar beverage of the fair sex, and now wondered where these ladies could have been brought up, not to understand the merits of gunpowder tea at a guinea a pound!

In the course of the morning Mr. O'Sullivan took his usual promenade in front of his house; and here he appeared in all his glory. In one promiscuous groupe were assembled the heads of the families his tenantry comprised, with every other man, woman, or child, that could leave home to get a peep at the newly-arrived guests, whose appearance at Ballinamoyle had been looked for with more curiosity than pleasure. For Mr. O'Sullivan was universally beloved, and the superstitious ideas of his tenantry made them regard the arrival of his heiress as an omen of his own death; besides they very naturally dreaded this property being given to people unattached to them, and unacquainted with their customs. As the ladies stood at the open windows in front of the house to gaze at the strange assemblage, many were the remarks their appearance called forth. According to custom, every domestic went out in turn to "collogue," as they call it, with their favourite Judy or Barny; and as Caroline stood on the window-seat with Adelaide's protecting arm round her waist, she was repeatedly pointed out to the inquirers. But as the Irish seldom have patience to listen to more than half a sentence, when their minds are intent on any new subject, Caroline's companion was by most of the crowd taken for the object of their search. "She is a beautiful young lady, and looks loving and kind." "She's about the height of poor Miss Rose." "Ochone, she was the darling! Sun or moon will ne'er shine on the likes of her again; and while grass grows and water runs, she'll ne'er be forgot out of Ballinamoyle!" These and many similar expressions proceeded from the lips of the elder part of the assembly, whilst the unconscious object of their remarks entertained herself in viewing the various groupes it consisted of.

Close after Mr. O'Sullivan walked his steward, hat in hand, to receive his orders, or answer his questions respecting the numerous petitioners who from time to time approached him. Whenever he turned towards the crowd, every man's hat was instantaneously taken off in the most respectful manner—every woman's petticoat, however short, touched the ground in her curtsy. Sundry sturdy little urchins were thumped on the back for being rather tardy in paying his honour proper respect; and a sulky reverence brought more than one little girl to the ground, as her mother used no very gentle means to expedite her motions; whilst many a rosy child had its plump cheek or white head stroked for being "mannerly." When Mr. O'Sullivan's levee had lasted as long as he wished, and when he had granted potato ground, and grazing ground, and firing ground, and had remitted fines for trespasses innumerable, his steward gave the usual signal, and the crowd dispersed to idle away the rest of the morning:—an idle evening was a thing of course.

Miss Fitzcarril now proceeded to perform that ceremony always observed in a country house—of showing it, however unworthy it may be of exhibition. This old-fashioned edifice had been built by the present proprietor's grandfather with the materials of an ancient monastery, which had fallen to ruin on its site, which was made choice of for the convenience of communicating by a covered passage with the remaining chapel—a venerable and beautiful structure, that had been preserved in perfect repair. Over the hall door, at the top of the house, appeared the family arms cut in stone, and underneath the name of the builder and the date of the year when it was finished, in order, as Miss Webberly wittily remarked, "to claim the stolen goods by, should any one take it up on their backs and run away with it." The rooms were large and well built, and as uniformly square as a bricklayer's line could make them. The furniture was substantial, and, like Miss Fitzcarril, had been handsome in its day; but it survived its contemporaries, and the present race thought it heavy and sombre. The house had altogether a desolate appearance, and, like the Canal Inn, could rarely boast of a perfect bell or lock. In the part of the house which adjoined the chapel, Mrs. O'Sullivan frequently turned the lock of a door she passed by in traversing the various passages; and her guide always said with unusual seriousness, "You can't go in there, madam;" at last the question was asked "Why?" and was answered, with a deep sigh, "That was poor Rose's apartment; nobody has ever been in it since she died but her father and poor nurse." "Then what a pity," rejoined Mrs. O'Sullivan, "not to block up the windows; let me see, three rooms back to the chapel, one, two, three, four, five, six windows—all that much taxes for nothing!" "Block up the windows of poor Rose's apartment! Blessed powers defend me!—Child!" said the angry Theresa turning to Caroline, with a vehemence of gesture and sternness of aspect that made the trembling infant, while she looked fearfully up in her face, tightly clasp her arms round Adelaide, "if you ever own this place, take care that you pay respect to every relict of your cousin; it would be as much as any one's life's worth to put an affront upon her memory."

