All this time Dermot Tracy had been from home.  He had not come back after the season, but had been staying with friends and going to various races, in which, as usual, he had heavy stakes.  He persuaded my two nephews to meet him at Doncaster, where he ran one of the horses bred on his Irish estate, and afterwards to go and make him a visit at Killy Marey, County Kildare, where he used to stay about once a year, shooting or hunting, as the season might be, and always looking after his horses and entertaining all the squires and squireens of the neighbourhood, and many of the officers from the Curragh.  The benefit of those visits was very doubtful both as to morals and purses, and Lord Erymanth pointedly said he was sorry when he heard that Harold and Eustace were of the party.

I do not know whether Lady Diana viewed them as bad companions for her son, or her son as a bad companion for them; but she was very severe about it, and when I thought of the hunt dinner at Foling, my heart sank, even while I was indignant at any notion of distrusting Harold; and it did indeed seem to me that he had learnt where to look for strength and self-command, and that he had a real hatred and contempt of evil.  Yet I should have been more entirely happy about him if he had not still held aloof from all those innermost ordinances, of which he somehow did not feel the need, or understand the full drift.  Nor would he bow himself to give to any man the confidence or the influence over him he had given to an incapable girl like me.  And if I should have feared for the best brought up, most religious of young men, in such scenes as I was told were apt to take place at Killy Marey, how could I not be anxious for my nephews?  But nothing ever turns out as one expects.

I was at Arked one day, and Lady Diana was telling me of the great rambling house at Killy Marey, and how, when she arrived as a bride, none of the doors would shut except two that would not open, behind one of which lived the family ghost; how the paper hung in festoons on the walls, and the chairs were of the loveliest primrose-coloured brocade; and how the green of the meadows was so wonderful, that she was always remembering it was the Emerald Isle; but how hopeless and impossible it was to get anything properly done, and how no good could be done where the Romish priests had interfered.  All the old story of course.  In the midst, a telegraph paper was brought to her; she turned deadly white, and bade me open it, for she could not.  I knew she thought her son had met his father’s fate, and expected to astonish her with the tidings that he was coming home by the next steamer, or that he had sent some game, or the like.  Alas! no; the mother’s foreboding had been too near the truth.  The telegram was from Eustace:  “Tracy has had a bad horse accident.  The doctor wishes for you.”

There was nothing for it but to speed the mother and daughter on their hurried start to catch the Holyhead packet and cross that night.  I went home to await in terror and trembling the despatch I might receive, and to be enlivened by Mrs. Sam Alison’s cheering accounts of all the accidents she could recollect.  “Horses are dangerous creatures to meddle with, and your poor papa never would let me take the reins when we kept a gig ­which was when he was living, you know, my dear.  ‘You never can trust their heels,’ he used to say; and it was only last week little Cocker was kicked off, but that was a donkey, and they were using him shamefully,” &c. &c. &c.  I felt as if a swarm of bees were humming in my ears, and walked about to make the suspense more tolerable, but I absolutely had no news at all till Viola’s letter came.  It was a long one, for she could be of no service as yet, and to write letters was at once her use and her solace.

Among the horses which Dermot’s Irish agent had been buying for training purposes was a mare, own sister to Harold’s hunter ­a splendid creature of three years old, of wonderful beauty, power, and speed, but with the like indomitable temper.  She would suffer no living thing to approach her but one little stable-boy, and her own peculiar cat, which slept on her back, and took all sorts of liberties with her.  Her value would be great if she could be trained, but the training was the problem.  Harold, who, partly from early familiarity, partly from the gentleness of fearless strength, had a matchless power over horses, had made acquaintance with her one evening, had been suffered in her box, had fed her, caressed her cat, and led her round the stable-yard as a first stage in the conquest of horse by man.

In the early morning, Dermot, quite as fearless, and unwilling that anyone should do or dare more than himself, had gone alone to make the same attempt, but no sooner did the mare find him beside her, than she seized him by the shoulder with her teeth, threw him down, and kicked and trampled on him.  None of the grooms could succeed in rescuing him, and it was only when Eustace’s cry had summoned Harold, that, grasping the mare’s halter and forcing her back with his arm of iron, he made it possible for Eustace and a groom to drag out poor Dermot’s senseless form, in a state that at first appeared to be death itself.  For several days his condition was so extremely precarious, that Harold never once left him till his mother arrived, and even after that was his most effective nurse.  He sent me a message, in Viola’s letter, that he had not had a moment to write, and hoped I had not been too anxious.

