[Illustration: 252] Nor was Peter Barrington himself an unmoved spectator of these old remnants of the past Old garments, like old letters, bring oftentimes very forcible memories of a long ago; and as he turned over the purple-stained flap of a waistcoat, he bethought him of a night at Daly's, when, in returning thanks for his health, his shaking hand had spilled that identical glass of Burgundy; and in the dun-colored tinge of a hunting-coat he remembered the day he had plunged into the Nore at Corrig O'Neal, himself and the huntsman, alone of all the field, to follow the dogs! “Take them away, Darby, take them away; they only set me a-thinking about the pleasant companions of my early life. It was in that suit there I moved the amendment in '82, when Henry Grattan crossed over and said, 'Barrington will lead us here, as he does in the hunting-field.' Do you see that peach-colored waistcoat? It was Lady Caher embroidered every stitch of it with her own hands, for me.” “Them 's elegant black satin breeches,” said Darby, whose eyes of covetousness were actually rooted on the object of his desire. “I never wore them,” said Barrington, with a sigh. “I got them for a duel with Mat Fortescue, but Sir Toby Blake shot him that morning. Poor Mat!” “And I suppose you'll never wear them now. You couldn't bear the sight then,” said Darby, insinuatingly. “Most likely not,” said Barrington, as he turned away with a heavy sigh. Darby sighed also, but not precisely in the same spirit. Let me passingly remark that the total unsuitability to his condition of any object seems rather to enhance its virtue in the eyes of a lower Irishman, and a hat or a coat which he could not, by any possibility, wear in public, might still be to him things to covet and desire. “What is the meaning of all this rag fair?” cried Miss Barrington, as she suddenly came in front of the exposed wardrobe. “You are not surely making any selections from these tawdry absurdities, brother, for your journey?” [Illustration: 252] “Well, indeed,” said Barrington, with a droll twinkle of his eye, “it was a point that Darby and I were discussing as you came up. Darby opines that to make a suitable impression upon the Continent, I must not despise the assistance of dress, and he inclines much to that Corbeau coat with the cherry-colored lining.” “If Darby 's an ass, brother, I don't imagine it is a good reason to consult him,” said she, angrily. “Put all that trash where you found it. Lay out your master's black clothes and the gray shooting-coat, see that his strong boots are in good repair, and get a serviceable lock on that valise.” It was little short of magic the spell these few and distinctly uttered words seemed to work on Darby, who at once descended from a realm of speculation and scheming to the commonplace world of duty and obedience. “I really wonder how you let yourself be imposed on, brother, by the assumed simplicity of that shrewd fellow.”