Without answering Mademoiselle, the father, and Harry's eyes, at the same moment, were fixed on one who was some steps behind, and who looked as if dying with a softer passion. Harry made a step forward to offer his arm, but stopped short; the father offered his, in silence.

"Can nobody speak to me?—Bien poli!" said Mademoiselle.

"If you please, Miss O'Faley, ma'am," cried a hatless footman, who had run after the ladies the wrong way from the house: "if you please, ma'am, will she send up dinner now?"

"Oui, qu'on serve!—Yes, she will. Let her dish—by that time she is dished, we shall he in—and have satisfied our curiosity, I hope," added she, turning to her brother-in-law.

"Let us dine first," said Cornelius, "and when the cloth is removed, and the waiting-ears out of hearing, time enough to have our talk to ourselves."

"Bien singulier, ces Anglois!" muttered Mademoiselle to herself, as they proceeded to the house. "Here is a young man, and the most polite of the silent company, who may well be in some haste for his dinner; for to my knowledge, he is without his breakfast."

Harry had no appetite for dinner, but swallowed as much as Mademoiselle O'Faley desired. A remarkably silent meal it would have been, but for her happy volubility, equal to all occasions. At last came the long expected words, "Take away." When all was taken away, and all were gone, but those who, as O'Shane said, would too soon wish unheard what they were dying to hear, he drew his daughter's chair close to him, placed her so as "to save her blushes," and began his story, by relating all that O'Tara had told.

"It was a sudden death—shocking!" Mademoiselle repeated several times; but both she and Dora recovered from the shock, or from the word "shocking!" and felt the delight of Dora's being no longer a sacrifice.

After a general thanksgiving having been offered for her escape from the butor, Mademoiselle, in transports, was going on to say that now her niece was free to make a suitable match, and she was just turning to wonder that Harry Ormond was not that moment at her niece's feet; and Dora's eyes, raised slowly towards him and suddenly retracted, abashed and perplexed Harry indescribably; when Corny continued thus: "Dora is not free, nor am I free in honour yet, nor can I give any body freedom of tongue or heart until I know farther."

Various exclamations of surprise and sorrow interrupted him.

"Am I never, never, to be free!" cried Dora: "Oh! am not I now at liberty?"

"Hear me, my child," said her father; "I feel it as you do."

"And what is it next—Qu'est-ce que c'est—this new obstacle?—What can it be?" said Mademoiselle.

The father then stated sorrowfully, that Old Connal of Glynn would by no means relinquish the promise, but considered it equally binding for the twin born with White Connal, considering both twins as coming under the promise to his son that was to be born. He said he would write immediately to his son, who was now in England.

"And now tell me what kind of a person is this new pretender, this Mr. Black Connal," cried Mademoiselle.

"Of him we know nothing as yet," said O'Shane; "but I hope, in Heaven, that the man that is coming is as different from the man that's gone as black from white."

Harry heard Dora breathe quick and quicker, but she said nothing.

"Then we shall get his answer to the father's letter in eight days, I count," said Mademoiselle; "and I have great hopes we shall never be troubled with him: we shall know if he will come or not, in eight days."

"About that time," said O'Shane: "but, sister O'Faley, do not nurse my child or yourself up with deceitful hopes. There's not a man alive—not a Connal, surely, hearing what happiness he is heir to, but would come flying over post-haste. So you may expect his answer, in eight days—Dora, my darling, and God grant he may be—"

"No matter what he is, sir—I'll die before I will see him," cried Dora, rising, and bursting into tears.

"Oh, my child, you won't die!—you can't—from me, your father!" Her father threw his arms round her, and would have drawn her to him, but she turned her face from him: Harry was on the other side—her eyes met his, and her face became covered with blushes.

"Open the window, Harry!" said O'Shane, who saw the conflict; "open the window!—we all want it."

Harry opened the window, and hung out of it gasping for breath.

"She's gone—the aunt has taken her off—it's over for this fit," said O'Shane. "Oh, my child, I must go through with it! My boy, I honour as I love you—I have a great deal to say about your own affairs, Harry."

"My affairs—oh! what affairs have I? Never think of me, dear sir—"

"I will—but can't now—I am spent for this day—leave out the bottle of claret for Father Jos, and I'll get to bed—I'll see nobody, tell Father Jos—I'm gone to my room."

The next morning O'Tara came to breakfast. Every person had a different question to ask him, except Dora, who was silent.

Corny asked what kind of man Black Connal was. Mademoiselle inquired whether he was most French or English; Ormond, whether he was going to be married.

To all these questions O'Tara pleaded ignorance: except with respect to the sports of the field, he had very little curiosity or intelligence.

A ray of hope again darted across the mind of Corny. From his knowledge of the world, he thought it very probable that a young officer in the French brigade would be well contented to be heir to his brother's fortune, without encumbering himself with an Irish wife, taken from an obscure part of the country. Corny, therefore, eagerly inquired from O'Tara what became of White Connal's property. O'Tara answered, that the common cry of the country was, that all White Connal's profitable farms were leasehold property, and upon his own life. Poor Corny's hopes were thus frustrated: he had nothing left to do for some days but to pity Harry Ormond, to bear with the curiosity and impatience of Mademoiselle, and with the froward sullenness of Dora, till some intelligence should arrive respecting the new claimant to her destined hand.



CHAPTER XIV

A few days afterwards, Sheelah, bursting into Dora's room, exclaimed, "Miss Dora! Miss Dora! for the love of God, they are coming! They're coming down the avenue, powdering along! Black Connal himself flaming away, with one in a gold hat, this big, galloping after, and all gold over, he is entirely!—Oh! what will become of us, Master Harry, now! Oh! it took the sight out of my eyes!—And yours as red as ferrets, dear!—Oh! the cratur. But come to the window and look out—nobody will mind—stretch out the body, and I'll hold ye fast, never fear!—at the turn of the big wood do you see them behind the trees, the fir dales, glittering and flaming? Do you see them at all?"

"Too plainly," said Dora, sighing; "but I did not expect he would come in such a grand style. I wonder—"

"Oh! so do I, greatly—mostly at the carriage. Never saw the like with the Connals, so grand—but the queer thing—"

"Ah! my dear Dore, un cabriolet!" cried Mademoiselle, entering in ecstacy. "Here is Monsieur de Connal for you in a French cabriolet, and a French servant riding on to advertise you and all. Oh! what are you twisting your neck, child? I will have no toss at him now—he is all the gentleman, you shall see: so let me set you all to rights while your father is receive. I would not have him see you such a horrible figure—not presentable! you look—"

"I do not care how I look—the worse the better," said Dora: "I wish to look a horrible figure to him—to Black Connal."

"Oh! put your Black Connals out of your head—that is always in your mouth: I tell you he is call M. de Connal. Now did I not hear him this minute announced by his own valet?—Monsieur de Connal presents his compliments— he beg permission to present himself—and there was I, luckily, to answer for your father in French."

"French! sure Black Connal's Irish born!" said Sheelah: "that much I know, any way."

A servant knocked at the door with King Corny's request that the ladies would come down stairs, to see, as the footman added to his master's message, to see old Mr. Connal and the French gentleman.

"There! French, I told you," said Mademoiselle, "and quite the gentleman, depend upon it, my dear—come your ways."

"No matter what he is," said Dora, "I shall not go down to see him; so you had better go by yourself, aunt."

"Not one step! Oh! that would be the height of impolitesse and disobedience—you could not do that, my dear Dore; consider, he is not a man that nobody knows, like your old butor of a White Connal. Not signify how bad you treat him—like the dog; but here is a man of a certain quality, who knows the best people in Paris, who can talk, and tell every where. Oh! in conscience, my dear Dore, I shall not suffer these airs with a man who is somebody, and—"

"If he were the king of France," cried Dora, "if he were Alexander the Great himself, I would not be forced to see the man, or marry him against my will!"

"Marry! Who talk of marry? Not come to that yet; ten to one he has no thought of you, more than politeness require."

"Oh! as to that," said Dora, "aunt, you certainly are mistaken there. What do you think he comes over to Ireland, what do you think he comes here for?"

"Hark! then," said Sheelah, "don't I hear them out of the window? Faith! there they are, walking and talking and laughing, as if there was nothing at all in it."

"Just Heavens! What a handsome uniform!" said Miss O'Faley; "and a very proper-looking man," said Sheelah.

"Well, who'd have thought Black Connal, if it's him, would ever have turned out so fine a presence of a man to look at?"

"Very cavalier, indeed, to go out to walk, without waiting to see us," said Dora.

"Oh! I will engage it was that dear father of yours hoisted him out."

"Hoisted him out! Well, aunt, you do sometimes speak the oddest English. But I do think it strange that he should be so very much at his ease. Look at him—hear him—I wonder what he is saying—and Harry Ormond!—Give me my bonnet, Sheelah—behind you, quick. Aunt, let us go out of the garden door, and meet them out walking, by accident—that is the best way—I long to see how somebody will look."

"Very good—now you look all life and spirit—perfectly charming! Look that manner, and I'll engage he will fall in love with you."

"He had better not, I can tell him, unless he has a particular pleasure in being refused," said Dora, with a toss of her head and neck, and at the same time a glance at her looking-glass, as she passed quickly out of the room.

