k after this opinion had been given, when young
O'Shea walked over from Kilgobbin Castle to the Barn, intending to see his
aunt and take his farewell of her.

Though he had steeled his heart against the emotion such a leave-taking was
likely to evoke, he was in nowise prepared for the feelings the old place
itself would call up, and as he opened a little wicket that led by a
shrubbery walk to the cottage, he was glad to throw himself on the first
seat he could find and wait till his heart could beat more measuredly.
What a strange thing was life--at least that conventional life we make for
ourselves--was his thought now. 'Here am I ready to cross the globe, to be
the servant, the labourer of some rude settler in the wilds of Australia,
and yet I cannot be the herdsman here, and tend the cattle in the scenes
that I love, where every tree, every bush, every shady nook, and every
running stream is dear to me. I cannot serve my own kith and kin, but must
seek my bread from the stranger! This is our glorious civilisation. I
should like to hear in what consists its marvellous advantage.'

And then he began to think of those men of whom he had often
heard--gentlemen and men of refinement--who had gone out to Australia, and
who, in all the drudgery of daily labour--herding cattle on the plains or
conducting droves of horses long miles of way--still managed to retain the
habits of their better days, and, by the instinct of the breeding, which
had become a nature, to keep intact in their hearts the thoughts and the
sympathies and the affections that made them gentlemen.

'If my dear aunt only knew me as I know myself, she would let me stay here
and serve her as the humblest labourer on her land. I can see no indignity
in being poor and faring hardly. I have known coarse food and coarse
clothing, and I never found that they either damped my courage or soured my
temper.'

It might not seem exactly the appropriate moment to have bethought him of
the solace of companionship in such poverty, but somehow his thoughts _did_
take that flight, and unwarrantable as was the notion, he fancied himself
returning at nightfall to his lowly cabin, and a certain girlish figure,
whom our reader knows as Kate Kearney, standing watching for his coming.

There was no one to be seen about as he approached the house. The
hall door, however, lay open. He entered and passed on to the little
breakfast-parlour on the left. The furniture was the same as