“Shrewd dog it is,” muttered Massingbred in soliloquy, but taking good care to be overheard. “I 'll beat up your quarters, Scanlan, in a couple of hours or so,” said Massingbred, as he descended from the lofty “drag.” Somewhat, but not very much, later than the time appointed, Jack Massingbred appeared in the small chamber of the “Crueskeen,”--the humble hostel on the roadside adjoining the demesne of Cro' Martin. Maurice Scanlan had made every preparation which the fluid resources of the house admitted to receive his guest, but they were not destined to be put in requisition. “I have only come lest you should accuse me of forgetting you, Scanlan,” said Massingbred, as he stood in the doorway without removing his hat. “I 'm off to Oughter-ard, having made my adieux at Cro' Martin.” “Left Cro' Martin, and for good!” exclaimed Scanlan. “If that means forever, I suspect you 're right,” replied Jack; “but you 'll have the whole story in the morning when you go up there, and doubtless more impartially than I should tell it. And now, good-bye for a brief space. We shall meet soon.” And, without waiting for an answer, he nodded familiarly, stepped briskly to the door, where a post-chaise awaited him, and was gone, before Scanlan had even half recovered from his astonishment and surprise. CHAPTER XXI. AN AWKWARD VISITOR It is a singularly impressive sensation, and one, too, of which even frequency will scarcely diminish the effect, to pass from the busy streets and moving population of Dublin, and enter the quiet courts of the University. The suddenness of the change is most striking, and you pass at once from all the bustling interests of life--its cares and ambitions, its pursuits of wealth and pleasure--into the stillness of a cloister. Scarcely within the massive gates, and the noise of the great capital is hushed and subdued, its sounds seem to come from afar, and in their place is an unbroken calm, or the more solemn echoes of its vaulted roofs. In a corner of the Old Square, and in a building almost entirely occupied by the University authorities, and whose stairs had seldom echoed beneath less reverend footsteps than those of deans and bursars, were the chambers of Joe Nelligan. He had obtained them in this peculiar locality as a special favor from “the Board,” as eminently suited to his habits of study and seclusion; for his was indeed a life of labor,--labor, hard, unremitting, and unbroken! Dreary as was the aspect of the spot, it was one dear to the heart of him who occupied it. If it had been the cell wherein he had passed nights of severest toil and days of intense effort, so had it been the calm retreat into which he had retired as a sanctuary, and at times the scene of the hallowed joy he felt when success had crowned all his labors. Thither had he bent his steps at nightfall, as to a home; thence had he written the few lines which more than once announced his triumph to his father.