My new acquaintance never ceased to congratulate himself on what he called the lucky accident that had led him to the barracks that morning, and thus brought about our meeting. ‘Little as you think of me, my dear,’ said he, ‘I’m one of the Tiernays of Timmahoo myself; faix, until I saw you, I thought I was the last of them! There are eight generations of us in the churchyard at Kells, and I was looking to the time when they’d lay my bones there as the last of the race, but I see there’s better fortune before us.’ ‘But you have a family, I hope?’ ‘Sorrow one belonging to me. I might have married when I was young, but there was a pride in me to look for something higher than I had any right--except from blood I mean, for a better stock than our own isn’t to be found; and that’s the way years went over and I lost the opportunity, and here I am now an old bachelor, without one to stand to me, barrin’ it be yourself.’ The last words were uttered with a tremulous emotion, and, on turning towards him, I saw his eyes swimming with tears, and perceived that some strong feeling was working within him. ‘You can’t suppose I can ever forget what I owe you, Mr. Tiernay.’ ‘Call me Pat, Pat Tiernay,’ interrupted he roughly. ‘I ‘ll call you what you please,’ said I, ‘if you let me add friend to it.’ ‘That’senough; we understand one another now--no more need be said. You’ll come home and live with me It’s not long, maybe, you’ll have to do that same; but when I go you ‘ll be heir to what I have. ‘Tis more, perhaps, than many supposes, looking at the coat and the gaiters I am wearin’. Mind, Maurice, I don’t want you, nor I don’t expect you, to turn farmer like myself. You need never turn a hand to anything. You ‘ll have your horse to ride--two, if you like it. Your time will be all your own, so that you spend a little of it now and then with me, and as much divarsion as ever you care for.’ I have condensed into a few words the substance of a conversation which lasted till we reached Baldoyle; and passing through that not over-imposing village, gained the neighbourhood of the sea-shore, along which stretched the farm of the ‘Black Pits,’ a name derived, I was told, from certain black holes that were dug in the sands by fishermen in former times, when the salt tide washed over the pleasant fields where corn was now growing. A long, low, thatched cabin, with far more indications of room and comfort than pretension to the picturesque, stood facing the sea. There were neither trees nor shrubs around it, and the aspect of the spot was bleak and cheerless enough, a colouring a dark November day did nothing to dispel. It possessed one charm, however; and had it been a hundred times inferior to what it was, that one would have compensated for all else--a hearty welcome met me at the door, and the words, ‘This is your home, Maurice,’ filled my heart with happiness.