Dora and her aunt walked out, and accidentally met the gentlemen in their walk. As M. de Connal approached, he gave them full leisure to form their opinions as to his personal appearance. He had the air of a foreign officer—easy, fashionable, and upon uncommonly good terms with himself— conscious, but with no vulgar consciousness, of possessing a fine figure and a good face: his was the air of a French coxcomb, who in unconstrained delight, was rather proud to display, than anxious to conceal, his perfect self-satisfaction. Interrupting his conversation only when he came within a few paces of the ladies, he advanced with an air of happy confidence and Parisian gallantry, begging that Mr. O'Shane would do him the honour and pleasure to present him. After a bow, that said nothing, to Dora, he addressed his conversation entirely to her aunt, walking beside Mademoiselle, and neither approaching nor attempting to speak to Dora; he did not advert to her in the least, and seemed scarcely to know she was present. This quite disconcerted the young lady's whole plan of proceedings—no opportunity was afforded her of showing disdain. She withdrew her arm from her aunt's, though Mademoiselle held it as fast as she could—but Dora withdrew it resolutely, and falling back a step or two, took Harry Ormond's arm, and walked with him, talking with as much unconcern, and as loudly as she could, to mark her indifference. But whether she talked or was silent, walked on with Harry Ormond, or stayed behind, whispered or laughed aloud, it seemed to make no impression, no alteration whatever in Monsieur de Connal: he went on conversing with Mademoiselle, and with her father, alternately in French and English. In English he spoke with a native Irish accent, which seemed to have been preserved from childhood; but though the brogue was strong, yet there were no vulgar expressions: he spoke good English, but generally with somewhat of French idiom. Whether this was from habit or affectation it was not easy to decide. It seemed as if the person who was speaking, thought in French, and translated it into English as he went on. The peculiarity of manner and accent—for there was French mixed with the Irish—fixed attention; and besides Dora was really curious to hear what he was saying, for he was very entertaining. Mademoiselle was in raptures while he talked of Paris and Versailles, and various people of consequence and fashion at the court. The Dauphiness!—she was then but just married—de Connal had seen all the fetes and the fireworks—but the beautiful Dauphiness!—In answering a question of Mademoiselle's about the colour of her hair, he for the first time showed that he had taken notice of Dora. "Nearly the colour, I think, of that young lady's hair, as well as one can judge; but powder prevents the possibility of judging accurately."

Dora was vexed to see that she was considered merely as a young lady: she exerted herself to take a part in the conversation, but Mr. Connal never joined in conversation with her—with the most scrupulous deference he stopped short in the middle of his sentence, if she began to speak. He stood aside, shrinking into himself with the utmost care, if she was to pass; he held the boughs of the shrubs out of her way, but continued his conversation with Mademoiselle all the time. When they came in from their walk, the same sort of thing went on. "It really is very extraordinary," thought she: "he seems as if he was spell-bound—obliged by his notions of politeness to let me pass incognita."

Mademoiselle was so fully engaged, chattering away, that she did not perceive Dora's mortification. The less notice Connal took of her, the more Dora wished to attract his attention: not that she desired to please him— no, she only longed to have the pleasure of refusing him. For this purpose the offer must be made—and it was not at all clear that any offer would be made.

When the ladies went to dress before dinner, Mademoiselle, while she was presiding at Dora's toilette, expressed how much she was delighted with M. de Connal, and asked what her niece thought of him? Dora replied that indeed she did not trouble herself to think of him at all—that she thought him a monstrous coxcomb—and that she wondered what could bring so prodigiously fine a gentleman to the Black Islands.

"Ask your own sense what brought him here! or ask your own looking-glass what shall keep him here!" said Miss O'Faley. "I can tell you he thinks you very handsome already; and when he sees you dress!"

"Really! he does me honour; he did not seem as if he had even seen me, more than any of the trees in the wood, or the chairs in the room."

"Chairs!—Oh, now you fish for complimens! But I shall not tell you how like he thinks you, if you were mise a la Francoise, to la belle Comtesse de Barnac."

"But is not it very extraordinary, he absolutely never spoke to me," said Dora: "a very strange manner of paying his court!"

Mademoiselle assured Dora "that this was owing to M. de Connal's French habits. The young ladies in Paris passing for nothing, scarcely ever appearing in society till they are married, the gentlemen have no intercourse with them, and it would be considered as a breach of respect due to a young lady or her mother, to address much conversation to her. And you know, my dear Dore, their marriages are all make up by the father, the mother, the friends—the young people themselves never speak, never know nothing at all about each one another, till the contract is sign: in fact, the young lady is the little round what you call cipher, but has no value in societe at all, till the figure of de husband come to give it the value."

"I have no notion of being a cipher," said Dora: "I am not a French young lady, Monsieur de Connal."

"Ah, but my dear Dore, consider what is de French wife! Ah! then come her great glory; then she reign over all hearts, and is in full liberte to dress, to go, to come, to do what she like, with her own carriage, her own box at de opera, and—You listen well, and I shall draw all that out for you, from M. de Connal."

Dora languidly, sullenly begged her aunt would not give herself the trouble—she had no curiosity. But nevertheless she asked several questions about la Comtesse de Barnac; and all the time saying she did not in the least care what he thought or said of her, she drew from her aunt every syllable that M. de Connal had uttered, and was secretly mortified and surprised to find he had said so little. She could not dress herself to her mind to-day, and protesting she did not care how she looked, she resigned herself into her aunt's hands. Whatever he might think, she should take care to show him at dinner that young ladies in this country were not ciphers.

At dinner, however, as before, all Dora's preconcerted airs of disdain and determination to show that she was somebody, gave way, she did not know how, before M. de Connal's easy assurance and polite indifference. His knowledge of the world, and his talents for conversation, with the variety of subjects he had flowing in from all parts of the world, gave him advantages with which there was no possibility of contending.

He talked, and carved—all life, and gaiety, and fashion: he spoke of battles, of princes, plays, operas, wine, women, cardinals, religion, politics, poetry, and turkeys stuffed with truffles—and Paris for ever!— Dash on! at every thing!—hit or miss—sure of the applause of Mademoiselle—and, as he thought, secure of the admiration of the whole company of natives, from le beau-pere, at the foot of the table, to the boy who waited, or who did not wait, opposite to him, but who stood entranced with wonder at all that M. de Connal said, and all that he did— even to the fashion in which he stowed trusses of salad into his mouth with a fork, and talked—through it all.

And Dora, what did she think?—she thought she was very much mortified that there was room for her to say so little. The question now was not what she thought of M. de Connal, but what he thought of her. After beginning with various little mock defences, avertings of the head, and twists of the neck, of the shoulders and hips, compound motions resolvable into mauvaise honte and pride, as dinner proceeded, and Monsieur de Connal's success was undoubted, she silently gave up her resolution "not to admire."

Before the first course was over, Connal perceived that he had her eye: "Before the second is over," thought he, "I shall have her ear; and by the time we come to the dessert, I shall be in a fair way for the heart."

Though he seemed to have talked without any design, except to amuse himself and the company in general, yet in all he had said there had been a prospective view to his object. He chose his means well, and in Mademoiselle he found, at once, a happy dupe and a confederate. Without previous concert, they raised visions of Parisian glory which were to prepare the young lady's imagination for a French lover or a French husband. M. de Connal was well aware that no matter who touched her heart, if he could pique her vanity.

After dinner, when the ladies retired, old Mr. Connal began to enter upon the question of the intended union between the families—Ormond left the room, and Corny suppressed a deep sigh. M. de Connal took an early opportunity of declaring that there was no truth in the report of his going to be married in England: he confessed that such a thing had been in question—he must speak with delicacy—but the family and connexions did not suit him; he had a strong prejudice, he owned, in favour of ancient family—Irish family; he had always wished to marry an Irish woman—for that reason he had avoided opportunities that might have occurred of connecting himself, perhaps advantageously, in France; he was really ambitious of the honour of an alliance with the O'Shanes. Nothing could be more fortunate for him than the friendship which had subsisted between his father and Mr. O'Shane.—And the promise?—Relinquish it!—Oh! that, he assured Mr. O'Shane, was quite impossible, provided the young lady herself should not make a decided objection—he should abide by her decision—he could not possibly think of pressing his suit, if there should appear any repugnance: in that case, he should be infinitely mortified—he should be absolutely in despair; but he should know how to submit—cost him what it would: he should think, as a man of honour, it was his part to sacrifice his wishes, to what the young lady might conceive to be for her happiness.

He added a profusion of compliments on the young lady's charms, with a declaration of the effect they had already produced on his heart.

This was all said with a sort of nonchalance, which Corny did not at all like. But Mademoiselle, who was summoned to Corny's private council, gave it as her opinion, that M. de Connal was already quite in love—quite as much as a French husband ever was. She was glad that her brother-in-law was bound by his promise to a gentleman who would really be a proper husband for her niece. Mademoiselle, in short, saw every thing couleur de rose; and she urged, that, since M. de Connal had come to Ireland for the express purpose of forwarding his present suit, he ought to be invited to stay at Corny Castle, that he might endeavour to make himself acceptable to Dora.

To this Corny acceded. He left Mademoiselle to make the invitation; for, he said, she understood French politeness, and all that, better than he did. The invitation was made and accepted, with all due expressions of infinite delight.

"Well, my dear Harry Ormond," said Corny, the first moment he had an opportunity of speaking to Harry in private, "what do you think of this man?"

"What Miss O'Shane thinks of him is the question," said Harry, with some embarrassment.

"That's true—it was too hard to ask you. But I'll tell you what I think: between ourselves, Black Connal is better than White, inasmuch as a puppy is better than a brute. We shall see what Dora will say or think soon—the aunt is over head and ears already: women are mighty apt to be taken, one way or other, with a bit of a coxcomb. Vanity—vanity! but still I know—I suspect, Dora has a heart: from me, I hope, she has a right to a heart. But I will say no more till I see which way the heart turns and settles, after all the little tremblings and variations: when it points steady, I shall know how to steer my course. I have a scheme in my head, but I won't mention it to you, Harry, because it might end in disappointment: so go off to bed and to sleep, if you can; you have had a hard day to go through, my poor honourable Harry."

