‘Next came my aunt’s. There it was: my foot was on the door where I stood as a child, my little heart wavering between fears of the unknown world without and hopes of doing something--Heaven knows what!--which would make me a name hereafter. And there I was now, after years of toil and peril of every kind, enough to have won me distinction, success enough to have made me rich, had either been but well directed; and yet I was poor and humble, as the very hour I quitted that home. I sat down on the steps, my heart heavy and sad, my limbs tired, and before many minutes fell fast asleep, and never awoke till the bright sun was shining gaily on one side of the little street, and already the preparations for the coming day were going on about me. I started up, afraid and ashamed of being seen, and turned into the little ale-house close by, to get my breakfast. Joe himself was not forthcoming; but a fat, pleasant-looking, yellow-haired fellow, his very image, only some dozen years younger, was there, bustling about among some pewter quarts and tin measures, arranging tobacco-pipes, and making up little pennyworths of tobacco. ‘“Is your name M’Evoy?” said I. ‘“The same, at your service,” said he, scarce raising his eyes from his occupation. ‘“Not Joe M’Evoy?” ‘“No, sir, Ned M’Evoy; the old man’s name was Joe.” ‘“He ‘s dead, then, I suppose?” ‘“Ay, sir; these eight years come Micklemass. Is it a pint or a naggin of sperits?” ‘“Neither; it’s some breakfast, a rasher and a few potatoes, I want most. I’ll take it here, or in the little room.” ‘“Faix, ye seem to know the ways of the place,” said he, smiling, as he saw me deliberately push open a small door, and enter a little parlour once reserved for favourite visitors. ‘“It’s many years since I was here before,” said I to the host, as he stood opposite to me, watching the progress I was making with my breakfast--“so many that I can scarce remember more than the names of the people I knew very-well. Is there a Miss O’Kelly living in the town? It was somewhere near this, her house.” ‘“Yes, above Mr. Moriarty’s, that’s where she lived; but sure she’s dead and gone, many a day ago. I mind Father Donnellan, the priest that was here before Mr. Nolan, saying Masses for her sowl, when I was a slip of a boy.” ‘“Dead and gone,” repeated I to myself sadly--for, though I scarcely expected to meet my poor old relative again, I cherished a kind of half hope that she might still be living. “And the priest, Father Donnellan, is he dead too?” ‘“Yes, sir; he died of the fever, that was so bad four years ago.” ‘“And Mrs. Brown that kept the post-office?” ‘“She went away to Ennis when her daughter was married there; I never heard tell of her since.” ‘“So that, in fact, there are none of the old inhabitants of the town remaining. All have died off?” “Every one, except the ould captain; he’s the only one left” ‘“Who is he?” ‘“Captain Dwyer; maybe you knew him?”