Time passed,--months slipped away,--and my mother’s birth-day returned. That morning, a letter containing a bank-note for five hundred pounds was received. It was addressed to the lady--with a brief intimation in an unknown hand, that a similar gift should be annually presented. Another brief period passed, and another letter came. It brought but sorry news. Knockloftie was burned to the ground;--not a fragment that was combustible remained;--and what was once “a merrie hall” now frowned upon the ocean in black and ruined loneliness. As my father read the letter, a change came over his face, and revealed to the inquiring eyes then bent upon it, that evil tidings had arrived. “Denis,” said my mother, “what is wrong?” “Nothing, love, but that Knockloftie--” “What of it? Go on.” “Is, with all that it contained, a heap of ashes!” “Good Heaven!”--and my mother crossed herself,--“are we not ruined, Denis?” “No, no, love; not exactly ruined. I had the vanity to call my abiding place ‘a castle.’ Well, we must change the name; and surely ‘cottage’ will sound as sweetly.” “Pshaw!” said the lady, “is that all?” “Why--I can spare a horse or two,--part with a dozen dogs,--and then, my love, we will require the fewer servants.” “And the carriage,--what need of it?” exclaimed the lady. “Well, well; possibly if things come to the worst, it too might be dispensed with.” “And then my jewels, Denis!”--and my mother’s eyes brightened with delight--“ay, those useless baubles. I have heard that they are precious! They shall be sold, and--” “Never--by Heaven!” exclaimed my father, as he spurned the chair over the carpet, and strode across the room. In another minute his calmness had returned, and my mother was sitting on his knee, smiling away with woman’s tact, every recollection of annoyance; and propounding with the sweetest philosophy upon earth, visionary plans for future happiness. Again the postman’s knock was heard, and another letter was presented. My father flung it unopened on the table. “Curse the particulars!” he exclaimed, “what matters it whether the old roof-tree fell by carelessness or villany?” My mother impressed a consolatory kiss upon her husband’s cheek. “Read it, love,” said he. “You and I have no secrets, Emily.” The lady broke the seal, and looked at the signature. “Who is Constantine Mac Donough?” she inquired. “A very singular old man; a distant relation of my mother. Many years ago, my father and he quarrelled at an election. They fought in half an hour,--left the ground after three shots had been discharged,--and both refused a reconciliation. What was the cause of quarrel, I never could discover from my father; indeed, I question whether the worthy man himself even knew what it was distinctly; and with Mr. Mae Donough, of course, I never had even any acquaintance. He lives a bachelor, and report states, that he is very wealthy and very eccentric.” “Lived! my love; the old man’s dead.”