He endeavored to recall the exact words Barrington had used towards him, but he could not succeed. There was something, he thought, about intruding, unwarrantably intruding; or it might be a mistaken impression of the welcome that awaited him. Which was it? or was it either of them? At all events, he saw himself rejected and repulsed, and the indignity was too great to be borne. While he thus chafed and fretted, hours went by; and Mr. M'Cabe, the landlord, had made more than one excursion into the room, under pretence of looking after the fire, or seeing that the windows were duly closed, but, in reality, very impatient to learn his guest's intentions regarding dinner. “Was it your honor said that you'd rather have the chickens roast than biled?” said he at last, in a very submissive tone. “I said nothing of the kind.” “Ah, it was No. 5 then, and I mistook; I crave your honor's pardon.” Hoping that the chord he had thus touched might vibrate, he stooped down to arrange the turf, and give time for the response, but none came. Mr. M'Cabe gave a faint sigh, but returned to the charge. “When there's the laste taste of south in the wind, there 's no making this chimney draw.” Not a word of notice acknowledged this remark. “But it will do finely yet; it's just the outside of the turf is a little wet, and no wonder; seven weeks of rain--glory be to Him that sent it--has nearly desthroyed us.” Still Conyers vouchsafed no reply. “And when it begins to rain here, it never laves off. It isn't like in your honor's country. Your honor is English?” A grunt,--it might be assent, it sounded like malediction. “'T is azy seen. When your honor came out of the boat, I said, 'Shusy,' says I, 'he's English; and there's a coat they could n't make in Ireland for a king's ransom.'” “What conveyances leave this for Kilkenny?” asked Conyers, sternly. “Just none at all, not to mislead you,” said M'Cabe, in a voice quite devoid of its late whining intonation. “Is there not a chaise or a car to be had?” “Sorrow one. Dr. Dill has a car, to be sure, but not for hire.” “Oh, Dr. Dill lives here. I forgot that. Go and tell him I wish to see him.” The landlord withdrew in dogged silence, but returned in about ten minutes, to say that the doctor had been sent for to the “Fisherman's Home,” and Mr. Barrington was so ill it was not likely he would be back that night. “So ill, did you say?” cried Conyers. “What was the attack,--what did they call it?” “'T is some kind of a 'plexy, they said. He's a full man, and advanced in years, besides.” “Go and tell young Mr. Dill to come over here.” “He's just gone off with the cuppin' instruments. I saw him steppin' into the boat.” “Let me have a messenger; I want a man to take a note up to Miss Barrington, and fetch my writing-desk here.”