After this, Viola wrote every day, and told of gradual improvement in her brother, and at last how he had been lifted to the sofa, and mamma hoped in a fortnight or three weeks he might be able to be taken home.  By the next post came a note from Harold, saying he could be spared, and was coming home, and that very evening he walked into the house, and was welcomed by Dora with shrieks of ecstatic joy.

He said Dermot was better, but he looked worn, and had the indefinable expression of pain which made me sure that something had gone wrong, and presently I found out that the bite in the shoulder was a very bad business, still causing much suffering, but that the most serious matter was, that a kick in the side had renewed the damage left by the old Alma bullet, and that great care would be needed all the winter.  But Harold seemed more reluctant to open his mouth than ever, and only, by most diligent pumping, did Mrs. Alison get out of him what doctors they had called in, and whether they had used all the recipes for wounds and bruises that she had entrusted to me to be sent, and which had for the most part remained in my blotting-book.

The next morning, to my grief and distress, he did not come to my room, but I found he had been up and out long before it was light, and he made his appearance at eleven o’clock, saying he had promised to go and give Lord Erymanth an account of his nephew, and wanted me to come with him “to do the talking, or he should never stand it.”  If I did not object to the dog-cart and Daniel O’Rourke immediately, we should be there by luncheon time.  I objected to nothing that Harry drove, but all the way to Erymanth not ten words passed, and those were matters of necessity.  I had come to the perception that when he did not want to speak it was better to let him take his own time.

Lord Erymanth was anxious, not only about Dermot’s health, and his sister’s strength and spirits, but he wanted to hear what Harold thought of the place and of the tone of the country; and, after our meal, when he grew more confidential, he elicited short plain answers full of information in short compass, and not very palatable.  The estate was “not going on well.”  “Did Harold think well of the agent?” “He had been spoilt.”  “How?” “By calls for supplies.”  “Were the people attached to Dermot?” “To a certain degree.”  “Would it be safe for him to live there?” “He ought.”

Lord Erymanth entirely assented to this, and we found that he had all along held that his sister had been in error for not having remained at Killy Marey, and brought up her son to his duties as a landlord, whatever the danger; though of course she, poor thing, could hardly be expected to see it in that light.  He evidently viewed this absenteeism as the cause of the wreck of Dermot’s youth, and those desultory habits of self-indulgence and dissipation which were overcoming that which was good and noble in him; and the good old man showed that he blamed himself for what he had conceded to his sister in the first shock of her misfortune.  Harold had told him of the warm feeling shown by the tenantry when Dermot was lying in danger of his life, and their rejoicing when he turned the corner and began to recover, and he asked anxiously whether all this affection might not awaken a responsive chord, and draw him to “what was undoubtedly his proper sphere.”

“It will,” said Harold.

“You think so?  And there is little doubt but that your cousin’s influence at such a critical period may have great effect in turning the scale?”

Harold nodded.

“More especially as, from the intelligence I have received, I have little doubt that the connection will be drawn a good deal closer before long,” said Lord Erymanth with a benignant smile at us both.  “I suppose we must not begin to congratulate one another yet, for I may conclude that nothing had actually taken place when you came away.”

“Nothing.”

“When my sister became conscious of the condition of affairs and wrote to consult me, I had no hesitation in replying that, though Viola’s connections might warrant greater expectations in a worldly point of view, yet I thought that there was every reason for promoting an attachment to a gentleman of family equal to her own on one side at least, and whose noble exertions during the past two years for the welfare of all concerned with him, not only obliterate all recollection of past disadvantages, but in every way promise honour and happiness to all connected with him.”

I was not a little excited, but one of the worst fits of restlessness under Lord Erymanth’s harangues had come upon Harold.  He only sat it out by pulling so many hairs out of his beard that they made an audible frizzle in the fire when he brushed them off his knee, and stood up, saying gruffly, “You are very good; he deserves it.  But I must get Lucy home in good time.  May I go and speak to your coachman?  Tracy gave me a message for him.”

Harold was off, and Lord Erymanth observed, “A very fine young man that.  It is much to be regretted that he did not employ the advantages he enjoyed at Sydney as his cousin Eustace did, and left himself so rugged and unpolished.”

