The old, and often successful remedies to rally him from his low spirits, his father possessed no longer--the indulgence of some caprice, some momentary fancy for a horse or a hound--a boat or a fishing-rod. He felt, besides, that his grief, whatever it was, lay too deep for such surface measures as these, and he pondered long and anxiously over the matter. Nor had he one to share his sorrow, or assist him with advice. Sir Archibald he ever regarded as being prejudiced against Mark, and invariably more disposed to exaggerate, than extenuate his faults. To have opened his heart to him, would be to expose himself to some very plausible, but, as he would deem them, very impracticable remarks, on frugality and order--the necessity of submitting to altered fortunes--and, if need be, of undertaking some humble but honest occupation as a livelihood. These, and such like, had more than once been obtruded upon him; but to seek and court them, to invite their presence, was not to be thought of. Kerry O'Leary was, then, the only one who remained; and they who know the intimacy to which old servants, long conversant with the fortunes of the family, and deemed faithful, because, from utter inutility, they are attached to the house that shelters them, are admitted in Irish households, will not be surprised at the choice of the confidant. He, I say, was the O'Donoghue's last resource; and from him he still hoped to gain some clue, at least, to the secret of this mystery. Scarcely had the O'Donoghue retired to his room at night, when Kerry was summoned to his presence, and after a few preliminaries, was asked if he knew where, how, or with whom his young master latterly spent his time. “Faix, and 'tis that same does be puzzling myself,” said Kerry, to whom the matter had already been one of considerable curiosity. “Sometimes I think one thing, and then I think another--but it beats me entirely.” “What were your thoughts, then, Kerry?” “'Twas Tuesday last I suspected Joe Lenahan's daughter--the fair-haired girl, above at the three meadows; then, I took into my head, it might be a badger he was after--for he was for ever going along by the bank of the river; but, twice in the week, I was sure I had him--and faix, I think, maybe I have.” “How is that, Kerry? Tell me at once, man!” “It's a fine brown beast Lanty Lawler has--a strapping four-year-old, as likely a weight-carrier as ever I seen--that's what he's after--sorra he in it. I obsarved him, on Friday, taking him over the big fences beyant the whin-field--and I measured his tracks--and, may I never die in sin, if he didn't stride nineteen feet over the yallow ditch.” “Do you know what he's asking for him, Kerry?” cried the old man, eagerly.