For my part, I should indeed wish the hours annihilated till I again behold Glorvina; but for the space which divides us, it was requisite I should be fifty miles from her, to be no more entirely with her; to appreciate the full value of her society; and to learn the nature of those wants my heart must ever feel when separated from her. The priest and I arose this morning with the sun. Our lovely hostess was ready at the breakfast-table to receive us. I was so selfish as to observe without regret the air of langour that invested her whole form, and the heaviness that weighed down her eyelids, as though the influence of sleep had not renovated the lustre of those downcast eyes they veiled. Ah! if I dared believe that these wakeful hours were given to me. But I fear at that moment her heart was more occupied by her father than her lover: for I have observed, in a thousand instances, the interest she takes in his affairs; and indeed the priest hinted to me, that her good sense has frequently retrieved those circumstances the imprudent speculations of her father have as constantly deranged. During breakfast she spoke but little, and once I caught her eyes turned full on me, with a glance in which tenderness, regret, and even something of despondency were mingled. Glorvina despond! So young, so lovely, so virtuous, and so highly gifted! Oh! at that moment had I been master of worlds! but, dependent myself on another’s will, I could only sympathize in the sufferings while I adored the sufferer. When we arose to depart, Glorvina said, “If you will lead your horses I will walk to the drawbridge with you.” Delighted at the proposal, we ordered our horses to follow us; and with an arm of Glorvina drawn through either of ours, we left the castle. “This (said I, pressing the hand which rested on mine,) is commencing a journey under favourable auspices.” “God grant it may be so,” said Glorvina, fervently. “Amen!” said the priest. “Amen!” I repeated; and looking at Glorvina, read all the daughter in her eyes. “We shall sleep to-night, (said the priest, endeavouring to dissipate the gloom which hung over us by indifferent chit-chat;) we shall sleep to-night at the hospitable mansion of a true-born _Milesian_, to whom I have the honour to be distantly allied; and where you will find the old _Brehon_ law, which forbids that a sept should be disappointed of the expected feast, was no fabrication of national partiality.” “What then, (said I,) we shall not enjoy ourselves in all the comfortable unrestrained freedom of _an inn_.”