“You must learn to like him, dear Lord Erymanth,” I said.  “He is all a very dear brother could be to me.”

And allegiance to him kept back every word of that infinite superiority, which was never more shown than by the opinion of Eustace, which his great unselfish devotion continued, without the least deceit, to impress on most people.  Lord Erymanth rejoiced, and we agreed that it was very lucky for me that I preferred Harold, since I should have had to yield up my possession of Eustace.  The old gentleman was most kind and genial, and much delighted that the old breach with the Alisons should be healed, and that his niece should make a marriage which he greatly preferred to her sister’s, and together we sung the praises of our dear Viola, where we had no difference of opinion.

Harold only came back when the carriage came round, and no sooner had we driven off than I broke out ­“Harry, I had no notion matters had gone so far.  Fancy, Lady Diana consulting her brother!  It must be very near a crisis.  I can’t think why you did not stay to see it.”

“Because I am a fool.”

The horse flew on till we were nearly out at the park-gates, and a bewildered sense of his meaning was coming before me.  “You wished it,” said I rather foolishly.

“I did.  I do.  Only I don’t want to see it.”

“My poor dear Harold!”

“Pshaw!” ­the sound was like a wild beast’s, and made the horse plunge ­“I shall get over it.”

Then, presently, in a more natural voice, “I must go out again in the spring.  There are things to be looked to at Boola Boola for both of us.  I shall only wait till Tracy is well enough to go with me.”

“He!  Dermot Tracy?”

“Yes.  It will be the best way to break out of the old lines.”

“I can fancy that.  Oh, Harold! are you going to save him?  That will be the most blessed work of all!” I cried, for somehow a feeling like an air of hope and joy came over me.

“I don’t know about that,” said he, in a smothered tone; but it was getting dark enough to loose his tongue, and when I asked, “Was it his illness that made him wish it?” he answered, “It was coming before.  Lucy, those horses have done worse for him than that wound in his shoulder.  They had almost eaten the very heart out of him!”

“His substance I know they have,” I said; “but not his good warm heart.”

“You would say so if you saw the poor wretches on his property,” said Harold.  “The hovels in the Alfy Valley were palaces compared with the cabins.  Such misery I never saw.  They say it is better since the famine.  What must it have been then?  And he thinking only how much his agent could squeeze from them!”

I could only say he had been bred up in neglect of them, and to think them impracticable, priest-ridden traitors and murderers.  Yes, Lady Diana had said some of this to Harold already, It was true that they had shot Mr. Tracy, but Harold had learnt that after a wild, reckless, spendthrift youth, he had become a Protestant and a violent Orangeman in the hottest days of party strife, so that he had incurred a special hatred, which, as far as Harold could see, was not extended to the son, little as he did for his tenants but show them his careless, gracious countenance from time to time.

Yet peril for the sake of duty would, as all saw now, have been far better for Dermot than the alienation from all such calls in which his mother had brought him up.  When her religious influence failed with him, there was no other restraint.  Since he had left the army, he had been drawn, by those evil geniuses of his, deep into speculations in training horses for the turf, and his affairs had come into a frightful state of entanglement, his venture at Doncaster had been unsuccessful, and plunged him deeper into his difficulties, and then (as I came to know) Harold’s absolute startled amazement how any living man could screw and starve men, women, and children for the sake of horseflesh, and his utter contempt for such diversions as he had been shown at the races, compared with the pleasure of making human beings happy and improving one’s land, had opened Dermot’s eyes with very few words.

The thought was not new when the danger of death made him look back on those wasted years; and resolution began with the dawning of convalescence, that if he could only free himself from his entanglements ­and terrible complications they were ­he would begin a new life, worthy of having been given back to him.  In many a midnight watch he had spoken of these things, and Harold had soothed him by a promise to use that accountant’s head of his in seeing how to free him as soon as he was well enough.  Biston and the horses would be sold, and he could turn his mind to his Irish tenants, who, as he already saw, loved him far better than he deserved.  He caught eagerly at the idea of going out to Australia with Harold, and it did indeed seem that my brave-hearted nephew was effecting a far greater deliverance for him than that from the teeth and hoofs of wicked Sheelah.

“But you will not stay, Harold?  You will come home?” I said.

“I mean it,” he answered.