And poor honourable Harry had many hard days to go through. He had now to see how Dora's mind was gradually worked upon, not by a new passion, for Mr. Connal never inspired or endeavoured to inspire passion, but by her own and her aunt's vanity. Mademoiselle with constant importunity assailed her: and though Dora saw that her aunt's only wish was to settle in Paris, and to live in a fine hotel; and though Dora was persuaded, that for this, her aunt would without scruple sacrifice her happiness and that of Harry Ormond; yet she was so dazzled by the splendid representation of a Parisian life, as not to see very distinctly what object she had herself in view. Connal's flattery, too, though it had scarcely any pretence to the tone of truth or passion, yet contrasting with his previous indifference, gratified her. She was sensible that he was not attached to her as Harry Ormond was, but she flattered herself that she should quite turn his head in time. She tried all her power of charming for this purpose, at first chiefly with the intention of exciting Harry's jealousy, and forcing him to break his honourable resolution. Harry continued her first object for some little time, but soon the idea of piquing him was merely an excuse for coquetry. She imagined that she could recede or advance with her new admirer, just as she thought proper; but she was mistaken: she had now to deal with a man practised in the game: he might let her appear to win, but not for nothing would he let her win a single move; yet he seemed to play so carelessly, as not in the least to alarm, or put her on her guard. The bystanders began to guess how the game would terminate: it was a game in which the whole happiness of Dora's life was at stake, to say nothing of his own, and Ormond could not look on without anxiety—and, notwithstanding his outwardly calm appearance, without strong conflicting emotions. "If," said he to himself, "I were convinced that this man would make her happy, I think I could be happy myself." But the more he saw of Connal, the less he thought him likely to make Dora happy; unless, indeed, her vanity could quite extinguish her sensibility: then, Monsieur de Connal would be just the husband to suit her.

Connal was exactly what he appeared to be—a gay young officer, who had made his own way up in the world—a petit-maitre, who had really lived in good company at Paris, and had made himself agreeable to women of rank and fortune. He might, perhaps, as he said, with his figure, and fashion, and connexions, have made his fortune in Paris by marriage, had he had time to look about him—but a sudden run of ill-fortune at play had obliged him to quit Paris for a season. It was necessary to make his fortune by marriage in England or Ireland, and as expeditiously as possible. In this situation, Dora, with her own and her aunt's property, was, as he considered it, an offer not to be rashly slighted; nor yet was he very eager about the matter—if he failed here, he should succeed elsewhere. This real indifference gave him advantages with Dora, which a man of feeling would perhaps never have obtained, or never have kept. Her father, though he believed in the mutable nature of woman, yet could scarcely think that his daughter Dora was of this nature. He could scarcely conceive that her passion for Harry Ormond—that passion which had, but a short time before, certainly affected her spirits, and put him in fear for her health—could have been conquered by a coxcomb, who cared very little whether he conquered or not.

How was this possible? Good Corny invented many solutions of the problem: he fancied one hour that his daughter was sacrificing herself from duty to him, or complaisance to her aunt; the next hour, he settled, and with more probability, that she was piqued by Harry Ormond's not showing more passion. King Corny was resolved to know distinctly how the matter really was: he therefore summoned his daughter and aunt into his presence, and the person he sent to summon them was Harry Ormond.

"Come back with them, yourself, Harry—I shall want you also."

Harry returned with both the ladies. By the countenance of Cornelius O'Shane, they all three augured that he had something of importance to say, and they stood in anxious expectation. He went to the point immediately.

"Dora, I know it is the custom on some occasions for ladies never to tell the truth—therefore I shall not ask any question that I think will put your truth to the test. I shall tell you my mind, and leave you to judge for yourself. Take as long or as short a time to know your own mind as you please—only know it clearly, and send me your answer by your aunt. All I beg is, that when the answer shall be delivered to me, this young man may be by. Don't interrupt me, Dora—I have a high opinion of him," said he, keeping his eye upon Dora's face.

"I have a great esteem, affection, love for him:" he pronounced the words deliberately, that he might see the effect on Dora; but her countenance was as undecided as her mind—no judgment could be formed from its changes. "I wish Harry Ormond," continued he, "to know all my conduct: he knows that, long ago, I made a foolish promise to give my daughter to a man I knew nothing about."

Mademoiselle was going to interrupt, but Cornelius O'Shane silenced her. "Mademoiselle—sister O'Faley, I will do the best I can to repair that folly—and to leave you at liberty, Dora, to follow the choice of your heart."

He paused, and again studied her countenance, which was agitated.

"Her choice is your choice—her father's choice is always the choice of the good daughter," said Mademoiselle.

"I believe she is a good daughter, and that is the particular reason I am determined to be as good a father as I can to her."

Dora wept in silence—and Mademoiselle, a good deal alarmed, wanted to remove Harry Ormond out of the young lady's sight: she requested him to go to her apartment for a smelling-bottle for her niece.

"No, no," said King Corny, "go yourself, sister O'Faley, if you like it, but I'll not let Harry Ormond stir—he is my witness present. Dora is not fainting—if you would only let her alone, she would do well. Dora, listen to me: if you don't really prefer this Black Connal for a husband to all other men, as you are to swear at the altar you do, if you marry him—"

Dora was strongly affected by the solemn manner of her father's appeal to her.

"If," continued her father, "you are not quite clear, my dear child, that you prefer him to other men, do not marry him. I have a notion I can bring you off without breaking my word: listen. I would willingly give half my fortune to secure your happiness, my darling. If I do not mistake him, Mr. Connal would, for a less sum, give me back my promise, and give you up altogether, my dear Dora."

Dora's tears stopped, Mademoiselle's exclamations poured forth, and they both declared they were certain that Mr. Connal would not, for any thing upon earth that could be offered to him, give up the match.

Corny said he was willing to make the trial, if they pleased. Mademoiselle seemed to hesitate; but Dora eagerly accepted the proposal, thanked her father for his kindness, and declared that she should be happy to have, and to abide by, this test of Mr. Connal's love. If he were so base as to prefer half her fortune to herself, she should, she said, think herself happy in having escaped from such a traitor.

Dora's pride was wakened, and she now spoke in a high tone: she always, even in the midst of her weaknesses, had an ambition to show spirit.

"I will put the test to him myself, within this hour," said Corny; "and before you go to bed this night, when the clock strikes twelve, all three of you be on this spot, and I will give you his answer. But stay, Harry Ormond, we have not had your opinion—would you advise me to make this trial?"

"Certainly, sir."

"But if I should lose half of Dora's fortune?"

"You would think it well bestowed, I am sure, sir, in securing her from an unhappy marriage."

"But then she might not, perhaps, so easily find another lover with half a fortune—that might make a difference, hey, Harry?"

"Impossible, I should think, sir, that it could make the least difference in the affection of any one who really—who was really worthy of Miss O'Shane."

The agitation into which Harry Ormond was thrown, flattered and touched Dora for the moment; her aunt hurried her out of the room.

Cornelius O'Shane rang, and inquired where Mr. Connal was? In his own apartment, writing letters, his servant believed. O'Shane sent to beg to see him, as soon as he was at leisure.

At twelve o'clock Dora, Mademoiselle, and Ormond, were all in the study, punctually as the clock was striking.

"Well, what is M. de Connal's answer?" cried Mademoiselle.

"If he hesitate, my dear Dore, give him up dat minute."

"Undoubtedly," said Dora: "I have too much spirit to do otherwise. What's his answer, father?"

"His answer, my dear child, has proved that you knew him better than I did —he scorns the offer of half your fortune—for your whole fortune he would not give you up."

"I thought so," cried Dora, triumphantly.

"I thought so," echoed Mademoiselle.

"I did him injustice," cried Ormond. "I am glad that M. de Connal has proved himself worthy of you, Dora, since you really approve of him—you have not a friend in the world, next to your father, who wishes your happiness more sincerely than I do."

He hurried out of the room.

"There's a heart for you!" said Corny.

"Not for me," said Mademoiselle: "he has no passion in him."

"I give you joy, Dora," said her father. "I own I misjudged the man—on account of his being a bit of a coxcomb. But if you can put up with that, so will I—when I have done a man injustice, I will make it up to him every way I can. Now let him, he has my consent, be as great a coxcomb as ever wore red heels. I'll put up with it all, since he really loves my child. I did not think he would have stood the test."

Nor would he, had not he been properly prepared by Mademoiselle—she had, before M. de Connal went to Corny, sent him a little billet, which told him the test that would be proposed, and thus prevented all possibility of her dear niece's being disappointed in her lover or her husband.



CHAPTER XV.

Vain of showing that he was not in the slightest degree jealous, Connal talked to Ormond in the freest manner imaginable, touching with indifference even on the very subject which Ormond, from feelings of delicacy and honour, had anxiously avoided. Connal seemed to be perfectly aware how matters had stood before his arrival between Dora and our young hero. "It was all very well," he said, "quite natural—in the common course of things—impossible it should have been otherwise. A young woman, who saw no one else, must inevitably fall in love with the first agreeable young man who made love to her, or who did not make love to her—it was quite equal to him which. He had heard wonders from his father-in-law elect on that last topic, and he was willing to oblige him, or any other gentleman or lady, by believing miracles."

Ormond, extremely embarrassed by the want of delicacy and feeling with which this polished coxcomb spoke, had, however, sufficient presence of mind to avoid, either by word or look, making any particular application of what was said.

