When this attorney produced a map of the well-known pleasure-ground, and an elevation of that house in which he had spent the happiest hours of his infancy, his heart was so touched, that he was on the point of paying down more for an old ruin than a good new house would cost. The attorney acted _honestly by his client_, and seized this moment to exhibit a plan of the stabling and offices, which, as sometimes is the case in Ireland, were in a style far superior to the dwelling-house. Our hero surveyed these with transport. He rapidly planned various improvements in imagination, and planted certain favourite spots in the pleasure-ground. During this time the attorney was giving directions to a clerk about some other business: suddenly the name of _Owen ap Jones_ struck his ear--He started. “Let him wait in the front parlour; his money is not forthcoming,” said the attorney; “and if he keep Edwards in gaol till he rots.” “Edwards! Good heavens!--in gaol! What Edwards?” exclaimed our hero. It was his friend Edwards. The attorney told him that Mr. Edwards had been involved in great distress by taking upon himself his father’s debts, which had been incurred in exploring a mine in Wales; that of all the creditors none had refused to compound, except a Welsh parson, who had been presented to his living by old Edwards; and that this Mr. Owen ap Jones had thrown young Mr. Edwards into gaol for the debt. “What is the rascal’s demand? He shall be paid off this instant,” cried Dominick, throwing down the plan of Fort-Reilly: “send for him up, and let me pay him off upon the spot.” “Had not we best finish our business first, about the O’Reilly estate, sir?” said the attorney. “No, sir; damn the O’Reilly estate,” cried he, huddling the maps together on the desk, and taking up the bank notes, which he had begun to reckon for the purchase money. “I beg your pardon, sir. If you knew the facts, you would excuse me. Why does not this rascal come up to be paid?” The attorney, thunderstruck by this Hibernian impetuosity, had not yet found time to take his pen out of his mouth. As he sat transfixed in his arm-chair, O’Reilly ran to the head of the stairs, and called out in a stentorian voice, “Here, you Mr. Owen ap Jones; come up and be paid off this instant, or you shall never be paid _at all_.” Up stairs hobbled the old schoolmaster, as fast as the gout and Welsh ale would let him. “Cot pless me, that voice,” he began-- “Where’s your bond, sir?” said the attorney. “Safe here, Cot be praised,” said the terrified Owen ap Jones, pulling out of his bosom, first a blue pocket-handkerchief, and then a tattered Welsh grammar, which O’Reilly kicked to the farther end of the room. “Here is my bond,” said he, “in the crammer,” which he gathered from the ground; then fumbling over the leaves, he at length unfolded the precious deposit.