There is no pleasanter companionship to the studious and reading man than that of a man of life and the world, one whose experience, drawn entirely from the actual game of life, is full of incident and adventure. The Captain had travelled a great deal and seen much, and there was about all his observations the stamp of a mind that had learned to judge men and things by broader, wider rules than are the guides of those who live in more narrow spheres. It was in discoursing on the political condition of Ireland that they reached the little village of Cookstown, about a mile from which, on a slight eminence, a neat cottage was observable, the trim laurel hedge that separated it from the road being remarkable in a country usually deficient in such foliage. “A pretty spot,” remarked Layton, carelessly, “and, to all seeming, untenanted.” “Yes, it seems empty,” said the other, in the same easy tone. “There's never been any one livin' there, Captain, since _that_,” said the coachman, turning round on his seat, and addressing the stranger. “Since what?” asked Layton, abruptly. “He is alluding to an old story,--a very old story, now,” rejoined the other. “There were two men--a father and son--named Shehan, taken from that cottage in the year of Emmet's unhappy rebellion, under a charge of high treason, and hanged.” “I remember the affair perfectly: Curran defended them. If I remember aright, too, they were convicted on the evidence of a noted informer.” “The circumstance is painfully impressed on my memory, by the fact that I have the misfortune to bear the same name; and it is by my rank alone that I am able to avoid being mistaken for him. My name is Holmes.” “To be sure,” cried Layton, “Holmes was the name; Curran rendered it famous on that day.” The coachman had turned round to listen to this conversation, and at its conclusion touched his hat to the Captain as if in polite acquiescence. By the time they had reached Castle Blayney, such had been the Captain's success in ingratiating himself into Layton's good opinion, that the doctor had accepted his invitation to dinner. “We shall not dine with the coach travellers,” whispered the stranger, “but at a small house I 'll show you just close by. I have already ordered my cutlet there, and there will be enough for us both.”