While the old man revelled in the happiness of these thoughts, so absorbed was he by them that he utterly forgot the immediate object which had occasioned his journey,—forgot Stapylton and the meeting, and all that had led to it. Thus passed the hours of the night; and as the day broke, he arose, impatient to actual feverishness for the coming interview. He tried by some occupation to fill up the time. He sat down to write to his sister an account of all Withering had told him, leaving the rest to be added after the meeting; but he found, as he read it over, that after the mention of George's name, nothing dropped from his pen but praises of him. It was all about his generosity, his open-heartedness, and his bravery. “This would seem downright extravagant,” said he, as he crushed the paper in his hand, “till she hears it from the lips of Conyers himself.” He began another letter, but somehow again he glided into the self-same channel.
“This will never do,” said he; “there's nothing for it but a brisk walk.” So saying he sallied out into the deserted streets, for few were about at that early hour. Barrington turned his steps towards the country, and soon gained one of those shady alleys which lead towards Finglas. It was a neighborhood he had once known well, and a favorite resort of those pleasant fellows who thought they compensated for a hard night at Daly's by sipping syllabub of a morning on a dewy meadow. He once had rented a little cottage there; a fancy of poor George's it was, that there were some trout in the stream beside it; and Barrington strolled along till he came to a little mound, from which he could see the place, sadly changed and dilapidated since he knew it. Instead of the rustic bridge that crossed the river, a single plank now spanned the stream, and in the disorder and neglect of all around, it was easy to see it had fallen to the lot of a peasant to live in it. As Barrington was about to turn away, he saw an old man—unmistakably a gentleman—ascending the hill, with a short telescope in his hand. As the path was a narrow one, he waited, therefore, for the other's arrival, before he began to descend himself. With a politeness which in his younger days Irish gentlemen derived from intercourse with France, Barring-ton touched his hat as he passed the stranger, and the other, as if encouraged by the show of courtesy, smiled as he returned the salute, and said,—
“Might I take the liberty to ask you if you are acquainted with this locality?”
“Few know it better, or, at least, knew it once,” said Barrington.
“It was the classic ground of Ireland in days past,” said the stranger. “I have heard that Swift lived here.”
“Yes; but you cannot see his house from this. It was nearer to Santry, where you see that wood yonder. There was, however, a celebrity once inhabited that small cottage before us. It was the home of Parnell.”
“Is that Parnell's cottage?” asked the stranger, with eagerness; “that ruined spot, yonder?”
“Yes. It was there he wrote some of his best poems. I knew the room well he lived in.”
“How I would like to see it!” cried the other.
“You are an admirer of Parnell, then?” said Barrington, with a smile of courteous meaning.