was not an active cause. However happy
I may feel at being instrumental in a breach of intimacy between her and
one so very unworthy of her, even as a common acquaintance, I will ask
you, Jack, when opportunity offers, to put the matter in its true light;
for although I may, in all likelihood, never meet her again, I should
be sorry to leave with her a more unfavourable impression of me than I
really deserve.'

Here the letter broke off; but lower down on the paper were the
following lines, written in evident haste, and with a different ink:--

'We sail to-night. Oporto is our destination. Corny is to remain behind,
and I must ask of you to look to him on his arrival in Dublin. Lady
Julia likes De Vere, and you know him too well to permit of such a fatal
misfortune. I am, I find, meddling in what really I have no right to
touch upon; this is, however, _de vous a moi_. God bless you.--Yours
ever, Phil o'Grady.'

'Poor Phil!' said I, as I laid down the letter; 'in his heart he
believes himself disinterested in all this, but I see plainly he is in
love with her himself.' Alas! I cannot conceive a heavier affliction
to befall the man without fortune than to be thrown among those whose
prospects render an alliance impossible, and to bestow his affections on
an object perfectly beyond his reach of attainment. Many a proud heart
has been torn in the struggle between its own promptings and the
dread of the imputation, which the world so hastily confers, of
'fortune-hunting'; many a haughty spirit has quailed beneath this fear,
and stifled in his bosom the thought that made his life a blessed dream.
My poor friend, how little will she that has stolen away your peace
think of your sorrows!

A gentle tap at my door aroused me from my musings. I opened it, and
saw, to my surprise, my old companion Tipperary Joe. He was covered with
dust, heated, and travel-stained, and leaned against the door-post to
rest himself.

'So,' cried he, when he had recovered his breath, 'I'm in time to see
you once more before you go! I run all the way from Carlow, since twelve
o'clock last night.'

'Come in, my poor boy, and sit down. Here's a glass of wine; 'twill
refresh you. We 'll get something for you to eat presently.'

'No, I couldn't eat now. My throat is full, and my heart is up here.
And so you are going away--going for good and all, never to come back
again?'

'Who can say so much as that, Joe? I should, at least, be very sorry to