nd a full
description of the dress he wore, as well as of his height, complexion,
features--and all this his poor little wife, still inhabiting the Mills,
and quite unconscious that any man, woman, or child, who could prosecute
him to conviction, for a murderous assault on Dr. Sturk, should have L50
reward.

'News in to-day, by Jove,' said Toole, bustling solemnly into the club;
'by the packet that arrived at one o'clock, a man taken, answering
Nutter's description exactly, just going aboard of a Jamaica brig at
Gravesend, and giving no account of himself. He's to be sent over to
Dublin for identification.'

And when that was thoroughly discussed two or three times over, they
fell to talking of other subjects, and among the rest of Devereux, and
wondered what his plans were; and, there being no brother officers by,
whether he meant to keep his commission, and various speculations as to
the exact cause of the coldness shown him by General Chattesworth. Dick
Spaight thought it might be that he had not asked Miss Gertrude in
marriage.

But this was pooh-poohed. 'Besides, they knew at Belmont,' said Toole,
who was an authority upon the domestic politics of that family, and
rather proud of being so, 'just as well as I did that Gipsy Dick was in
love with Miss Lilias; and I lay you fifty he'd marry her to-morrow if
she'd have him.'

Toole was always a little bit more intimate with people behind their
backs, so he called Devereux 'Gipsy Dick.'

'She's ailing, I hear,' said old Slowe.

'She is, indeed, Sir,' answered the doctor, with a grave shake of the
head.

'Nothing of moment, I hope?' he asked.

'Why, you see it may be; she had a bad cough last winter, and this year
she took it earlier, and it has fallen very much on her lungs; and you
see, we can't say, Sir, what turn it may take, and I'm very sorry she
should be so sick and ailing--she's the prettiest creature, and the best
little soul; and I don't know, on my conscience, what the poor old
parson would do if anything happened her, you know. But I trust, Sir,
with care, you know, 'twill turn out well.'

The season for trout-fishing was long past and gone, and there were no
more pleasant rambles for Dangerfield and Irons along the flowery banks
of the devious Liffey. Their rods and nets hung up, awaiting the return
of genial spring; and the churlish stream, abandoned to its wintry mood,
darkled and roared savagely under the windows of the Brass Castle.

One d