“I will own to you, sir, it was less of Parnell I was thinking than of a dear friend who once talked to me of that cottage. He had lived there, and cherished the memory of that life when far away from it; and so well had he described every walk and path around it, each winding of the river, and every shady nook, that I had hoped to recognize it without a guide.”
“Ah, it is sadly changed of late. Your friend had not probably seen it for some years?”
“Let me see. It was in a memorable year he told me he lived there,—when some great demonstration was made by the Irish volunteers, with the Bishop of Down at their head. The Bishop dined there on that day.”
“The Earl of Bristol dined that day with me, there,” said Barrington, pointing to the cottage.
“May I ask with whom I have the honor to speak, sir?” said the stranger, bowing.
“Was it George Barrington told you this?” said the old man, trembling with eagerness: “was it he who lived here? I may ask, sir, for I am his father!”
“And I am Ormsby Conyers,” said the other; and his face became pale, and his knees trembled as he said it.
“Give me your hand, Conyers,” cried Barrington,—“the hand that my dear boy has so often pressed in friendship. I know all that you were to each other, all that you would be to his memory.”
“Can you forgive me?” said Conyers.
“I have, for many a year. I forgave you when I thought you had been his enemy. I now know you had only been your own to sacrifice such love, such affection as he bore you.”