he cares for Power
Magill, or that she ever cared for him, for that matter."

As he stands there in his well-worn shooting-coat, although he is
dressed little better than one of his own keepers, no one could mistake
him for other than a gentleman. He is a handsome man, with keen hazel
eyes set far back under brows as dark as a Spaniard's, but his face,
for all its comeliness, is almost forbidding in its sternness.

Turning off the road now, he makes his way across a field and down some
rude stone steps to the bank of the river.

A little house stands here, nestling against the rocky bank. The old
door hangs off its hinges, the one small-paned window is stuffed with
rags.

Power Magill stoops as he enters the poor place, and his eyes, dazzled
by the sunlight outside, look round the room in a vain search. He can
see no one; a girl rises from a low stool by the hearth, where she has
been coaxing a smoldering turf to light, and comes forward.

"Is your father in, Patsy?"

"He is not, your honor. He went to Derry to-day with one of Neil's
foals, and he will not be home till the morning!"

"And your brother--where is he?"

"I can't rightly say, your honor! Maybe he is gone to the bog to----"

But he stops her, frowning impatiently.

"Tell them both that I came here for them. Say no more than that--they
will understand."

Then he strikes out, glad to breathe the fresh air after that tainted
atmosphere. The girl walks cautiously to the door and looks after him.
She is barefooted, and on the earth floor her tread makes no sound.

"Heaven forgive yez!" she says almost fiercely. "The innocent creatures
never hurt man nor beast till yez came with your foine tongue and your
yellow guineas, tempting and ruining 'em! But I'll be even with yez
yet!"

From this fetid little cabin on the river's side a brisk walk of ten
minutes brings Power Magill to the gates of Donaghmore. As he passes up
the drive he stops and turns aside for an instant to look at the ruins
of the old Abbey, standing grim and cold and gray in the yellow
sunshine.

The refectory is still standing, its three windows looking toward the
stone house on the hill. There is a low arched gateway, but the gate is
gone, and beyond in the great quadrangle the stones lie as they have
fallen.

"What asses we are, the best of us!" Power Magill says grimly, as he
looks at this relic of a dead man's wealth and power.

The old abbot--buried, so say the traditions o