“Then I don’t so much mind,” said I, with infinite relief; and he added, thinking that I wanted further reassurance, that he should never give up trying to get Prometesky’s pardon; and that this was only a journey for supplies, and to see his old friend, and perhaps to try whether anything could be done about that other unhappy Harry.  I pressed him to promise me that he would return and settle here, but though he said he would come back, to settling at home he answered, “That depends;” and though I could not see, I knew he was biting his moustache, and guessed, poor dear fellow, that it depended on how far he should be able to endure the sight of Eustace and Viola married.  I saw now that I had been blind not to perceive before that his heart had been going out to Viola all this time, while he thought he was courting her for Eustace, and I also had my thoughts about Viola, which made it no very great surprise to me, when, in a few days more, intelligence came that Eustace might be expected at home, and he made his appearance in a petulant though still conceited mood, that made me suspect his wooing had not been prosperous, though I knew nothing till Harold told me that he was not out of heart, though Viola had cut him short and refused to listen to him, for her mother said she was a mere child who was taken by surprise, and that if he were patient and returned to the charge she would know her own mind better.

Harold was certainly more exhilarated than he chose to avow to himself on this discovery, and the next week came a letter from Lady Diana, and a short note from Dermot himself, both saying he had not been so well, and begging Harold to come and assist in the removal, since Dermot protested that otherwise he could not bear the journey, and his mother declared that she should be afraid to think of it for him.

Viola’s hitherto constant correspondence had ceased; I drew my own auguries, but I had to keep them to myself, for Harold started off the next day in renewed spirits, and I had Eustace on my hands in a very strange state, not choosing or deigning to suppose himself rejected, and yet exceedingly, angry with all young ladies for their silliness and caprices, while he lauded Lady Diana up to the skies, and abused Dermot, who, I think, had laughed at him visibly enough to be at least suspected by himself.  And, oddly enough, Dora was equally cross, and had a fit of untowardness unequalled since the combats at her first arrival, till I was almost provoked into acquiescence in Eustace’s threat of sending her to school.

The journey was at last accomplished; Harold only parted with the Tracys at Arked House, after having helped to carry Dermot to the room that had been prepared for him on the ground-floor.

I rode over the next afternoon to inquire, and was delighted to meet Viola close within the gate.  We sent away my horse, and she drew me into her favourite path while answering my questions that Dermot had had a good night and was getting up; I should find him in the drawing-room if I waited a little while.  She could have me all to herself, for mamma was closeted with Uncle Ery, talking over things ­and on some word or sound of mine betraying that I guessed what things, it broke out.

“How could you let him do it, Lucy?  You, at least, must have known better.”

“My dear, how could I have stopped him, with all St. George’s Channel between us?”

“Well, at any rate, you might persuade them all to have a little sense, and not treat me as if I was one of the elegant females in ’Pride and Prejudice,’ who only refuse for fun!  Is not that enough to drive one frantic, Lucy?  Can’t you at least persuade the man himself?”

“Only one person can do that, Viola.”

“But I can’t!  That’s the horrid part of it.  I can’t get rid of it.  Mamma says I am a foolish child.  I could tell her of other people more foolish than I am.  I can see the difference between sham and reality, if they can’t.”

“I don’t think he means to be sham,” I rambled into defence of Eustace.

“Means it!  No, he hasn’t the sense.  I believe he really thinks it was he who saved Dermot’s life as entirely as mamma does.”

“No.  Now do they really?”

“Of course, as they do with everything.  It’s always ’The page slew the boar, the peer had the gloire.’”

“It’s the page’s own fault,” I said.  “He only wants the peer to have the gloire.”

“And very disagreeable and deceitful it is of him,” cried Viola; “only he hasn’t got a scrap of deceit in him, and that’s the reason he does it so naturally.  No, you may tell them that borrowed plumes won’t always serve, and there are things that can’t be done by deputy.”

And therewith Viola, perhaps perceiving what she had betrayed, turned more crimson than ever, and hid her face against me with a sob in her breath, and then I was quite sure of what I did not dare to express, further than by saying, while I caressed her, “I believe they honestly think it is all the same.”

“But it isn’t,” said Viola, recovering, and trying to talk and laugh off her confusion.  “I don’t think so, and poor Dermot did not find it so when the wrong one was left to lift him, and just ran his great stupid arm into the tenderest place in his side, and always stepped on all the boards that creak, and upset the table of physic bottles, and then said it was Harold’s way of propping them up!  And that’s the creature they expect me to believe in!”

