family, understood his real feelings, and, sympathizing in them, endeavoured to give the conversation a new turn. “Look there, Bowles,” said he, as they were just riding into the town of Bray; “look at the barouche standing at that green door, at the farthest end of the town. Is not that Lady Dashfort’s barouche?” “It looks like what she sported in Dublin last year,” said Bowles; “but you don’t think she’d give us the same two seasons. Besides, she is not in Ireland, is she? I did not hear of her intending to come over again.” “I beg your pardon,” said another officer; “she will come again to so good a market, to marry her other daughter. I hear she said or swore that she will marry the young widow, Lady Isabel, to an Irish nobleman.” “Whatever she says, she swears, and whatever she swears, she’ll do,” replied Bowles. “Have a care, my Lord Colambre; if she sets her heart upon you for Lady Isabel, she has you. Nothing can save you. Heart she has none, so there you’re safe, my lord,” said the other officer; “but if Lady Isabel sets her eye upon you, no basilisk’s is surer.” “But if Lady Dashfort had landed I am sure we should have heard of it, for she makes noise enough wherever she goes; especially in Dublin, where all she said and did was echoed and magnified, till one could hear of nothing else. I don’t think she has landed.” “I hope to Heaven they may never land again in Ireland!” cried Sir James Brooke: “one worthless woman, especially one worthless Englishwoman of rank, does incalculable mischief in a country like this, which looks up to the sister country for fashion. For my own part, as a warm friend to Ireland, I would rather see all the toads and serpents, and venomous reptiles, that St. Patrick carried off in his bag, come back to this island, than these two _dashers_. Why, they would bite half the women and girls in the kingdom with the rage for mischief, before half the husbands and fathers could turn their heads about. And, once bit, there’s no cure in nature or art.” “No horses to this barouche!” cried Captain Bowles.--“Pray, sir, whose carriage is this?” said the captain to a servant, who was standing beside it. “My Lady Dashfort, sir, it belongs to,” answered the servant, in rather a surly English tone; and turning to a boy who was lounging at the door, “Pat, bid them bring out the horses, for my ladies is in a hurry to get home.” Captain Bowles stopped to make his servant alter the girths of his horse, and to satisfy his curiosity; and the whole party halted. Captain Bowles beckoned to the landlord of the inn, who was standing at his door. “So, Lady Dashfort is here again?--This is her barouche, is not it?” “Yes, sir, she is--it is.” “And has she sold her fine horses?”