A DREARY evening late in October, a cold thin rain falling, and a low wailing wind sighing through the headless branches of the trees in Merrion Square, made Dublin seem as sad-looking and deserted as need be. The principal inhabitants had not yet returned to their homes for the winter, and the houses wore that melancholy look of vacancy and desertion so strikingly depressing. One sound alone woke the echoes in that silence; it was a loud knocking at the door of a large and pretentious mansion in the middle of the north side of the square. Two persons had been standing at the door for a considerable time, and by every effort of knocker and bell endeavoring to obtain admittance. One of these was a tall, erect man of about fifty, whose appearance but too plainly indicated that most painful of all struggles between poverty and a certain pretension. White-seamed and threadbare as was his coat, he wore it buttoned to the top with a sort of military smartness, his shabby hat was set on with a kind of jaunty air, and his bushy whiskers, combed and frizzed out with care, seemed a species of protest against being thought as humble as certain details of dress might bespeak him. At his side stood a young girl, so like him that a mere glance proclaimed her to be his daughter; and although in her appearance, also, narrow means stood confessed, there was an unmistakable something in her calm, quiet features and her patient expression that declared she bore her lot with a noble and high-hearted courage. “One trial more, Bella, and I 'll give it up,” cried he, angrily, as, seizing the knocker, he shook the strong door with the rapping, while he jingled the bell with equal violence. “If they don't come now, it is because they 've seen who it is, or, maybe----” “There, see, papa, there's a window opening above,” said the girl, stepping out into the rain as she spoke. “What d' ye mean,--do ye want to break in the door?” cried a harsh voice, as the wizened, hag-like face of a very dirty old woman appeared from the third story. “I want to know if Mr. Davenport Dunn is at home,” cried the man. “He is not; he 's abroad,--in France.” “When is he expected back?” asked he again. “Maybe in a week, maybe in three weeks.” “Have any letters come for Mr. Kellett--Captain Kel-lett?” said he, quickly correcting himself. “No!” And a bang of the window, as the head was withdrawn, finished the colloquy. “That's pretty conclusive, any way, Bella,” said he, with an attempt to laugh. “I suppose there's no use in staying here longer. Poor child,” added he, as he watched her preparations against the storm, “you 'll be wet to the skin! I think we must take a car,--eh, Bella? I _will_ take a car.” And he put an emphasis on the word that sounded like a firm resolve. “No, no, papa; neither of us ever feared rain.”