We turned at the moment and saw a handkerchief beckoning to us from the window; and going in, found Dermot established on a couch under it, and Harold packing him up in rugs, a sight that amazed both of us; but Dermot said, “Yes, he treats me like Miss Stympson’s dog, you see.  Comes over by stealth when I want him.”

Dermot did look very ill and pain-worn, and his left arm lay useless across him, but there was a kind of light about his eyes that I had not seen for a long time, as he made Harold set a chair for me close to him, and he and Viola told the adventures of their journey, with mirth in their own style, and Harold stood leaning against the shutter with his look of perfect present content, as if basking in sunshine while it lasted.

When the mother and uncle came in, it was manifestly time for us to convey ourselves away.  Harold had come on foot from Mycening, but I was only too glad to walk my pony along the lanes, and have his company in the gathering winter twilight.

“You have spoken to her?” he said.

“Yes.  Harold, it is of no use.  She will never have him.”

“Her mother thinks she will.”

“Her mother knows what is in Viola no more than she knows what is in that star.  Has Dermot never said anything ­”

“Lady Diana made everyone promise not to say a word to him.”

“Oh!”

“But, Lucy, what hinders it?  There’s nothing else in the way, is there?”

I did not speak the word, but made a gesture of assent.

“May I know who it is,” said Harold in a voice of pain.  “Our poor fellow shall never hear.”

“Harold,” said I, “are you really so ridiculous as to think any girl could care for Eustace while you are by?”

“Don’t!” cried Harold, with a sound as of far more pain than gladness.

“But why not, Harry?  You asked me.”

“Don’t light up what I have been struggling to quench ever since I knew it.”

“Why?” I went on.  “You need not hold back on Eustace’s account.  I am quite sure nothing would make her accept him, and I am equally convinced ­”

“Hush, Lucy!” he said in a scarcely audible voice.  “It is profanation.  Remember ­”

“But all that is over,” I said.  “Things that happened when you were a mere boy, and knew no better, do not seem to belong to you now.”

“Sometimes they do not,” he said sadly; “but ­”

“What is repented,” I began, but he interrupted.

“The fact is not changed.  It is not fit that the purest, gentlest, brightest creature made by Heaven should be named in the same day with one stained with blood ­aye, and deeds I could not speak of to you.”

I could not keep from crying as I said, “If I love you the more, Harry, would not she?”

“See here, Lucy,” said Harry, standing still with his hand on my rein; “you don’t know what you do in trying to inflame what I can hardly keep down.  The sweet little thing may have a fancy for me because I’m the biggest fellow she knows, and have done a thing or two; but what I am she knows less than even you do; and would it not be a wicked shame either to gain the tender heart in ignorance, or to thrust on it the knowledge and the pain of such a past as mine?” And his groan was very heavy, so that I cried out: 

“Oh, Harry! this is dreadful.  Do you give up all hope and joy for ever because of what you did as an ungovernable boy left to yourself?”

We went on for some time in silence; then he said in an indescribable tone, between wonder, disgust, and pity, “And I thought I loved Meg Cree!”

“You knew no one else,” I said, feeling as if, when Dora threw away that ring, the wild, passionate animal man had been exorcised; but all the answer I had was another groan, as from the burthened breast, as if he felt it almost an outrage to one whom he so reverenced to transfer to her the heart that had once beat for Meg Cree.  There was no more speech for a long time, during which I feared that I had merely made him unhappy by communicating my conjecture, but just as we were reaching our own grounds he said, “You will say nothing, Lucy?”

“No, indeed.”

“I thought it was all over, and for ever,” he said, pausing; “it ought to have been.  But the gates of a new world were opened to me when I saw her and you walking in the garden!  If it had only been five or six years sooner!”

He could not say any more, for Dora, who had been watching, here burst on us with cries of welcome, and it was long before there was any renewal of the conversation, so that I could not tell whether he really persuaded himself that he had no hopes, or was waiting to see how matters should turn out.

