Chevydale's house was somewhat nearer Ahadarra than Fethertonge's, but on the same line of road, and he accordingly proceeded to the residence of his landlord. The mansion indeed was a fine one. It stood on the brow of a gentle eminence, which commanded a glorious prospect of rich and highly cultivated country. Behind, the landscape rose gradually until it terminated in a range of mountains that protected the house from the north. The present structure was modern, having been built by old Chevydale, previous to his marriage. It was large and simple, but so majestic in appearance, that nothing could surpass the harmony that subsisted between its proportions and the magnificent old trees which studded the glorious lawn that surrounded, it, and rose in thick extensive masses that stretched far away behind the house. It stood in a park, which for the beauties of wood and. water was indeed worthy of its fine simplicity and grandeur--a park in which it was difficult to say whether the beautiful, the picturesque, or the wild, predominated most. And yet in this princely residence Mr. Chevydale did not reside more than a month, or at most two, during the whole year. On reaching the hall-door, M'Mahon inquired from the servant who appeared, if he could see Mr. Chevydale. “I'm afraid not,” said the servant, “but I will see; what's your name?” “Bryan M'Mahon, of Ahadarra, one of his tenants.” The servant returned to him in a few moments, and said, “Yes, he will see you; follow me.” Bryan entered a library, where he found his landlord and Fethertonge apparently engaged in business, and as he was in the act of doing so, he overheard Chevydale saying--“No, no, I shall always see my tenants.” Bryan made his obeisance in his own plain way, and Chevydale said--“Are you M'Mahon of Ahadarra?” “I am, sir,” replied Bryan. “I thought you were a much older man,” said Chevydale, “there certainly must be, some mistake here,” he added, looking at Fethertonge. “M'Mahon of Ahadarra was a middle-aged man several years ago, but this person is young enough to be his man.” “You speak of his uncle,” replied Fethertonge, “who is dead. This young man, who now owns his uncle's farm, is son to Thomas M'Mahon of Carriglass. How is your father, M'Mahon? I hope he bears up well under his recent loss.” “Indeed but poorly, sir,” replied Bryan, “I fear he'll never be the same man.” Chevydale here took to reading a newspaper, and in a minute or two appeared to be altogether unconscious of Bryan's presence. “I'm afeard, sir,” said Bryan, addressing himself to the agent, who was the only person likely to hear him, “I'm afeard, sir, that I've got into trouble.” “Into trouble? how is that?” “Why, sir, there was a Still, Head, and Worm found upon Ahadarra, and I'm going to be fined for it.”