Bad as the weather is,--and certainly even in Ireland a more drenching, driving-down, pouring rain never fell,--we must ask of our readers to follow Cashel, who at a slapping gallop rode on, over grass and tillage, now careering lightly over the smooth sward, now sweltering along heavily through deep ground, regardless of the pelting storm, and scarcely noticing the strong fences which at every instant tried the stride and strength of his noble horse. If his speed was headlong, his seat was easy, and his hand as steady as if lounging along some public promenade; his features, however, were flushed, partly from the beating rain, but more from a feverish excitement that showed itself in his flashing eye and closely compressed lip. More than once, in crossing a difficult leap, his horse nearly fell, and although half on the ground, and only recovering by a scramble, he seemed not to heed the accident. At last he arrived at the tall oak paling which fenced the grounds of the cottage, and where it was his wont to halt and fasten his horse. Now, however, he rode fiercely at it, clearing the high leap with a tremendous spring, and alighting on the trimly kept grass-plat before the door. A slight faint shriek was heard as the horse dashed past the window, and, pale with terror, Mary Leicester stood in the porch. Cashel had meanwhile dismounted, and given his horse to the old gardener. “Not hurt, Mr. Cashel?” said she, trying to seem composed, while she trembled in every limb. “Not in the least. I never intended to have alarmed you, however.” “Then it was no runaway?” said she, essaying a smile. “I 'm ashamed to say I have not that excuse for so rudely trampling over your neat sward. Will Mr. Corrigan forgive me?” “Of course he will, if he even ever knows that he has anything to forgive; but it so happens that he has gone into the village to-day,--an excursion he has not made for nigh a year. He wished to consult our friend the doctor on some matter of importance, and I half suspect he may have stayed to share his dinner.” As Miss Leicester continued to make this explanation, they had reached the drawing-room, which, to Cashel's amazement, exhibited tokens of intended departure. Patches here and there on the walls showed where pictures had stood. The bookshelves were empty, the tables displayed none of those little trifling objects which denote daily life and its occupations, and his eye wandered over the sad-looking scene till it came back to her, as she stood reading his glances, and seeming to re-echo the sentiment they conveyed. “All this would seem to speak of leave-taking,” said Cashel, in a voice that agitation made thick and guttural. “It is so,” said she, with a sigh; “we are going away.”