“My usual health and spirits,” continued the Chief. “I was going to say temper, but it would seem an epigram. Tell Beattie to look in here as he goes home; there 's one of the children slightly ailing. And so, Haire,” cried he, suddenly, in a louder voice, “you would insinuate that my power of judgment is impaired, and that neither in the case of my granddaughter nor in that larger field of opinion--the state of Ireland--am I displaying that wisdom or that acuteness on which it was one time the habit to compliment me.” “You may be quite right. I won't presume to say you 're not. I only declare that I don't agree with you.” “In either case?” “No; not in either case.” “I think I shall ride to-day,” said the Chief; for they had now reached the hall-door, and were looking out over the grassy lawn and the swelling woods that enclosed it. “You lose much, Haire, in not being a horseman. What would my critics say if they saw me following the hounds, eh?” “I 'll be shot if it would surprise me to see it,” muttered Haire to himself. “Good-bye.” “Good-bye, Haire. Come out and see me soon again. I 'll be better tempered when you come next. You 're not angry with me, I know.” Haire grasped the hand that was held out to him, and shook it cordially. “Of course I 'm not. I know well you have scores of things to vex and irritate you that never touch fellows like myself. I shall never feel annoyed at anything you may _say_ to _me_. What would really distress me would be that you should do anything to lower your own reputation.” The old Judge stood on the doorstep pondering over these last words of his friend long after his departure. “A good creature--a true-hearted fellow,” muttered he to himself; “but how limited in intelligence! It is the law of compensation carried out. Where nature gives integrity she often grudges intellect. The finer, subtler minds play with right and wrong till they detect their affinities.--Who are you, my good fellow? What brings you here?” cried he to a fellow who was lounging in the copse at the end of the house. “I 'm a carman, your honor. I 'm going to drive the Colonel to the railway at Stoneybatter.” “I never heard that he was about to leave town,” muttered the old Judge. “I thought he had been confined to bed with a cold these days back. Cheetor, go and tell Colonel Sewell that I should be much obliged if he would come over to my study at his earliest convenience.” “The Colonel will be with you, my Lord, in five minutes,” was the prompt reply. CHAPTER XI. A LEAP IN THE DARK Colonel Sewell received the Chief Baron's message with a smothered expression of no benevolent meaning. “Who said I was here? How did he know I had arrived?” cried he, angrily. “He saw the carman, sir; and asked for whom he was waiting.” Another and not less energetic benediction was invoked on the rascally car-driver, whom he had enjoined to avoid venturing in front of the house.