likely to keep your
word;' and, looking hard at me for a second or two, he walked away
likewise, humming a tune: and I saw he looked back at me as he went
through the old gate out of the garden. When he was gone, and I was
quite alone, I flung myself down on the bench where Nora had made
believe to faint, and had left her handkerchief; and, taking it up, hid
my face in it, and burst into such a passion of tears as I would then
have had nobody see for the world. The crumpled riband which I had flung
at Quin lay in the walk, and I sat there for hours, as wretched as any
man in Ireland, I believe, for the time being. But it's a changeable
world! When we consider how great our sorrows SEEM, and how small they
ARE; how we think we shall die of grief, and how quickly we forget, I
think we ought to be ashamed of ourselves and our fickle-heartedness.
For, after all, what business has time to bring us consolation? I
have not, perhaps, in the course of my multifarious adventures and
experience, hit upon the right woman; and have forgotten, after a
little, every single creature I adored; but I think, if I could but have
lighted on the right one, I would have loved her for EVER.

I must have sat for some hours bemoaning myself on the garden bench, for
it was morning when I came to Castle Brady, and the dinner-bell
clanged as usual at three o'clock, which wakened me up from my reverie.
Presently I gathered up the handkerchief, and once more took the riband.
As I passed through the offices, I saw the Captain's saddle was still
hanging up at the stable-door, and saw his odious red-coated brute of
a servant swaggering with the scullion-girls and kitchen-people. 'The
Englishman's still there, Master Redmond,' said one of the maids to me
(a sentimental black-eyed girl, who waited on the young ladies). 'He's
there in the parlour, with the sweetest fillet of vale; go in, and don't
let him browbeat you, Master Redmond.'

And in I went, and took my place at the bottom of the big table, as
usual, and my friend the butler speedily brought me a cover.

'Hallo, Reddy my boy!' said my uncle, 'up and well?--that's right.'

'He'd better be home with his mother,' growled my aunt.

'Don't mind her,' says Uncle Brady; 'it's the cold goose she ate at
breakfast didn't agree with her. Take a glass of spirits, Mrs. Brady, to
Redmond's health.' It was evident he did not know of what had happened;
but Mick, who was at dinner too, and Ulick, and almost a