substantial, and, like Miss Fitzcarril, had been handsome in its day; but it survived its contemporaries, and the present race thought it heavy and sombre. The house had altogether a desolate appearance, and, like the Canal Inn, could rarely boast of a perfect bell or lock. In the part of the house which adjoined the chapel, Mrs. O'Sullivan frequently turned the lock of a door she passed by in traversing the various passages; and her guide always said with unusual seriousness, "You can't go in there, madam;" at last the question was asked "Why?" and was answered, with a deep sigh, "That was poor Rose's apartment; nobody has ever been in it since she died but her father and poor nurse." "Then what a pity," rejoined Mrs. O'Sullivan, "not to block up the windows; let me see, three rooms back to the chapel, one, two, three, four, five, six windows—all that much taxes for nothing!" "Block up the windows of poor Rose's apartment! Blessed powers defend me!—Child!" said the angry Theresa turning to Caroline, with a vehemence of gesture and sternness of aspect that made the trembling infant, while she looked fearfully up in her face, tightly clasp her arms round Adelaide, "if you ever own this place, take care that you pay respect to every relict of your cousin; it would be as much as any one's life's worth to put an affront upon her memory."

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

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

CHAPTER III.

When the ladies retired to the drawing-room after dinner, Miss Fitzcarril proposed walking. Mrs. O'Sullivan was anxious that Adelaide and Caroline should study the good of their health by this exercise, but pleaded fatigue as an excuse for declining the promenade herself, wishing to profit by the opportunity their absence would afford, to interrogate Theresa as to the nature and extent of the Ballinamoyle property, and a thousand other et cetera. Her two elder daughters, to whom she had before dinner mentioned her distress at having her anxiety for information on this subject so long unsatisfied, understood her manœuvre, and remained to assist in the gratification of their mutual curiosity. Adelaide and Caroline accordingly set out on their ramble. Miss Fitzcarril, in her anxious civility, attended them as far as the hall door; she had scarcely reached it, when a voice accosted her with "I want to spake a word to you, Miss