ushed to the window and looked out; I could have
sworn I heard his voice.

The old cob pony he used to ride was grazing peacefully before the door;
poor Carlo, his favorite spaniel, lay stretched upon the terrace, turning
ever and anon a look towards the window, and then, as if wearied of
watching for him who came not, he would utter a long, low, wailing cry, and
lie down again to sleep. The rich lawn, decked with field flowers of many
a hue, stretched away towards the river, upon whose calm surface the
white-sailed lugger scarce seemed to move; the sounds of a well-known Irish
air came, softened by distance, as some poor fisherman sat mending his net
upon the bank, and the laugh of children floated on the breeze. Yes, they
were happy.

Two months had elapsed since my return home; how passed by me I know not; a
lethargic stupor had settled upon me. Whole days long I sat at the window,
looking listlessly at the tranquil river, and watching the white foam as,
borne down from the rapids, it floated lazily along. The count had left me
soon, being called up to Dublin by some business, and I was utterly alone.
The different families about called frequently to ask after me, and would,
doubtless, have done all in their power to alleviate my sorrow, and lighten
the load of my affliction; but with a morbid fear, I avoided every one, and
rarely left the house except at night-fall, and then only to stroll by some
lonely and deserted path.

Life had lost its charm for me; my gratified ambition had ended in the
blackest disappointment, and all for which I had labored and longed was
only attained that I might feel it valueless.

Of my circumstances as to fortune I knew nothing, and cared not more;
poverty and riches could matter little now; all my day dreams were
dissipated now, and I only waited for Considine's return to leave Ireland
forever. I had made up my mind, if by any unexpected turn of fate the war
should cease in the Peninsula, to exchange into an Indian regiment. The
daily association with objects which recalled but one image to my brain,
and that ever accompanied by remorse of conscience, gave me not a moment's
peace. My every thought of happiness was mixed up with scenes which now
presented nothing but the evidences of blighted hope; to remain, then,
where I was, would be to sink into the heartless misanthropist, and I
resolved that with my sword I would carve out a soldier's fortune and a
soldier's grave.

Considin