It was never easy to detect expressions of feeling or spirits on his massive face, and he could hardly be more silent than usual; but it was noticeable that he never fell asleep after his former wont when sitting still.  Indeed, he seldom was still, for he had a great deal of business both for the estate and the potteries on his hands, and stayed up late at night over them; and not only over them, for my room was next to his, and I heard the regular tramp, tramp of his feet, and the turn at the end of the room, as he walked up and down for at least an hour when the rest of the house were asleep, or the closing of the door when he returned from wandering on the moor at night.  And in the early morning, long before light, he always walked or rode over to Arked House, bestowed on Dermot’s hurts the cares which both had come to look on as essential, and stayed with him till the family were nearly ready to appear at their nine o’clock breakfast, not seeing Viola at all, unless any special cause led to a meeting later in the day, and then his eyes glowed, and he would do her devoted, unobserved service ­no, not unobserved by her, whom it made blush and sparkle ­and utter little words of thanks, not so gay as of old, but deeper, as if for a great honour and delight.  And then he would bow his head, colour, and draw into the background, where, with folded arms, he could watch her.

Once, when Dora, in her old way, claimed to be his wife, Harold told her with some impatience that she was growing too old for that nonsense.  The child looked at him with bent brows and questioning eyes for a moment, then turned and fled.  An hour later, after a long search, I found her crouched up in the corner of the kangaroo’s stall among the straw, having cried herself to sleep, with her head on the creature’s soft back.

As soon as Dermot was able to bear any strain on mind or attention, he gave his keys to Harold.  All his long and unhappy accumulation of bills and bonds were routed out from their receptacles at Biston, and brought over by Harold to his office, where he sorted them, and made them intelligible, before harassing his friend with the questions he alone could explain.  An hour a day was then spent over them ­hours that cost poor Dermot more than he was equal to; but his mind was made up, as he told me, “to face anything rather than go on in the old miserable way.”  It was much that he had learnt to think it miserable.

Lady Diana was not much obliged to Harold.  She could not think why her patient was so often left out of spirits, and with a headache after those visits, while he was in a feverish state of anxiety about them, that made it worse to put them off than to go through with them; and then, when she had found out the cause, the family pride much disliked letting an outsider into his involvments, and she thought their solicitor would have done the thing much better.

Poor woman, it was hard that, when she thought illness was bringing her son back to her, she found his confidence absorbed by the “bush-ranger,” whom she never liked nor trusted, and his reformation, if reformation it were to prove, not at all conducted on her views of visible repentance and conversion.  Dermot was responsive to her awakened tenderness, but he was perversely reticent as to whether repentance or expedience prompted him.  She required so much religious demonstration, that she made him shrink from manifesting his real feelings as “humbug,” and Viola knew far more that his repentance was real than she did.  Those proofs of true repentance ­confession and restitution ­I am sure he gave, and that most bravely, when, after weeks of weary and sorrowful work on Harold’s part and his, the whole was sufficiently disentangled to make a lucid statement of his affairs.

He made up his mind to make an arrangement with his creditors, giving up Biston, all his horses ­everything, in fact, but Killy Marey, which was entailed on his Tracy cousins.  And this second year of George Yolland’s management had made the shares in the Hydriot Company of so much value, that the sale of them would complete the clearance of his obligations.  The full schedule of his debts, without reserve, and the estimate of his means of paying them off, was then given by Dermot to his mother, and sent to his uncle, who went over them with his solicitor.

Lady Diana writhed under the notion of selling Biston.  It seemed to her to be the means of keeping her son from the place in Ireland, which she disliked more than ever, and she hoped her brother would advance enough to prevent this from being needful; but for this Lord Erymanth was far too wise.  He said, as Dermot felt, that Biston had never been anything but an unjustifiable and pernicious luxury and temptation; but he did voluntarily, since it joined his property, propose to purchase it himself, and at such a sum as secured the possibility of a real payment of the debts when the other sales should have been effected.

And they were carried out.  It was well for Dermot that, as a convalescent in his mother’s house, he was sheltered from all counter influences, such as his easy good nature might not have withstood; and under that shelter it was his purpose to abide until the voyage which would take him out of reach for a time, and bring him home ready for his fresh start.

Of course Lady Diana hated the notion of the voyage, and though her brother advised her not to oppose it, yet to the last I think she entertained hopes that it would end in Harold’s going alone.

When Harold came in and told me that Dermot Tracy’s horses, English and Irish, were all sold, and named the sum that they had realised, my spirits leaped up, and I was certain, after such a voluntary sacrifice, the dear old companion of my childhood would be a joy and exultation to us all, instead of a sorrow and a grief.