"You have really prodigious presence of mind, and discretion, and tact, for a young man who has, I presume, had so little practice in these affairs," said Connal; "but don't constrain yourself longer. I speak frankly to take off all embarrassment on your part—you see there exists none on mine—never, for a moment: no, how can it possibly signify," continued he, "to any man of common sense, who, or what a woman liked before she saw him? You don't think a man, who has seen any thing of the world, would trouble himself to inquire whether he was, or was not, the first love of the woman he is going to marry. To marry—observe the emphasis—distinguish—distinguish, and seriously let us calculate."

Ormond gave no interruption to his calculations, and the petit-maitre, in a tone of philosophic fatuity, asked, "Of the numbers of your English or Irish wives—all excellent—how many, I pray you, do you calculate are now married to the man they first, fell in love with, as they call it? My good sir, not five per cent., depend on it. The thing is morally impossible, unless girls are married out of a convent, as with us in France, and very difficult even then; and after all, what are the French husbands the better for it? I understand English husbands think themselves best off. I don't pretend to judge; but they seem to prefer what they call domestic happiness to the French esprit de societe. Still, this may be prejudice of education—of country: each nation has its taste. Every thing is for the best in this world, for people who know how to make the best of it. You would not think, to look at me, I was so philosophic: but even in the midst of my military career I have thought—thought profoundly. Every body in France thinks now," said M. de Connal, taking a pinch of snuff with a very pensive air.

"Every body in France thinks now!" repeated Ormond.

"Every man of a certain rank, that is to say."

"That is to say, of your rank," said Ormond.

"Nay, I don't give myself as an example; but—you may judge—I own I am surprised to find myself philosophizing here in the Black Islands—but one philosophizes every where." "And you would have more time for it here, I should suppose, than in Paris?"

"Time, my dear sir—no such thing! Time is merely in idea; but Tais-toi Jean Jacques! Tais-toi Condillac! To resume the chain of our reasoning— love and marriage—I say it all comes to much the same thing in France and in these countries—after all. There is more gallantry, perhaps, before marriage in England, more after marriage in France—which has the better bargain? I don't pretend to decide. Philosophic doubt for me, especially in cases where 'tis not worth while to determine; but I see I astonish you, Mr. Ormond."

"You do, indeed," said Ormond, ingenuously.

"I give you joy—I envy you," said M. de Connal, sighing.

"After a certain age, if one lives in the world, one can't be astonished— that's a lost pleasure."

"To me who have lived out of the world it is a pleasure, or rather a sensation—I am not sure whether I should call it a, pleasure—that is not likely to be soon exhausted," said Ormond. "A sensation! and you are not sure whether you should call it a pleasure. Do you know you've a genius for metaphysics?"

"I!" exclaimed Ormond.

"Ah! now I have astonished you again. Good! whether pleasurable or not, trust me, nothing is so improving to a young man as to be well astonished. Astonishment I conceive to be a sort of mental electric shock—electric fire; it opens at once and enlightens the understanding: and really you have an understanding so well worth enlightening—I do assure you, that your natural acuteness will, whenever and wherever you appear, make you un homme marquant."

"Oh! spare me, Mr. Connal," said Ormond. "I am not used to French compliment."

"No, upon my honour, without compliment, in all English bonhommie," (laying his hand upon his heart)—"upon the honour of a gentleman, your remarks have sometimes perfectly astonished me."

"Really!" said Ormond; "but I thought you had lived so much in the world, you could not be astonished."

"I thought so, I own," said Connal; "but it was reserved for M. Ormond to convince me of my mistake, to revive an old pleasure—more difficult still than to invent a new one! In recompense I hope I give you some new ideas— just throw out opinions for you. Accept—reject—reject now—accept an hour, a year hence, perhaps—just as it strikes—merely materials for thinking, I give you."

"Thank you," said Ormond; "and be assured they are not lost upon me. You have given me a great deal to think of seriously."

"Seriously!—no; that's your fault, your national fault. Permit me: what you want chiefly in conversation—in every thing, is a certain degree of— of—you have no English word—lightness."

"Legerete, perhaps you mean," said Ormond.

"Precisely. I forgot you understood French so well. Legerete— untranslatable!—You seize my idea."

He left Ormond, as he fancied, in admiration of the man who, in his own opinion, possessed the whole theory and practice of the art of pleasing, and the science of happiness.

M. de Connal's conversation and example might have produced a great effect on the mind of a youth of Ormond's strong passions, lively imagination, and total ignorance of the world, if he had met this brilliant officer in different society. Had he seen Connal only as a man shining in company, or considered him merely as a companion, he must have been dazzled by his fashion, charmed by his gaiety, and imposed upon by his decisive tone.

Had such a vision lighted on the Black Islands, and appeared to our hero suddenly, in any other circumstances but those in which it did appear, it might have struck and overawed him; and without inquiring "whether from heaven or hell," he might have followed wherever it led or pointed the way. But in the form of a triumphant rival—without delicacy, without feeling, neither deserving nor loving the woman he had won—not likely to make Dora happy—almost certain to make her father miserable—there was no danger that Black Connal could ever obtain any ascendancy over Ormond; on the contrary, Connal was useful in forming our hero's character. The electric shock of astonishment did operate in a salutary manner in opening Harry's understanding: the materials for thinking were not thrown away: he did think—even in the Black Islands; and in judging of Connal's character, he made continual progress in forming his own: he had motive for exercising his judgment—he was anxious to study the man's character on Dora's account.

Seeing his unpolished friend, old Corny, and this finished young man of the world, in daily contrast, Ormond had occasion to compare the real and the factitious, both in matter and manner: he distinguished, and felt often acutely, the difference between that politeness of the heart, which respects and sympathizes with the feelings of others, and that conventional politeness, which is shown merely to gratify the vanity of him by whom it is displayed. In the same way he soon discriminated, in conversation, between Corny's power of original thinking, and M. de Connal's knack of throwing old thoughts into new words; between the power of answering an argument, and the art of evading it by a repartee. But it was chiefly in comparing different ideas of happiness and modes of life, that our young hero's mind was enlarged by Connal's conversation—whilst the comparison he secretly made between this polished gentleman's principles and his own, was always more satisfactory to his pride of virtue, than Connal's vanity could have conceived to be possible.

One day some conversation passed between Connal and his father-in-law elect, as he now always called him, upon his future plans of life.

Good Corny said he did not know how to hope that, during the few years he had to live, Connal would not think of taking his daughter from him to Paris, as, from some words that had dropped from Mademoiselle, he had reason to fear.

"No," Connal said, "he had formed no such cruel intention: the Irish half of Mademoiselle must have blundered on this occasion. He would do his utmost, if he could with honour, to retire from the service; unless the service imperiously called him away, he should settle in Ireland: he should make it a point even, independently of his duty to his own father, not to take Miss O'Shane from her country and her friends."

The father, open-hearted and generous himself, was fond to believe what he wished: and confiding in these promises, the old man forgave all that he did not otherwise approve of in his future son-in-law, and thanked him almost with tears in his eyes; still repeating, as his natural penetration remonstrated against his credulity, "But I could hardly have believed this from such a young man as you, Captain Connal. Indeed, how you could ever bring yourself to think of settling in retirement is wonderful to me; but love does mighty things, brings about great changes."

French commonplaces of sentiment upon love, and compliments on Dora's charms and his own sensibility, were poured out by Connal, and the father left the room satisfied.

Connal then, throwing himself back in his chair, burst out a laughing, and turning to Ormond, the only person in the room, said, "Could you have conceived this?"

"Conceived what, sir?" said Ormond.

"Conceived this King Corny's capacity for belief? What!—believe that I will settle in his Black Islands!—I!—As well believe me to be half marble, half man, like the unfortunate in the Black Islands of the Arabian Tales. Settle in the Black Islands!—No: could you conceive a man on earth could be found so simple as to credit such a thing?"

"Here is another man on earth who was simple enough to believe it," said Ormond, "and to give you credit for it."

"You!" cried Connal—"That's too much!—Impossible!"

"But when you said it—when I heard you promise it to Mr. O'Shane—"

"Oh, mercy!—Don't kill me with laughing!" said he, laughing affectedly: "Oh! that face of yours—there is no standing it. You heard me promise— and the accent on promise. Why, even women, now-a-days, don't lay such an emphasis on a promise."

"That, I suppose, depends on who gives it." said Ormond.

"Rather on who receives it," said Connal: "but look here, you who understand the doctrine of promises, tell me what a poor conscientious man must do who has two pulling him different ways?"

"A conscientious man cannot have given two diametrically opposite promises."

"Diametrically!—Thank you for that word—it just saves my lost conscience. Commend me always to an epithet in the last resource for giving one latitude of conscience in these nice cases—I have not given two diametrically opposite—no, I have only given four that cross one another. One to your King Corny; another to my angel, Dora; another to the dear aunt; and a fourth to my dearer self. First promise to King Corny, to settle in the Black Islands; a gratuitous promise, signifying nothing—read Burlamaqui: second promise to Mademoiselle, to go and live with her at Paris; with her—on the face of it absurd! a promise extorted too under fear of my life, of immediate peril of being talked to death—see Vatel on extorted promises—void: third promise to my angel, Dora, to live wherever she pleases; but that's a lover's promise, made to be broken—see Love's Calendar, or, if you prefer the bookmen's authority, I don't doubt that, under the head of promises made when a man is not in his right senses, some of those learned fellows in wigs would bring me off sain et sauf: but now for my fourth promise—I am a man of honour—when I make a promise intending to keep it, no man so scrupulous; all promises made to myself come under this head; and I have promised myself to live, and make my wife live, wherever I please, or not to live with her at all. This promise I shall bold sacred. Oblige me with a smile, Mr. Ormond—a smile of approbation."

"Excuse me, Mr. Connal, that is impossible—I am sincere."

"So am I, and sincerely you are too romantic. See things as they are, as a man of the world, I beseech you."

