“The car is ready at the door, Colonel,” said he, in some confusion. “Maybe you 'd oblige me with a seat as far as Lyrath?” “Yes, yes; of course. And how late it is!” cried he, looking at his watch. “Time does fly fast in these regions, no doubt of it.” “You see, Miss Polly, you have made the Colonel forget himself,” said M'Cormick, maliciously. “Don't be severe on an error so often your own, Major M'Cormick,” said she, fiercely, and turned away into the house. The Colonel, however, was speedily at her side, and in an earnest voice said: “I could hate myself for the impression I am leaving behind me here. I came with those excellent intentions which so often make a man odious, and I am going away with those regrets which follow all failures; but I mean to come back again one of these days, and erase, if I can, the ill impression.” “One who has come out of his way to befriend those who had no claim upon his kindness can have no fear for the estimation he will be held in; for my part, I thank you heartily, even though I do not exactly see the direct road out of this difficulty.” “Let me write to you. One letter--only one,” said Hunter. But M'Cormick had heard the request, and she flushed up with anger at the malicious glee his face exhibited. “You 'll have to say my good-byes for me to your father, for I am sorely pressed for time; and, even as it is, shall be late for my appointment in Kilkenny.” And before Polly could do more than exchange his cordial shake hands, he was gone. CHAPTER XXI. DARK TIDINGS If I am not wholly without self-reproach when I bring my reader into uncongenial company, and make him pass time with Major M'Cormick he had far rather bestow upon a pleasanter companion, I am sustained by the fact--unpalatable fact though it be--that the highway of life is not always smooth, nor its banks flowery, and that, as an old Derry woman once remarked to me, “It takes a' kind o' folk to mak' a world.” Now, although Colonel Hunter did drive twelve weary miles of road with the Major for a fellow-traveller,--thanks to that unsocial conveniency called an Irish jaunting-car,--they rode back to back, and conversed but little. One might actually believe that unpopular men grow to feel a sort of liking for their unpopularity, and become at length delighted with the snubbings they meet with, as though an evidence of the amount of that discomfort they can scatter over the world at large; just, in fact, as a wasp or a scorpion might have a sort of triumphant joy in the consciousness of its power for mischief, and exult in the terror caused by its vicinity. “Splendid road--one of the best I ever travelled on,” said the Colonel, after about ten miles, during which he smoked on without a word. “Why wouldn't it be, when they can assess the county for it? They're on the Grand Jury, and high up, all about here,” croaked out the Major.