Though Mrs. O'Sullivan could not see this apartment, she was resolved to inspect every other nook of the house, kitchens and store-rooms inclusive. In the latter she was surprised to see huge barrels of oaten meal and dried fish, with numerous casks of whisky. Suspended over head hung the cured carcases of three cows and five pigs, ready to supply the place of their fellows in the principal kitchen. As they passed down one of the back stair-cases, they saw in the court yard a number of men and boys, waiting for the chance of casual employment about the house. The men were muffled up in great coats, buttoned about their necks, the empty sleeves hanging at their sides; some leaning against the walls, some lying on their stomachs basking in the sun; others asleep in various postures; the boys dancing, or playing backgammon, which they managed by squares traced on the ground, whilst one called out the numbers at random, which answered the purpose of dice; others wrestling, sometimes throwing each other down on the sleepers, who just raised their heads to give a volley of oaths, and turned to sleep again. The unexpected entrance of the ladies into the kitchen put to flight a covey of char-women, who seemed to think they had all the business of the world on their hands. As strange servants were in the house, they had determined to keep up the "dacency of Ballinamoyle," by dressing themselves in their best; but being now at their work (that is, running in each other's way, at the same time talking unceasingly) all their petticoats were pinned up about their middle, except a very short dicky; their shoes and stockings were—not on their feet and legs, but on the kitchen tables and hot hearths, and the ears of their mob caps were pinned over the crowns of their heads to keep them clean and the wearers cool. There was a constant shouting to the boys in the yard to run incessant messages. At the moment of Mrs. O'Sullivan's first appearance, the cook called out of the kitchen window, "Do you hear, Barny, make aff to Jarge Quin for a slip of parsley:—do you mind, be back in a crack." No sooner was Barny dispatched than she shouted again: "Jimmy! Jimmy Maloony I say, rin for your life, and make ould Jarge sind the fruit for the pies." When the ladies proceeded to the servants' hall, there was an old piper playing, and three girls dancing, that Miss Fitzcarril thought were busy spinning and sewing. "Get along, you incorrigibly idle sluts," said she, and they were off in a trice; but it was out of Scylla into Charybdis, for two or three of the "cutty sarks," who had been muddling in the kitchen, met them in the passage, where they had been drawn by hearing "the mistress spaking mad angry;" and each seizing her own daughter, and thumping her well, said, "I'll pay you for your jigging, indeed my lady!" Close to the servants' hall was a man cleaning knives; he had taken off his coat and waistcoat, one shoulder appeared through a great hole in the back of his shirt, the sleeves of which were rolled up to the elbow, and it was open down to the waist. He had neither shoes nor stockings on, and thus his legs and arms, with the greater part of his back and breast, were naked; the skin that covered them was nearly of a copper colour; his head was crowned with thick, short, curly, black hair, and his unshaved face presented a luxuriant crop of the same sable material. "What a number of men servants you keep! pray what compacity does that one fill?" inquired Mrs. O'Sullivan. "Madam," replied her cicerone (all her pride colouring her face) "since the world was a world, no such sarving man as that ever belonged to the name of O'Sullivan! That's Black Frank, the fool, who comes in to do odd jobs now and again." Black Frank was an itinerant "innocent," who scoured knives, cleared out ashes, or did any job the servants of the houses he frequented were too lazy to perform themselves. He was capricious in his fancies, and never staid long in any one place, but blessed all his acquaintance in turn. As Mrs. O'Sullivan went up stairs, she said to herself, "It will be another guess matter when Caroline rules the roast; I'll soon pack off all these here wagabonds and ramscallions about their business; she'd be a sight the richer if these warlets didn't eat up her uncle's fortin. There's one comfort, he can't live long; when he dies, I'll make this stately madam and all take to their heels!"

Mrs. O'Sullivan, however, was aware of but a small part of what she considered her daughter's wrongs; for her brother-in-law, though he had renounced all society himself, except that of a few distant relatives, and his friends the Desmonds, authorized his servants to bring their kindred and "cronies" to his servants' hall, to eat, drink, and be merry. From twenty to thirty people sat down to dinner there every day, and on Saturdays and holydays a great many more. And the song and the jest went round amongst the careless crew, accompanied by the boisterous laugh of rustic mirth. The young men and women amused themselves of a winter's evening dancing jigs, whilst their elders "kept the fire warm," telling stories of the days of old, superstitious legends, or recounting the omens each had observed previous to the death of the ever lamented Miss Rose.