Seated beside the large turf fire of the priest's kitchen, for such it was, was a youth of some fifteen or sixteen years. His figure, light and well proportioned, was clad in a fashion which denoted his belonging to the better class, though neglect and time had made many an inroad on the Costume. His brow was lofty and delicately formed--the temples marked with many a thin blue rein, which had given ft look of delicacy to the countenance, if the deep glow of health had not lit up his cheeks, and imparted a bright lustre to his eyes. He held before him an open volume, from which he declaimed rather than read aloud, as it seemed, for the special delight and amusement of a small ragged urchin of about nine years old--who, with bare legs and feet, was seated on a little pyramid of turf, right opposite to him. Well might Sir Marmaduke and his daughter feel surprise; the volume was Homer, from which, with elevated voice and flashing eye, the boy was reading--the deep-toned syllables ringing through the low-vaulted chamber with a sweet but a solemn music. Contrasted with the fervid eloquence of the youth, was the mute wonder and rapt attention of the little fellow who listened. Astonishment, awe, and eager curiosity, blended together in that poor little face, every lineament of which trembled with excitement. If a high soaring imagination and elevated tone of thought were depicted in the one, the other, not less forcibly realized the mute and trembling eagerness of impassioned interest. The youth paused for a few seconds, and seemed to be reflecting over what he read, when the boy, in an accent broken with anxiety, cried out-- “Read it, again, Master Herbert. Oh, read it again. It's like the cry of the big stag-hound at Carrig-na-curra.” “It is the language of the gods, Mickey--finer and grander than ever man spoke,” replied the youth with fervour. “Listen to this, here;” and then, with solemn cadence he declaimed some twenty lines, while, as if the words were those of an incantation, the little fellow sat spellbound, with clasped hands and staring eye-balls gazing before him. “What does it mean, Master Herbert?--what is it?” said he, in panting eagerness. “It's about a great hero, Mickey, that was preparing for battle. He was putting on his armour, a coat and a cap of steel, and he was belting on his sword.” “Yes, yes,” broke in the little fellow, “and wasn't he saying how he'd murther and kill all before him?” “Bight enough,” said the youth, laughing. “You guessed it well.” “Ah, I knew it,” said the boy. “I saw how you clenched your fist, and your eyes wor shinin' like sparks of fire, and I knew it was darin' them he was, in the book there. What did he do after, Master Herbert? Just tell me that, sir.” “He went out in his chariot--” “Say it like himself first, sir, av it's plazin' to ye,” said he, with a most imploring look of entreaty. “I do be glad to hear it out of the book.”