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 466 in those days. Many an evening stroll I have had round this relic of the past, treading upon the soft green grass that grew over innumerable graves, reading the inscriptions on quaint tombstones, or wandering through the ruins of the venerable cathedral, with its nave, transepts, and choir, admiring the beautiful decorations of Cormac’s Chapel; or watching the strange effect of the outward light falling through the apertures at the top of the lofty round tower as I looked upwards through the mysterious pile. Being a pretty good draughtsman, I drew sketches of the rock from all points, and, as I said before, passed a fortnight of tolerable patience; then I became restless, began to flirt with the niece of the old woman who kept the only cake shop in the city, and was thinking of quarrelling with Mrs. Conan about the poisonous wine she supplied our miserable mess with, when I was restored to reason and good humour by learning that Sir Denis Barnett had left his card for myself and my companions at the barracks. Our detachment at Cashel consisted merely of three officers, your humble servant being chief over a couple of subalterns—Lieutenant Travers and Ensign Fletcher, one of whom was engaged to a girl in England, and considerably occupied in writing and reading love-letters; the other a shy, unfledged boy of seventeen, devoted to study and sober pursuits, with a considerable dread of ladies’ society, which was fortunate for him as far as our Cashel sojourn was concerned, for there was at that time scarcely a young lady residing in the ancient city.

About a week after Sir Denis Barnett had called upon us I considered it to be my duty to return his visit, and asked Travers and Fletcher to accompany me in a ride to Knockgriffin, but both declined doing so, begging me to leave their cards for the baronet with all due respect. To tell the truth, I was not sorry to take that ride alone; my frame of mind was rather sentimental, and I preferred musing to talking. It was one of the loveliest June days that ever man mounted a horse on, and perhaps the country I passed over was the richest I had ever seen, though from the want of trees losing much of a picturesque effect. Many a time as I rode along I paused on an eminence to look around me, taking note of the wide range of mountains within view, or wondering at the deserted state of the roads I travelled over. Perhaps, reader, I did nob regret that I was not a wealthy landowner of the county Tipperary as I slowly rode onwards, free of all anxiety, and by no means in expectation of a shot from behind any hedge however thick or high. Once or twice I stopped at a cabin by the wayside to ask the direction of Knockgriffin, and was always answered with civility and without exciting curiosity. All along the route I found myself dwelling upon the beauty of the fair girl I had seen with Sir Denis on leaving the train at Maryborough, and by the time I reached the fine old gateway of the place I was bound for I was excited to a pitch of admiration, and enthusiasm impossible to describe. My heart beat quick, then slow, as I rode up the broad, well-gravelled avenue, bounded on either side by wide sweeps of smoothly-shaven lawn, dotted here and there by handsome trees, and flanked in the distance by dark woods, through which the eye could catch glimpses of a silvery river, part of the Suir, as I afterwards learned, winding in and out. “Surely,” thought I, “England could not boast a prettier spot than this, or a better kept country seat.” There appeared nothing of carelessness or want of neatness in the appointments I saw around me. The park and pleasure-grounds of Knockgriffin were all kept in perfect order. Approaching the house I beheld a massive, antique mansion, with castellated towers of imposing aspect. I sighed as I gazed at its extent and beauty: my own fortune, reader, was very moderate. For years I had been considered the heir of a bachelor uncle with twelve thousand a-year—a baronet, who took it into his head to marry in his old age, and at sixty-nine became the husband of a lady thirty years his junior, who presented him with a son and heir, thus cutting off my long-established expectations of inheriting the baronetcy and family estate. At present I had only four hundred a-year besides my pay as captain in the army, and as I dismounted to ring the hall door bell at Knockgriffin I was fully conscious that Sir Denis Barnett’s sister would think very little of such an income as mine.

“Heigh ho!” thought I; “perhaps it would be better for me to ride back again to Cashel without asking to gain admittance here. This may turn out the most disastrous visit of my life!” While I cogitated thus the door opened, and I learned that Sir Denis was at home. I thereupon followed the servant, who admitted me through a lofty square hall, furnished handsomely, and passed on to one of the drawing-rooms, where I was ushered in as Captain Stapleton, my name being fortunately pronounced all correctly for a wonder. For some moments I did not know that the large drawing-room contained any occupant but myself, but in a short time I was aware that a female form was approaching from one of the windows at the farthest end of the apartment. It was that of Miss Barnett—more graceful, more lovely in figure and face than even I had before believed her to be. Slightly above the