is conjuncture."

Basset was the only name I could think of; and however absurd the idea
of a service from such a quarter, I deemed that, as my brother's agent,
he would scarce refuse me. I thought that Barton gave a very peculiar
grin as I mentioned the name; but my own securities being entered into,
and a few formal questions answered, I was told I was at liberty to seek
out the bail required.

Once more in the streets, I turned my steps towards Basset's house,
where I hoped, at all events, to learn some tidings of my brother. I
was not long in arriving at the street, and speedily recognized the old
house, whose cobwebbed windows and unwashed look reminded me of former
times. The very sound of the heavy iron knocker awoke its train of
recollections; and when the door was opened, and I saw the narrow
hall, with its cracked lamp and damp, discolored walls, the whole
heart-sinking with which they once inspired me came back again, and I
thought of Tony Basset when his very name was a thing of terror to me.

Mr. Basset, I was told, was at court, and I was shown into the office to
await his return. The gloomy little den,--I knew it well, with its dirty
shelves of dirtier papers, its old tin boxes, and its rickety desk,
at which two meanly-dressed starveling youths were busy writing. They
turned a rapid glance towards me as I entered; and as they resumed their
occupation, I could hear a muttered remark upon my dress and appearance,
the purport of which I did not catch.

I sat for some time patiently, expecting Basset's arrival, but as
the time stole by, I grew wearied with waiting, and determined on
ascertaining, if I might, from the clerks, some intelligence concerning
my brother.

"Have you any business with Mr. Burke?" said the youth I addressed,
while his features assumed an expression of vulgar jocularity.

"Yes," was my brief reply.

"Wouldn't a letter do as well as a personal interview?" said the other,
with an air of affected courtesy.

"Perhaps so," I replied, too deeply engaged in my own thoughts to mind
their flippant impertinence.

"Then mind you direct your letter 'Churchyard, Loughrea;' or, if you
want to be particular, say 'Family vault.'"

[Illustration: 426]

"Is he dead? Is George dead?"

"That's hard to say," interposed the other; "but they've buried him,
that's certain."

Like a stunning blow, the shock of this news left me unable to speak or
hear. A maze of confused thoughts crossed and