He then proceeded to relight the fire, and drawing a sofa near, he wrapped himself in a railway-rug, and lay down to sleep. For a long time he could not compose himself to slumber: he thought of Nina and her wiles--ay, they were wiles; he saw them plainly enough. It was true he was no prize--no ‘catch,’ as they call it--to angle for, and such a girl as she was could easily look higher; but still he might swell the list of those followers she seemed to like to behold at her feet offering up every homage to her beauty, even to their actual despair. And he thought of his own condition--very hopeless and purposeless as it was. ‘What a journey, to be sure, was life without a goal to strive for. Kilgobbin would be his one day; but by that time would it be able to pay off the mortgages that were raised upon it? It was true Atlee was no richer, but Atlee was a shifty, artful fellow, with scores of contrivances to go windward of fortune in even the very worst of weather. Atlee would do many a thing _he_ would not stoop to.’ And as Kearney said this to himself, he was cautious in the use of his verb, and never said ‘could,’ but always ‘would’ do; and oh dear! is it not in this fashion that so many of us keep up our courage in life, and attribute to the want of will what we well know lies in the want of power. Last of all he bethought himself of this man Donogan, a dangerous fellow in a certain way, and one whose companionship must be got rid of at any price. Plotting over in his mind how this should be done in the morning, he at last fell fast asleep. So overcome was he by slumber, that he never awoke when that venerable institution called the college woman--the hag whom the virtue of unerring dons insists o imposing as a servant on resident students--entered, made up the fire, swept up the room, and arranged the breakfast-table. It was only as she jogged his arm to ask him for an additional penny to buy more milk, that he awoke and remembered where he was. ‘Will I get yer honour a bit of bacon?’ asked she, in a tone intended to be insinuating. ‘Whatever you like,’ said he drowsily. ‘It’s himself there likes a rasher--when he can get it,’ said she, with a leer, and a motion of her thumb towards the adjoining room. ‘Whom do you mean?’ asked he, half to learn what and how much she knew of his neighbour. ‘Oh! don’t I know him well?--Dan Donogan,’ replied she, with a grin. ‘Didn’t I see him in the dock with Smith O’Brien in ‘48, and wasn’t he in trouble again after he got his pardon; and won’t he always be in trouble?’ ‘Hush! don’t talk so loud,’ cried Dick warningly.