k. But, on the whole, Peter Rorke was not
an ill-looking old fellow, and now as he stood basking in the autumn
sunlight, while his eyes wandered from one to the other of his
possessions, his face wore quite a pleasant expression. In truth, it
would have been difficult, even for the most humble of mortals, not to
feel a certain exhilaration on gazing at the evidences of prosperity
at Monavoe. The house, to begin with, was solid and comfortable, the
barns and granaries were full to overflowing; yonder were stables for
the six fine cart-horses now toiling at various corners of Peter's
domain; adjoining them the cow-houses, where Peter could not only
accommodate twelve milch-cows, but fatten in the winter an equal
number of "stall-feds"; in the "haggard" to the rear were the
innumerable golden stacks and hay-ricks which were, of all his
possessions, those most valued by the Master of Monavoe. No one in the
country was so clever in selecting time and weather for cutting and
carting; no one so cunning in ascertaining the most opportune moments
for selling, or so far-seeing with regard to prices. At this very
moment Peter Rorke was gazing at an immense rick of "prime old hay"
which he had had the prudence to keep back while all his neighbours
were selling. His wisdom now appeared; there had been an unexpected
failure in the hay crop that season, the prices had gone up
accordingly, and Peter looked forward to receiving more than double
the sum that his produce was actually worth.

Rousing himself at length from what, to one of his temperament, had
been a reverie of long duration, he turned round and called loudly to
some one whom he supposed to be within: "Rose, Rose! Are ye there,
girl?"

There was no answer, and after a moment's pause he called again
impatiently. A very old woman with a white sun-bonnet tilted over her
brow came slowly from the back premises. "Where is my granddaughter,
Judy?" he asked, with a frown. Judy was no favourite of his.

"She isn't here at all," she observed; and then jerking her thumb over
her shoulder in the direction of some outhouses, "she went acrass to
the dairy a while ago."

Peter Rorke grunted, and, without another glance at the old woman,
began to walk at a rapid pace in the direction she had indicated. As
he drew near the partly open door of the dairy, the sound of a girl's
voice could be heard merrily lilting a tune; and when Peter entered
the owner of the voice turned round, abrupt