“Is this wild enough for your fancy, Sybella,” said the father, with a playful smile, as he watched the varying expression of the young girl's features, “or would you desire something still more dreary?” But she made no answer. Her gaze was fixed on a thin wreath of smoke that curled its way upwards from what appeared a low mound of earth, in the valley below the road; some branches of trees, covered with sods of earth, grass-grown and still green, were heaped up together, and through these the vapour found a passage and floated into the air. “I am wondering what that fire can mean,” said she, pointing downwards with her finger. “Here is some one will explain it,” said the old man, as for the first time he perceived the youth, who still maintained his former attitude on the bank, and with a studied indifference, paid no attention to those whose presence had before so much surprised him. “I say, my good fellow, what does that smoke mean we see yonder?” The youth sprung to his feet with a bound that almost startled his questioner, so sudden and abrupt the motion; his features, inactive and colourless the moment before, seemed almost convulsed now, while they became dark with blood. “Was it to me you spoke?” said he, in a low guttural tone, which his passion made actually tremulous. “Yes--” But before the old man could reply, his daughter, with the quick tact of womanhood, perceiving the mistake her father had fallen into, hastily interrupted him by saying,-- “Yes, sir, we were asking you the cause of the fire at the foot of that cliff.” The tone and the manner in which the words were uttered seemed at once to have disarmed his anger; and although for a second or two he made no answer, his features recovered their former half-listless look, as he said-- “It is a cabin--There is another yonder, beside the river.” “A cabin! Surely you cannot mean that people are living there?” said the girl, as a sickly pallor spread itself across her cheeks. “Yes, to be sure,” replied the youth; “they have no better hereabouts.” “What poverty--what dreadful misery is this!” said she, as the great tears gushed forth, and stole heavily down her face. “They are not so poor,” answered the young man, in a voice of almost reproof. “The cattle along that mountain all belong to these people--the goats you see in that glen are theirs also.” “And whose estate may this be?” said the old man. Either the questioner or his question seemed to have called up again the youth's former resentment, for he fixed his eyes steadily on him for some time without a word, and then slowly added-- “This belongs to an Englishman--a certain Sir Marmaduke Travers--It is the estate of O'Donoghue.” “Was, you mean, once,” answered the old man quickly. “I mean what I say,” replied the other rudely. “Confiscation cannot take away a right, it can at most--”