“What can he want with me now?” muttered he, as he stopped to take breath. “They 've left me nothing but life, and they can't take that. It 's not that I 'd care a great deal if they did! Maybe it's more bother about them titles; but I'll not trouble my head about them. I sold the land, and I spent the money; ay, and what 's more, I spent it at home among my own people, like a gentleman! and if I 'm an absentee it 's not my fault. I suppose he couldn't arrest me,” said he, after a pause; “but, God knows, they 're making new laws every day, and it 's hard to say if they 'll let a man have peace or ease in any quarter of the world before long. Well, well! there's no use guessing. I have nothing to sell nothing to lose; I suppose they don't make it a hanging matter even for an Irishman to live a trifle too fast.” And with this piece of reassuring comfort, he pulled up his cravat, threw back the breast of his coat, and prepared to confront the enemy bravely. Although Dalton made some noise in unlocking the door, and not less in crossing the little passage that led to the sitting-room, his entrance was unperceived by the stranger, who was busily engaged in examining a half-finished group by Nelly. It represented an old soldier, whose eyes were covered by a bandage, seated beside a well, while a little drummer-boy read to him the bulletin of a great victory. She had destined the work for a present to Frank, and had put forth all her genius in its composition. The glowing enthusiasm of the blind veteran, his half-opened lips,' his attitude of eagerness as he drank in the words, were finely contrasted with the childlike simplicity of the boy, more intent, as it seemed, in spelling out the lines than following the signification. If the stranger was not a finished connoisseur, he was certainly not ignorant of art, and was deep in its contemplation when Dalton accosted him. “I beg pardon, Mr. Dalton, I presume; really this clever composition has made me forget myself totally. May I ask, is it the work of a native artist?” “It was done in this place, sir,” replied Dalton, whose pride in his daughter's skill was overlaid by a less worthy feeling, shame that a Dalton should condescend to such an occupation. “I have seen very inferior productions highly prized and praised; and if I am not indiscreet--” “To prevent any risk of that kind,” observed Dalton, interrupting him, “I 'll take the liberty of asking your name, and the object of this visit.” “Prichard, sir; of the firm of Prichard and Harding, solicitors, Lincoln's Inn Fields,” replied the other, whose voice and manner at once assumed a business-like tone.