“London!” said he, with a heavy sigh. “It's now the 18th, and on Saturday she sails.” “Who sails?” asked Miss Daly, with more of eagerness than she yet exhibited. “Oh, I forgot, Molly, I had n't told you, I 'm about to take a voyage,--not a very long one, but still distant enough to make me wish to say good-bye ere we separate. If God wills it, I shall be back early in the spring.” “What new freak is this, Bagenal?” said she, almost sternly; “I thought that time and the world's crosses might have taught you to care for quietness, if not for home.” “Home!” repeated he, in an accent the sorrow of which sank into her very heart; “when had I ever a home? I had a house and lands, and equipages, horses, and liveried servants,--all that wealth could command, or, my own reckless vanity could prompt,--but these did not make a home!” “You often promised we should have such one day, Bagenal,” said she, tenderly, while she stole her hand within his; “you often told me that the time would come when we should enjoy poverty with a better grace than ever we dispensed riches.” “We surely are poor enough to make the trial now,” said he, with a bitterness of almost savage energy. “And if we are, Bagenal,” replied she, “there is the more need to draw more closely to each other; let us begin at once.” “Not yet, Molly, not yet,” said he, passing his hand across his eyes. “I would grasp such a refuge as eagerly as yourself, for,” added he, with deep emotion, “I am to the full as weary; but I cannot do it yet.” Miss Daly knew her brother's temper too long and too well either to offer a continued opposition to any strongly expressed resolve, or to question him about a subject on which he showed any desire of reserve. “Have you no Dublin news for me?” she said, as if willing to suggest some less touching subject for conversation. “No, Molly; Dublin is deserted. The few who still linger in town seem only half awake to the new condition of events. The Government party are away to England; they feel, doubtless, bound in honor to dispense their gold in the land it came from; and the Patriots--Heaven bless the mark!--they look as rueful as if they began to suspect that Patriotism was too dear a luxury after all.” “And this burning of Newgate,-what did it mean? Was there, as the newspaper makes out, anything like a political plot connected with it?” “Nothing of the kind, Molly. The whole affair was contrived among the prisoners. Freney, the well-known highwayman, was in the jail, and, although not tried, his conviction was certain.” “And they say he has escaped. Can it be possible that some persons of influence, as the journals hint, actually interested themselves for the escape of a man like this?” “Everything is possible in a state of society like ours, Molly.” “But a highwayman--a robber--a fellow that made the roads unsafe to travel!”