“I 'm sure it must have been the former,” said Mrs. Morris, laughing. “Poor gentleman, he does not give one the impression of a Lothario. But whom have we here? The O'Shea, I declare! Look to your heart, May dearest; take my word for it, he never turned out so smartly without dreams of conquest.” Mr. O'Shea cantered up at the same moment, followed by Joe in a most accurate “get up” as groom, and, dismounting, advanced, hat in hand, to salute the party. There are blank days in this life of ours in which even a pleasant visitor is a bore,--times in which dulness and seclusion are the best company, and it is anything but a boon to be broken in upon. It was the O'Shea's evil fortune to have fallen on one of these. It was in vain he recounted his club gossip about politics and party to Sir William; in vain he told Mrs. Morris the last touching episode of town scandal; in vain, even, did he present a fresh bouquet of lily-of-the-valley to May: each in turn passed him on to the other, till he found himself alone with Clara, who sat sorrowfully over the German lesson Layton was wont to help her with. “What's the matter with you all?” cried he, half angrily, as he walked the room from end to end. “Has there any misfortune happened?” “Charley has left us, Agincourt is just gone, the pleasant house is broken up; is not that enough to make us sad?” said she, sorrowfully. “If you ever read Tommy Moore, you 'd know it was only another reason to make the most of the friends that were left behind,” said he, adjusting his cravat at the glass, and giving himself a leer of knowing recognition. “That's the time of day, Clara!” She looked at him, somewhat puzzled to know whether he had alluded to his sentiment, his whiskers, which he was now caressing, or the French clock on the mantelpiece. “Is that one of Layton's?” said he, carelessly turning over a water- colored sketch of a Lucchese landscape. “Yes,” said she, replacing it carefully in a portfolio. “He won't do many more of them, I suspect.” “How so?--why?--what do you mean?” cried she, grasping his arm, while a death-like paleness spread over her features. “Just that he's going as fast as he can. What's the mischief! is it fainting she is?” With a low, weak sigh, the girl had relaxed her hold, and, staggering backwards, sunk senseless on the floor. O'Shea tugged violently at the bell: the servant rushed in, and immediately after Mrs. Morris herself; but by this time Clara had regained consciousness, and was able to utter a few words. “I was telling her of Layton's being so ill,” began he, in a whisper, to Mrs. Morris. “Of course you were,” said she, pettishly. “For an inconvenience or an indiscretion, what can equal an Irishman?” The speech was uttered as she led her daughter away, leaving the luckless O'Shea alone to ruminate over the politeness.