to the incident.

'His name is Walpole, and he is related to half the peerage,' said the old
man, with some irritation of manner.

A mere nod acknowledged the information, and he went on--

'This was the young fellow who was with Kitty on the night they attacked
the castle, and he got both bones of his forearm smashed with a shot.'

'An ugly wound,' was the only rejoinder.

'So it was, and for a while they thought he'd lose the arm. Kitty says he
behaved beautifully, cool and steady all through.'

Another nod, but this time Gorman's lips were firmly compressed.

'There's no denying it,' said the old man, with a touch of sadness in his
voice--'there's no denying it, the English have courage; though,' added he
afterwards, 'it's in a cold, sluggish way of their own, which we don't like
here. There he is, now, that young fellow that has just parted from the two
girls. The tall one is my niece--I must present you to her.'

CHAPTER XL

OLD MEMORIES

Though both Kate Kearney and young O'Shea had greatly outgrown each other's
recollection, there were still traits of feature remaining, and certain
tones of voice, by which they were carried back to old times and old
associations.

Amongst the strange situations in life, there are few stranger, or, in
certain respects, more painful, than the meeting after long absence of
those who, when they had parted years before, were on terms of closest
intimacy, and who now see each other changed by time, with altered habits
and manners, and impressed in a variety of ways with influences and
associations which impart their own stamp on character.

It is very difficult at such moments to remember how far we ourselves have
changed in the interval, and how much of what we regard as altered in
another may not simply be the new standpoint from which we are looking, and
thus our friend may be graver, or sadder, or more thoughtful, or, as it may
happen, seem less reflective and less considerative than we have thought
him, all because the world has been meantime dealing with ourselves in such
wise that qualities we once cared for have lost much of their value, and
others that we had deemed of slight account have grown into importance with
us.

Most of us know the painful disappointment of revisiting scenes which had
impressed us strongly in early life: how the mountain we regarded with a
wondering admiration had become a mere hill, and the romantic tarn a pool
of sluggish wate