"I am not a man of the world, and I thank God for it," cried Ormond.

"Thank your God for what you please," said Connal; "but in disdaining to be a man of the world, you will not, I hope, refuse to let me think you a man of common sense."

"Think what you please of me," said Ormond, rather haughtily; "what I think of myself is the chief point with me."

"You will lose this little brusquerie of manner," said Connal, "when you have mixed more with mankind. Providentially, we are all made dependent on one another's good opinion. Even I, you see, cannot live without yours."

Whether from vanity, from the habit of wishing to charm every body in every house he entered, especially any one who made resistance; or whether he was piqued and amused with Ormond's frank and natural character, and determined to see how far he could urge him, Connal went on, though our young hero gave him no encouragement to hope that he should win his good opinion.

"Candidly," said he, "put yourself in my place for a moment: I was in England, following my own projects; I was not in love with the girl as you —well, pardon—as anybody might have been—but I was at a distance, that makes all the difference: I am sent for over by two fathers, and I am told that in consequence of my good or evil fortune in being born a twin, and of some inconceivable promise between two Irish fathers over a punch-bowl, I am to have the refusal, I should rather say the acceptance, of a very pretty girl with a very pretty fortune. Now, except just at the moment when the overture reached me, it could not have been listened to for a moment by such a man as I am."

"Insufferable coxcomb," said Ormond to himself.

"But, to answer a question, which I omitted to answer just now to my father-in-law,—what could induce me to come over and think of settling in the Black Islands? I answer—for I am determined to win your confidence by my candour—I answer in one word, un billard—a billiard-table. To tell you all, I confess—"

"Confess nothing, I beg, Mr. Connal, to me, that you do not wish to be known to Mr. O'Shane: I am his friend—he is my benefactor."

"You would not repeat—you are a gentleman, and a man of honour."

"I am; and as such I desire, on this occasion, not to hear what I ought neither to repeat nor to keep secret. It is my duty not to leave my benefactor in the dark as to any point."

"Oh! come—come," interrupted Connal, "we had better not take it on this serious tone, lest, if we begin to talk of duty, we should presently conceive it to be our duty to run one another through the body, which would be no pleasure."

"No pleasure," said Ormond; "but if it became a duty, I hope, on all occasions, I should be able to do whatever I thought a duty. Therefore to avoid any misunderstanding, Mr. Connal, let me beg that you will not honour me farther with your confidence. I cannot undertake to be the confidant of any one, of whom I have never professed myself to be the friend."

"Ca suffit," said Connal, lightly. "We understand one another now perfectly'—you shall in future play the part of prince, and not of confidant. Pardon me, I forgot your highness's pretensions;" so saying, he gaily turned on his heel, and left the room.

From this time forward little conversation passed between Mr. Connal and Ormond—little indeed between Ormond and Dora. With Mademoiselle, Ormond had long ceased to be a favourite, and even her loquacity now seldom addressed itself to him. He was in a painful situation;—he spent as much of his time as he could at the farm his friend had given him. As soon as O'Shane found that there was no truth in the report of Black Connal's intended marriage in England, that he claimed in earnest his promise of his daughter, and that Dora herself inclined to the new love, his kind heart felt for poor Harry.

Though he did not know all that had passed, yet he saw the awkwardness and difficulty of Ormond's present situation, and, whatever it might cost him to part with his young friend, with his adopted son, Corny determined not to detain him longer.

"Harry Ormond, my boy," said he to him one day, "time for you to see something of the world, also for the world to see something of you; I've kept you here for my own pleasure too long: as long as I had any hope of settling you as I wished 'twas a sufficient excuse to myself; but now I have none left—I must part with you: and so, by the blessing, God helping me to conquer my selfishness, and the yearnings of my heart towards you, I will. I mean," continued he, "to send you far from me—to banish you for your good from the Black Islands entirely. Nay, don't you interrupt me, nor say a word; for if you do, I shall be too soft to have the heart to do you justice. You know you said yourself, and I felt it for you, that it was best you should leave this. Well, I have been thinking of you ever since, and licking different projects into shape for you—listening too to every thing Connal threw out; but all he says that way is in the air—no substance, when you try to have and to hold—too full of himself, that youngster, to be a friend to another."

"There is no reason why he should be my friend, sir," said Ormond—"I do not pretend to be his; and I rejoice in not being under any obligations to him."

"Right!—and high!—just as I feel for you. After all, I approve of your own wish to go into the British service in preference to any foreign service, and you could not be of the Irish brigade—Harry."

"Indeed, sir, I infinitely prefer," said Ormond, "the service of my own country—the service in which my father—I know nothing of my father, but I have always heard him spoken of as a good officer; I hope I shall not disgrace his name. The English service for me, sir, if you please."

"Why, then, I'm glad you see things as I do, and are not run away with by uniform, and all that. I have lodged the needful in the bank, to purchase a commission for you, my son. Now! no more go to thank me, if you love me, Harry, than you would your own father. I've written to a friend to choose a regiment in which there'd be as little danger as possible for you."

"As little danger as possible!" repeated Harry, surprised.

"Phoo! you don't think I mean as little danger of fighting. I would not wrong you so. No—but as little danger of gambling. Not that you're inclined to it, or any thing else that's bad—but there is no knowing what company might lead the best into; and it is my duty and inclination to look as close to all these things as if for my own son."

"My kind father—no father could be kinder," cried Harry, quite overpowered.

"So then you go as soon as the commission comes—that's settled; and I hope I shall be able to bear it, Harry, old as I am. There may perhaps be a delay of a little time longer than you could wish."

"Oh! sir, as long as you wish me to stay with you—"

"Not a minute beyond what's necessary. I mention the cause of delay, that you may not think I'm dallying for my own sake. You remember General Albemarle, who came here one day last year—election time, canvassing—the general that had lost the arm."

"Perfectly, sir, I remember your answer—'I will give my interest to this empty sleeve.'"

"Thank you—never a word lost upon you. Well, now I have hopes that this man—this general, will take you by the hand; for he has a hand left yet, and a powerful one to serve a friend; and I've requested him to keep his eye upon you, and I have asked his advice: so we can't stir till we get it, and that will be eight days, or ten, say. My boy, you must bear on as you are—we have the comfort of the workshop to ourselves, and some rational recreation; good shooting we will have soon too, for the first time this season."

Among the various circumstances which endeared Harry to our singular monarch, his skill and keenness as a sportsman were not inconsiderable: he knew where all the game in the island was to be found; so that, when his good old patron was permitted by the gout to take the field, Harry's assistance saved him a vast deal of unnecessary toil, and gratified him in his favourite amusement, whilst he, at the same time, sympathized in the sport. Corny, besides being a good shot, was an excellent mechanic: he beguiled the hours, when there was neither hunting nor shooting, in a workshop which was furnished with the best tools. Among the other occupations at the work-bench, he was particularly skilful in making and adjusting the locks of guns, and in boring and polishing the inside of their barrels to the utmost perfection: he had contrived and executed a tool for the enlarging the barrel of a gun in any particular part, so as to increase its effect in adding to the force of the discharge, and in preventing the shot from scattering too widely.

The hope of the success of his contrivance, and the prospect of going out with Harry on the approaching first of September, solaced King Corny, and seemed to keep up his spirits, through all the vexation he felt concerning Connal and this marriage, which evidently was not to his taste. It was to Dora's, however, and was becoming more evidently so every hour—and soon M. Connal pressed, and Mademoiselle urged, and Dora named—the happy day—and Mademoiselle, in transports, prepared to go to Dublin, with her niece, to choose the wedding-clothes, and, Connal to bespeak the equipages.

Mademoiselle was quick in her operations when dress was in question: the preparations for the delightful journey were soon made—the morning for their departure came—the carriage and horses were sent over the water early—and O'Shane and Harry afterwards accompanied the party in the boat to the other side of the lake, where the carriage waited with the door open. Connal, after handing in Mademoiselle, turned to look for his destined bride—who was taking leave of her father—Harry Ormond standing by. The moment she quitted her father's embrace, Father Jos poured with both his hands on her head the benedictions of all the saints. Released from Father Jos, Captain Connal hurried her on: Harry held out his hand to her as she passed. "Good bye, Dora—probably I shall never see you again."

"Oh, Harry!" said she, one touch of natural feeling stopping her short— "Oh, Harry!—Why?" Bursting into tears, she drew her hand from Connal, and gave it to Harry: Harry received the hand openly and cordially, shook it heartily, but took no advantage and no notice of the feelings by which he saw her at that moment agitated.

"Forgive!" she began.

"Good bye, dear Dora. God bless you—may you be as happy—half as happy, as I wish you to be!"

"To be sure she will—happy as the day is long," said Mademoiselle, leaning out of the carriage: "why will you make her cry, Mr. Ormond, spoiling her eyes at parting? Come in to me—Dora, M. de Connal is waiting to hand you, mon enfant."

"Is her dressing-box in, and all right?" asked Captain Connal, as he handed Dora into the carriage, who was still weeping.

"Bad compliment to M. de Connal, mon amie. Vrai scandale!" said Mademoiselle, pulling up the glass, while Dora sunk back in the carriage, sobbing without restraint.

"Good morning," said Connal, who had now mounted his Mr. Ormond, "Adieu, Mr. Ormond—command me in any way you please. Drive on!"



CHAPTER XVI.

The evening after the departure of the happy trio, who were gone to Dublin to buy wedding-dresses, the party remaining at Castle Corny consisted only of King Corny, Ormond, and Father Jos. When the candles were lighted, his majesty gave a long and loud yawn, Harry set the backgammon table for him, and Father Jos, as usual, settled himself in the chimney corner; "And now Mademoiselle's gone," said he, "I shall take leave to indulge myself in my pipe."

