“You have got a very magnificent seat in the west, sir,” said St. George, addressing O'Reilly, who during the whole evening had done little more than assent or smile concurrence with the several speakers. “The finest thing in Ireland,” interrupted Heffernan. “Nay, that is saying too much,” said O'Reilly, with a look of half-real, half-affected bashfulness. “The abbey certainly stands well, and the timber is well grown.” “Are you able to see Clew Bay from the small drawing-room still?--for I remember remarking that the larches on the side of the glen would eventually intercept the prospect.” “You know the Abbey, then?” asked O'Reilly, forgetting to answer the question addressed to him. “Oh, I knew it well. My family is connected-distantly, I believe--with the Darcys, and in former days we were intimate. A very sweet place it was; I am speaking of thirty years ago, and of course it must have improved since that.” “My friend here has given it every possible opportunity,” said Heffernan, with a courteous inclination of the head. “I've no doubt of it,” said St. George; “but neither money nor bank securities will make trees grow sixty feet in a twelvemonth. The improvements I allude to were made by Maurice Darcy's father; he sunk forty thousand pounds in draining, planting, subsoiling, and what not. He left a rent-charge in his will to continue his plans; and Maurice and his son--what's the young fellow called?--Lionel, isn't it?--well, they are, or rather they were, bound to expend a very heavy sum annually on the property.” A theme less agreeable to O'Reilly's feelings could scarcely have been started; and though Heffernan saw as much, he did not dare to interrupt it suddenly, for fear of any unpalatable remark from St. George. Whether from feeling that the subject was a painful one, or that he liked to indulge his loquacity in detailing various particulars of the Darcys and their family circumstances, the old man went on without ceasing,--now narrating some strange caprice of an ancestor in one century, now some piece of good fortune that occurred to another. “You know the old prophecy in the family, I suppose, Mr. O'Reilly?” said he, “though, to be sure, you are not very likely to give it credence.” “I scarcely can say I remember what you allude to.” “By Jove, I thought every old woman in the west would have told it to you. How is this the doggerel runs--ay, here it is,-- 'A new name in this house shall never begin Till twenty-one Darcys have died in Gwynne.' Now, they say that, taking into account all of the family who have fallen in battle, been lost at sea, and so on, only eleven of the stock died at the Abbey.”