“What's that?” cried out the sick man, startled at the sound. “'Tis nothing, my lord, but the keys that fell out of my hand,” replied the old man, humbly. “Mr. Craggs is away to Leenane, and I was going to get out the wine for dinner.” “Where's Mr. Charles?” asked Lord Glencore. “He's there beyant,” muttered the other, in a low voice, while he pointed towards the distant fireplace; “but he looks tired and weary, and I did n't like to disturb him.” “Tired! weary!--with what? Where has he been; what has he been doing?” cried he, hastily. “Charles, Charles, I say!” And slowly rising from his seat, and with an air of languid indifference, the boy came towards him. Lord Glencore's face darkened as he gazed on him. “Where have you been?” asked he, sternly. “Yonder,” said the boy, in an accent like the echo of his own. “There's Mr. Craggs, now, my lord,” said the old butler, as he looked out of the window, and eagerly seized the opportunity to interrupt the scene; “there he is, and a gentleman with him.” “Ha! go and meet him, Charles,--it's Harcourt. Go and receive him, show him his room, and then bring him here to me.” The boy heard without a word, and left the room with the same slow step and the same look of apathy. Just as he reached the hall the stranger was entering it. He was a tall, well-built man, with the mingled ease and stiffness of a soldier in his bearing; his face was handsome, but somewhat stern, and his voice had that tone which implies the long habit of command. “You're a Massy, that I'll swear to,” said he, frankly, as he shook the boy's hand; “the family face in every lineament. And how is your father?” “Better; he has had a severe illness.” “So his letter told me. I was up the Rhine when I received it, and started at once for Ireland.” “He has been very impatient for your coming,” said the boy; “he has talked of nothing else.” “Ay, we are old friends. Glencore and I have been schoolfellows, chums at college, and messmates in the same regiment,” said he, with a slight touch of sorrow in his tone. “Will he be able to see me now? Is he confined to bed?” “No, he will dine with you. I 'm to show you your room, and then bring you to him.” “That 's better news than I hoped for, boy. By the way, what's your name?” “Charles Conyngham.” “To be sure, Charles; how could I have forgotten it! So, Charles, this is to be my quarters; and a glorious view there is from this window. What's the mountain yonder?” “Ben Creggan.” “We must climb that summit some of these days, Charley. I hope you 're a good walker. You shall be my guide through this wild region here, for I have a passion for explorings.” And he talked away rapidly, while he made a brief toilet, and refreshed himself from the fatigues of the road. “Now, Charley, I am at your orders; let us descend to the drawing-room.”