"You were on the continent this morning, Father Jos," said Cornelius. "Did ye learn any news for us? Size ace! that secures two points."

"News! I did," said Father Jos.

"Why not tell it us, then?"

"I was not asked. You both seemed so wrapped up, I waited my time and opportunity. There's a new parson come to Castle Hermitage."

"What new person?" said King Corny. "Doublets, aces, Harry."

"A new parson I'm talking of," said Father Jos, "that has just got the living there; and they say Sir Ulick's mad about it, in Dublin, where he is still."

"Mad!—Three men up—and you can't enter, Harry. Well, what is he mad about?"

"Because of the presentation to the living," replied the priest, "which government wouldn't make him a compliment of, as he expected."

"He is always expecting compliments from government," said Corny, "and always getting disappointments. Such throws as you have, Harry—Sixes! again—Well, what luck!—all over with me—It is only a hit at any rate! But what kind of man," continued he, "is this new clergyman?"

"Oh! them parsons is all one kind," said Father Jos.

"All one kind! No, no more than our own priests," said Corny. "There's good and bad, and all the difference in life."

"I don't know any thing at all about it," said Father Jos, sullenly; "but this I know, that no doubt he'll soon be over here, or his proctor, looking for the tithes."

"I hope we will have no quarrels," said Corny.

"They ought to be abolished," said Father Jos, "the tithes, that is, I mean."

"And the quarrels, too, I hope," said Ormond.

"Oh! It's not our fault if there's quarrels," said Father Jos.

"Faults on both sides generally in all quarrels," said Corny.

"In lay quarrels, like enough," said Father Jos. "In church quarrels, it don't become a good Catholic to say that."

"What?" said Corny.

"That," said the priest.

"Which?" said Corny.

"That which you said, that there's faults on both sides; sure there's but one side, and that's our own side, can be in the right there can't be two right sides, can there? and consequently I there won't be two wrong sides, will there?—Ergo, there cannot, by a parity of rasoning, be two sides in the wrong."

"Well, Harry, I'll take the black men now, and gammon you," said Corny. "Play away, man—what are you thinking of? is it of what Father Jos said? 'tis beyond the limits of the human understanding."

Father Jos puffed away at his pipe for some time.

"I was tired and ashamed of all the wrangling for two-pence with the last man," said King Corny, "and I believe I was sometimes too hard and too hot myself; but if this man's a gentleman, I think we shall agree. Did you hear his name, or any thing at all about him, Father?"

"He is one of them refugee families, the Huguenots, banished France by the adict of Nantz, they say, and his name's Cambray."

"Cambray!" exclaimed Ormond.

"A very good name," said O'Shane; "but what do you know of it, Harry?"

"Only, sir, I happened to meet with a Dr. Cambray the winter I was in Dublin, whom I thought a very agreeable, respectable, amiable man—and I wonder whether this is the same person."

"There is something more now, Harry Ormond, I know by your face," said Corny: "there's some story of or belonging to Dr. Cambray—what is it?"

"No story, only a slight circumstance—which, if you please, I'd rather not tell you, sir," said Ormond.

"That is something very extraordinary, and looks mysterious," said Father Jos.

"Nothing mysterious, I assure you," said Ormond,—"a mere trifle, which, if it concerned only myself, I would tell directly."

"Let him alone, father," said King Corny; "I am sure he has a good reason— and I'm not curious: only let me whisper this in your ear to show you my own penetration, Harry—I'd lay my life" (said he, stretching over and whispering), "I'd lay my life Miss Annaly has something to do with it."

"Miss Annaly!—nothing in the world—only—yes, I recollect she was present."

"There now—would not any body think I'm a conjuror? a physiognomist is cousin to (and not twice removed from) a conjuror."

"But I assure you, though you happened to guess right partly as to her being present, you are totally mistaken, sir, as to the rest."

"My dear Harry, totally means wholly: if I'm right in a part, I can't be mistaken in the whole. I am glad to make you smile, any way—and I wish I was right altogether, and that you was as rich as Croesus into the bargain; but stay a bit, if you come home a hero from the wars—that may do—ladies are mighty fond of heroes."

It was in vain that Ormond assured his good old imaginative friend that he was upon a wrong scent. Cornelius stopped to humour him; but was convinced that he was right: then turned to the still smoking Father Jos, and went on asking questions about Dr. Cambray.

"I know nothing at all about him," said Father Jos, "but this, that Father M'Cormuck has dined with him, if I'm not misinformed, oftener than I think becoming in these times—making too free! And in the chapel last Sunday, I hear he made a very extraordinary address to his flock—there was one took down the words, and handed them to me: after remarking on the great distress of the season—first and foremost about the keeping of fast days the year—he allowed the poor of his flock, which is almost all, to eat meat whenever offered to them, because, said he, many would starve—now mark the obnoxious word—'if it was not for their benevolent Protestant neighbours, who make soup and broth for them.'"

"What is there obnoxious in that?" said Cornelius.

"Wait till you hear the end—'and feed and clothe the distressed.'"

"That is not obnoxious either, I hope," said Ormond, laughing.

"Young gentleman, you belong to the establishment, and are no judge in this case, permit me to remark," said Father Jos; "and I could wish Mr. O'Shane would hear to the end, before he joins in a Protestant laugh."

"I've heard of a 'Protestant wind' before," said Harry, "but not of a Protestant laugh."

"Well, I'm serious, Father Jos," said Corny; "let me hear to the end what makes your face so long."

"'And, I am sorry to say, show more charity to them than their own people, the rich Catholics, sometimes do.' If that is not downright slander, I don't know what is," said Father Jos.

"Are you sure it is not truth, Father?" said Corny.

"And if it was, even, so much the worse, to be telling it in the chapel, and to his flock—very improper in a priest, very extraordinary conduct!"

Father Jos worked himself up to a high pitch of indignation, and railed and smoked for some time, while O'Shane and Ormond joined in defending M'Cormuck, and his address to his flock—and even his dining with the new clergyman of the parish. Father Jos gave up and had his punch. The result of the—whole was, that Ormond proposed to pay his respects the next morning to Dr. Cambray.

"Very proper," said O'Shane: "do so—fit you should—you are of his people, and you are acquainted with the gentleman—and I'd have you go and show yourself safe to him, that we've made no tampering with you."

Father Jos could not say so much, therefore he said nothing.

O'Shane continued, "A very exact church-goer at the little church there you've always been, at the other side of the lake—never hindered—make what compliment you will proper for me—say I'm too old and clumsy for morning visitings, and never go out of my islands. But still I can love my neighbour in or out of them, and hope, in the name of peace, to be on good terms. Sha'n't be my fault if them tithes come across. Then I wish that bone of contention was from between the two churches. Meantime, I'm not snarling, if others is not craving: and I'd wish for the look of it, for your sake, Harry, that it should be all smooth; so say any thing you will for me to this Dr. Cambray,—though we are of a different faith, I should do any thing in rason."

"Rason! what's that about rason?" said Father Jos: "I hope faith comes before rason."

"And after it, too, I hope, Father," said Corny.

Father Jos finished his punch, and went to sleep upon it.

Ormond, next morning, paid his visit—Dr. Cambray was not at home; but Harry was charmed with the neatness of his house, and with the amiable and happy appearance of his family. He had never before seen Mrs. Cambray or her daughters, though he had met the doctor in Dublin. The circumstance which Harry had declined mentioning, when Corny questioned him about his acquaintance with Dr. Cambray, was very slight, though Father Jos had imagined it to be of mysterious importance. It had happened, that among the dissipated set of young men with whom Marcus O'Shane and Harry had passed that winter in Dublin, a party had one Sunday gone to hear the singing at the Asylum, and had behaved in a very unbecoming manner during the service. Dr. Cambray preached—he spoke to the young gentlemen afterwards with mild but becoming dignity. Harry Ormond instantly, sensible of his error, made proper apologies, and erred no farther. But Marcus O'Shane in particular, who was not accustomed to endure anything, much less any person, that crossed his humour, spoke of Dr. Cambray afterwards with vindictive bitterness, and with all his talents of mimicry endeavoured to make him ridiculous. Harry defended him with a warmth of ingenuous eloquence which did him honour; and with truth, courage, and candour, that did him still more, corrected some of Marcus's mis-statements, declaring that they had all been much to blame. Lady Annaly and her daughter were present, and this was one of the circumstances to which her ladyship had alluded, when she said that some things had occurred that had prepossessed her with a favourable opinion of Ormond's character. Dr. Cambray knew nothing of the attack or the defence till some time afterwards; and it was now so long ago, and Harry was so much altered since that time, that it was scarcely to be expected the doctor should recollect even his person. However, when Dr. Cambray came to the Black Islands to return his visit, he did immediately recognize Ormond, and seemed so much pleased with meeting him again, and so much interested about him, that Corny's warm heart was immediately won. Independently of this, the doctor's persuasive benevolent politeness could not have failed to operate, as it usually did, even on a first acquaintance, in pleasing and conciliating even those who were of opposite opinions.

"There, now," said Corny, when the doctor was gone, "there, now, is a sincere minister of the Gospel for you, and a polite gentleman into the bargain. Now that's politeness that does not trouble me—that's not for show—that's for us, not himself, mark!—and conversation! Why that man has conversation for the prince and the peasant—the courtier and the anchorite. Did not he find plenty for me, and got more out of me than I thought was in me—and the same if I'd been a monk of La Trappe, he would have made me talk like a pie. Now there's a man of the high world that the low world can like, very different from—"

Poor Corny paused, checked himself, and then resumed—"Principles, religion, and all no hinderance!—liberal and sincere too! Well, I only wish—Father Jos, no offence—I only wish, for Dr. Cambray's sake, and the Catholic church's sake, I was, for one day, Archbishop of Canterbury, or Primate of all Ireland, or whatever else makes the bishops in your church, and I'd skip over dean and archdeacon, and all, and make that man—clean a bishop before night."

