“Yes!” said he, with a vacant grin,--“yes! but they don't agree with everybody.” “There's a bit of a moon out now, and the rain has stopped,” said Kellett, entering, “so that it would n't be friendly to detain you.” “Good-night, good-night,” said Driscoll, hurriedly; “that spirit is got up to my head. I feel it. A pleasant journey to you both, and be sure to remember me to Mrs. Miller.” And with these incoherent words he hastened away, and his voice was soon heard singing cheerily as he plodded his way towards Dublin. “That's the greatest affliction of all,” said Kellett, as he sat down and sipped his glass. “There 's nothing like having one's faculties, one's reason, clear and unclouded. I would n't be like that poor fellow there to be as rich as the Duke of Leinster.” “It is a strange condition,” said Bella, thoughtfully. “There were moments when his eyes lighted up with a peculiar significance, as if, at intervals, his mind had regained all its wonted vigor. Did you remark that?” “Indeed, I did not. I saw nothing of the kind,” said Kellett, peevishly. “By the way, why were you so cautious about Conway?” “Just because he begged that his name might not be mentioned. He said that some trifling debts were still hanging over him, from his former extravagance; and though all in course of liquidation, he dreaded the importunate appeals of creditors so certain to pour in if they heard of his being in Dublin.” “Every one has his troubles!” muttered Kellett, as he sank into a moody reflection over his own, and sipped his liquor in silence.