Harry smiled, and wished he had the power as well as the good-will.

Father Jos said, "A man ought to be ashamed not to think of his own first."

"Now, Harry, don't think I'd make a bishop lightly," continued King Corny; "I would not—I've been a king too long for that; and though only a king of my own fashion, I know what's fit for governing a country, observe me!— Cousin Ulick would make a job of a bishop, but I would not—nor I wouldn't to please my fancy. Now don't think I'd make that man a bishop just because he noticed and praised my gimcracks and inventions, and substitutes."

Father Jos smiled, and demurely abased his eye.

"Oh! then you don't know me as well as you think you do, father," said O'Shane. "Nor what's more, Harry, not his noting down the two regiments to make inquiry for friends for you, Harry, shouldn't have bribed me to partiality—though I could have kissed his shoe-ties for it."

"Mercy on you!" said Father Jos: "this doctor has bewitched you."

"But did you mind, then," persisted Corny, "the way he spoke of that cousin of mine, Sir Ulick, who he saw I did not like, and who has been, as you tell us, bitter against him, and even against his getting the living. Well, the way this Doctor Cambray spoke then pleased me—good morals without preaching—there's do good to your enemies—the true Christian doctrine— and the hardest point. Oh! let Father Jos say what he will, there's the man will be in heaven before many—heretic or no heretic, Harry!"

Father Jos shrugged up his shoulders, and then fixing the: glass in his spectacles, replied, "We shall see better when we come to the tithes."

"That's true," said Corny.

He walked off to his workshop, and took down his fowling-piece to put the finishing stroke to his work for the next day, which was to be the first day of partridge-shooting: he looked forward with delight—anticipating the gratification he should have in going out shooting with Harry, and trying his new fowling-piece. "But I won't go out to-morrow till the post has come in; for my mind couldn't enjoy the sport till I was satisfied whether the answer could come about your commission, Harry: my mind misgives me—that is, my calculation tells me, that it will come to-morrow."

Good Corny's calculations were just: the next morning the little post-boy brought answers to various letters which he had written about Ormond—one to Ormond from Sir Ulick O'Shane, repeating his approbation of his ward's going into the army, approving of all the steps Cornelius had taken— especially of his intention of paying for the commission.

"All's well," Cornelius said. The next letter was from Cornelius's banker, saying that the five hundred pound was lodged, ready. "All well." The army-agent wrote, "that he had commissions in two different regiments, waiting Mr. O'Shane's choice and orders per return of post, to purchase in conformity."—"That's all well." General Albemarle's answer to Mr. O'Shane's letter was most satisfactory: in terms that were not merely officially polite, but kind, "he assured Mr. O'Shane that he should, as far as it was in his power, pay attention to the young gentleman, whom Mr. O'Shane had so strongly recommended to his care, and by whose appearance and manner the general said he had been prepossessed, when he saw him some months ago at Corny Castle. There was a commission vacant in his son's regiment, which he recommended to Mr. Ormond."

"The very thing I could have wished for you, my dear boy—you shall go off the day after to-morrow—not a moment's delay—I'll answer the letters this minute."

But Harry reminded him that the post did not go out till the next day, and urged him not to lose this fine day—this first day of the season for partridge shooting.

"Time enough for my business after we come home—the post does not go out till morning."

"That's true: come off, then—let's enjoy the fine day sent us; and my gun, too—I forgot; for I do believe, Harry, I love you better even than my gun," said the warm-hearted Corny. "Call Ormond. Moriarty; let us have him with us—he'll enjoy it beyond all: one of the last day's shooting with his own Prince Harry!—but, poor fellow, we'll not tell him that."

Moriarty and the dogs were summoned, and the fineness of the day, and the promise of good sport, put Moriarty in remarkably good spirits. By degrees King Corny's own spirits rose, and he forgot that it was the last day with Prince Harry, and he enjoyed the sport. After various trials of his new fowling-piece, both the king and the prince agreed that it succeeded to admiration. But even in the midst of his pride in his success, and his joy in the sport, his superior fondness for Harry prevailed, and showed itself in little, almost delicate instances of kindness, which could hardly have been expected from his unpolished mind. As they crossed a bog, he stooped every now and then, and plucked different kinds of bog-plants and heaths.

"Here, Harry," said he, "mind these for Dr. Cambray. Remember yesterday his mentioning that a daughter of his was making a botanical collection, and there's Sheelah can tell you all the Irish names and uses. Some I can note for you myself; and here, this minute—by great luck! the very thing he wanted!—the andromeda, I'll swear to it: throw away all and keep this— carry it to her to-morrow—for I will have you make a friend of that Dr. Cambray; and no way so sure or fair to the father's heart as by proper attention to the daughter—I know that by myself. Hush, now, till I have that partridge!—Whirr!—Shot him clean, my dear gun!—Was not that good, Harry?"

Thus they continued their sport till late; and returning, loaded with game, had nearly reached the palace, when Corny, who had marked a covey, quitted Harry, and sent his dog to spring it, at a distance much greater than the usual reach of a common fowling-piece. Harry heard a shot, and a moment afterwards a violent shout of despair;—he knew the voice to be that of Moriarty, and running to the spot from whence it came, he found his friend, his benefactor, weltering in his blood. The fowling-piece, overloaded, had burst, and a large splinter of the barrel had fractured the skull, and had sunk into the brain. As Moriarty was trying to raise his head, O'Shane uttered some words, of which all that was intelligible was the name of Harry Ormond. His eye was fixed on Harry, but the meaning of the eye was gone. He squeezed Harry's hand, and an instant afterwards O'Shane's hand was powerless. The dearest, the only real friend Harry Ormond had upon earth was gone for ever!



CHAPTER XVII.

A boy passing by saw what had happened, and ran to the house, calling as he went to some workmen, who hastened to the place, where they heard the howling of the dogs. Ormond neither heard nor saw—till Moriarty said, "He must be carried home;" and some one approaching to lift the body, Ormond started up, pushed the man back, without uttering a syllable—made a sign to Moriarty, and between them they carried the body home. Sheelah and the women came out to meet them, wringing their hands, and uttering loud lamentations. Ormond, bearing his burden as if insensible of what he bore, walked onward, looking at no one, answering none, but forcing his way straight into the house, and on—till they came to O'Shane's bedchamber, which was upon the ground-floor—there laid him on his bed. The women had followed, and all those who had gathered on the way rushed in to see and to bewail. Ormond looked up, and saw the people about the bed, and made a sign to Moriarty to keep them away, which he did, as well as he could. But they would not be kept back—Sheelah, especially, pressed forward, crying loudly, till Moriarty, with whom she was struggling, pointed to Harry. Struck with his fixed look, she submitted at once. "Best leave him!" said she. She put every body out of the room before her, and turning to Ormond, said, they would leave him "a little space of time till the priest should come, who was at a clergy dinner, but was sent for."

When Ormond was left alone he locked the door, and kneeling beside the dead, offered up prayers for the friend he had lost, and there remained some time in stillness and silence, till Sheelah knocked at the door, to let him know that the priest was come. Then retiring, he went to the other end of the house, to be out of the way. The room to which he went was that in which they had been reading the letters just before they went out that morning. There was the pen which Harry had taken from his hand, and the answer just begun.

"Dear General, I hope my young friend, Harry Ormond—"

That hand could write no more!—that warm heart was cold! The certainty was so astonishing, so stupifying, that Ormond, having never yet shed a tear, stood with his eyes fixed on the paper, he knew not how long, till he felt some one touch his hand. It was the child, little Tommy, of whom O'Shane was so fond, and who was so fond of him. The child, with his whistle in his hand, stood looking up at Harry, without speaking. Ormond gazed on him for a few instants, then snatched him in his arms, and burst into an agony of tears. Sheelah, who had let the child in, now came and carried him away. "God be thanked for them tears," said she, "they will bring relief;" and so they did. The necessity for manly exertion—the sense of duty—pressed upon Ormond's recovered reason. He began directly, and wrote all the letters that were necessary to his guardian and to Miss O'Faley, to communicate the dreadful intelligence to Dora. The letters were not finished till late in the evening. Sheelah came for them, and leaving the door and the outer door to the hall open, as she came in, Ormond saw the candles lighted, and smelt the smell of tobacco and whiskey, and heard the sound of many voices.

"The wake, dear, which is beginning," said she, hastening back to shut the doors, as she saw him shudder. "Bear with it, Master Harry," said she: "hard for you!—but bear with us, dear; 'tis the custom of the country; and what else can we do but what the forefathers did?—how else for us to show respect, only as it would be expected, and has always been?—and great comfort to think we done our best for him that is gone, and comfort to know his wake will be talked of long hereafter, over the fires at night, of all the people that is there without—and that's all we have for it now: so bear with it, dear."

This night, and for two succeeding nights, the doors of Corny Castle remained open for all who chose to come.

Crowds, as many, and more, than the castle could hold, flocked to King Corny's wake, for he was greatly beloved.

There was, as Sheelah said, "plenty of cake, and wine, and tea, and tobacco, and snuff—every thing handsome as possible, and honourable to the deceased, who was always open-handed and open-hearted, and with open house too."

His praises, from time to time, were heard, and then the common business of the country was talked of—and jesting and laughter went on—and all night there were tea-drinkings for the women, and punch for the men. Sheelah, who inwardly grieved most, went about incessantly among the crowd, serving all, seeing that none, especially them who came from a distance, should be neglected—and that none should have to complain afterwards, "or to say that any thing at all was wanting or niggardly." Mrs. Betty, Sheelah's daughter, sat presiding at the tea-table, giving the keys to her mother when wanted, but never forgetting to ask for them again. Little Tommy took his cake and hid himself under the table, close by his mother, Mrs. Betty; and could not be tempted out but by Sheelah, whom he followed, watching for her to go in to Mr. Harry: when the door opened, he held by her gown, and squeezed in under her arm—and when she brought Mr. Harry his meals, she would set the child up at the table with him for company—and to tempt him to take something.

Ormond had once promised his deceased friend, that if he was in the country when he died, he would put him into his coffin. He kept his promise. The child hearing a noise, and knowing that Mr. Harry had gone into the room, could not be kept out; the crowd had left that room, and the child looked at the bed with the curtains looped up with black—and at the table at the foot of the bed, with the white cloth spread over it, and the seven candlesticks placed upon it. But the coffin fixed his attention, and he threw himself upon it, clinging to it, and crying bitterly upon King Corny, his dear King Corny, to come back to him.

It was all Sheelah could do to drag him away: Ormond, who had always liked this boy, felt now more fond of him than ever, and resolved that he should never want a friend.

"You are in the mind to attend the funeral, sir, I think you told me?" said Sheelah.

"Certainly," replied Ormond.

"Excuse me, then," said Sheelah, "if I mention—for you can't know what to do without. There will be high mass, may be you know, in the chapel. And as it's a great funeral, thirteen priests will be there, attending. And when the mass will be finished, it will be expected of you, as first of kin considered, to walk up first with your offering—whatsoever you think fit, for the priests—and to lay it down on the altar; and then each and all will follow, laying down their offerings, according as they can. I hope I'm not too bold or troublesome, sir."

Ormond thanked her for her kindness—and felt it was real kindness. He, consequently, did all that was expected from him handsomely. After the masses were over, the priests, who could not eat any thing before they said mass, had breakfast and dinner joined. Sheelah took care "the clergy was well served." Then the priests—though it was not essential that all should go, did all, to Sheelah's satisfaction, accompany the funeral the whole way, three long miles, to the burying-place of the O'Shanes; a remote old abbey-ground, marked only by some scattered trees, and a few sloping grave-stones. King Corny's funeral was followed by an immense concourse of people, on' horseback and on foot; men, women, and children: when they passed by the doors of cabins, a set of the women raised the funeral cry— not a savage howl, as is the custom in some parts of Ireland, but chanting a melancholy kind of lament, not without harmony, simple and pathetic. Ormond was convinced, that in spite of all the festivity at the wake, which had so disgusted him, the poor people mourned sincerely for the friend they had lost.

We forgot to mention that Dr. Cambray went to the Black Islands the day after O'Shane's death, and did all he could to prevail upon Ormond to go to his house while the wake was going on, and till the funeral should be over. But Ormond thought it right to stay where he was, as none of the family were there, and there was no way in which he could so strongly mark, as Sheelah said, his respect for the dead. Now that it was all over, he had at least the consolation of thinking that he had not shrunk from any thing that was, or that he conceived to be, his duty. Dr. Cambray was pleased with his conduct, and at every moment he could spare went to see him, doing all he could to console him, by strengthening in Ormond's mind the feelings of religious submission to the will of Heaven, and of pious hope and confidence. Ormond had no time left him for the indulgence of sorrow— business pressed upon him.

Cornelius O'Shane's will, which Sir Ulick blamed Harry for not mentioning in the first letter, was found to be at his banker's in Dublin. All his property was left to his daughter, except the farm, which he had given to Ormond; this was specially excepted, with legal care: also a legacy of five hundred pounds was left to Harry; a trifling bequest to Sir Ulick, being his cousin; and legacies to servants. Miss O'Faley was appointed sole executrix—this gave great umbrage to Sir Ulick O'Shane, and appeared extraordinary to many people; but the will was in due form, and nothing could be done against it, however much might be said.

Miss O'Faley, without taking notice of any thing Ormond said of the money, which had been lodged in the bank to pay for his commission, wrote as executrix to beg of him to do various business for her—all which he did; and fresh letters came with new requests, inventories to be taken, things to be sent to Dublin, money to be received and paid, stewards' and agents' accounts to be settled, business of all kinds, in short, came pouring in— upon him, a young man unused to it, and with a mind peculiarly averse from it at this moment. But when he found that he could be of service to any one belonging to his benefactor, he felt bound in gratitude to exert himself to the utmost. These circumstances, however disagreeable, had an excellent effect upon his character, giving him habits of business which were ever afterwards of use to him. It was remarkable that the only point in his letters which had concerned his own affairs still continued unanswered. Another circumstance hurt his feelings—instead of Miss O'Faley's writing to make her own requests, Mr. Connal was soon deputed by Mademoiselle to write for her. He spoke of the shock the ladies had felt, and the distressing circumstances in which they were; all in commonplace phrases, which Ormond despised, and from which he could judge nothing of Dora's real feelings.

"The marriage must, of course," Mr. Connal said, "be put off for some time; and as it would be painful to the ladies to return to Corny Castle, he had advised their staying in Dublin; and they and he feeling assured that, from Mr. Ormond's regard for the family, they might take the liberty of troubling him, they requested so and so, and the executrix begged he would see this settled and that settled at last, with gradually forgotten apologies, falling very much into the style of a person writing to an humble friend or dependent, bound to consider requests as commands."

Our young hero's pride was piqued on the one side, as much as his gratitude was alive on the other.

Sir Ulick O'Shane wrote to Harry that he was at this time peculiarly engaged with affairs of his own. He said, that as to the material point of the money lodged for the commission, he would see the executrix, and do what he could to have that settled; but as to all lesser points, Sir Ulick said, he really had not leisure to answer letters at present. He enclosed a note to Dr. Cambray, whom he recommended it to his ward to consult, and whose advice and assistance he now requested for him in pressing terms.

In consequence of this direct application from the young gentleman's guardian, Dr. Cambray felt himself authorized and called upon to interfere, where, otherwise, delicacy might have prevented him. It was fortunate for Ormond that he had Dr. Cambray's counsel to guide him, or else he would, in the first moments of feeling, have yielded too much to the suggestions of both gratitude and pride.

In the first impulse of generous pride, Ormond wanted to give up the farm which his benefactor had left him, because he wished that no possible suspicion of interested motives having influenced his attachment to Cornelius O'Shane should exist, especially with Mr. Connal, who, as the husband of Dora, would soon be the lord of all in the Black Islands.

On the other hand, when Mr. Connal wrote to him, that the executrix, having no written order from the deceased to that effect, could not pay the five hundred pounds, lodged in the bank, for his commission, Ormond was on the point of flying out with intemperate indignation. "Was not his own word sufficient? Was not the intention of his benefactor apparent from the letters? Would not this justify any executor, any person of common sense or honour?"

Dr. Cambray, his experienced and placid counsellor, brought all these sentiments to due measure by mildly showing what was law and justice, and what was fit and proper in each case; putting jealous honour, and romantic generosity, as they must be put, out of the question in business.

He prevented Ormond from embroiling himself with Connal about the legacy, and from giving up his farm. He persuaded him to decline having any thing to do with the affairs of the Black Islands.

A proper agent was appointed, who saw Ormond's accounts settled and signed, so that no blame or suspicion could rest upon him.

"There seems no probability, Mr. Ormond," said Dr. Cambray, "of your commission being immediately purchased. Your guardian, Sir Ulick O'Shane, will be detained some time longer, I understand, in Dublin. You are in a desolate situation here—you have now done all that you ought to do—leave these Black Islands, and come to Vicar's Dale: you will find there a cheerful family, and means of spending your time more agreeably, perhaps more profitably, than you can have here. I am sensible that no new friends can supply to you the place of him you have lost; but you will find pleasure in the perception, that you have, by your own merit, attached to you one friend in me, who will do all in his power to soothe and serve you.—Will you trust yourself to me?" added he, smiling, "You have already found that I do not flatter. Will you come to us?—The sooner the better—to-morrow, if you can."

It scarcely need be said, that this invitation was most cordially accepted. Next day Ormond was to leave the Black Islands. Sheelah was in despair when she found he was going: the child hung upon him so that he could hardly get out of the house, till Moriarty promised to return for the boy, and carry him over in the boat often, to see Mr. Ormond. Moriarty would not stay in the islands himself, he said, after Harry went: he let the cabin and little tenement which O'Shane had given him, and the rent was to be paid him by the agent. Ormond went, for the last time, that morning, to Ormond's Vale, to settle his own affairs there: he and Moriarty took an unusual path across this part of the island to the waterside, that they might avoid that which they had followed the last time they were out, on the day of Corny's death. They went, therefore, across a lone tract of heath-bog, where, for a considerable time, they saw no living being.

On this bog, of which Cornelius O'Shane had given Moriarty a share, the grateful poor fellow had, the year before, amused himself with cutting in large letters of about a yard long the words

"LONG LIVE KING CORNY."

He had sowed the letters with broom-seed in the spring, and had since forgotten ever to look at them; but they were now green, and struck the eye.

"Think then of this being all the trace that's left of him on the face of the earth!" said Moriarty. "I'm glad that I did even that same."

After crossing this lone bog, when they came to the waterside, they found a great crowd of people, seemingly all the inhabitants of the islands, assembled there, waiting to take leave of Master Harry; and each of them was cheered by a kind word and a look, before they would let him step into the boat.

"Ay, go to the continent," said Sheelah, "ay, go to fifty continents, and in all Ireland you'll not find hearts warmer to you than those of the Black Islands, that knows you best from a child, Master Harry dear."