ut he might as well have stamped and roared at Niagara. Not a
voice cared for his threats or his rage, but those within reach of his
arm. The choleric little man had to come back baffled.

'Masther Robert, would _ye_ like 'em to stop?' whispered a great hulking
peasant who had been looking on; 'for if ye would, I'll do it while ye'd
be taking a pinch of snuff.'

Andy Callaghan disappeared somewhere for a moment, and presently emerged
with an old violin, which he began to scrape vigorously. Even his tuning
was irresistibly comical; and he had not been playing a lively jig for
ten minutes, before two or three couples were on their feet performing
the figure. Soon an admiring circle, four deep, collected about the
dancers. The sorrows of the exiles were effectually diverted, for that
time.

'A clever fellow,' quoth the captain, regarding Andy's red hair and
twinkling eyes with some admiration. 'A diplomatic tendency, Mr. Wynn,
which may be valuable. Your servant, I presume?'

'A former tenant of my father's, who wished to follow our fortunes,'
replied Robert. 'He's a faithful fellow, though not much more civilised
than the rest.'

That grand ocean bluff, the Old Head of Kinsale, was now in the offing,
and misty ranges of other promontories beyond, at whose base was
perpetual foam. Robert turned away with a sigh, and descended to the
cabins. In the small square box allotted to them, he found Arthur lying
in his berth, reading Mrs. Traill's _Emigrant's Guide_.

'I've been wondering what became of you; you've not been on deck since
we left Cork.'

'Of course not. I should have been blubbering like a schoolboy; and as I
had enough of that last night, I mean to stay here till we're out of
sight of land.'

Little trace of the stoicism he professed was to be seen in the tender
eyes which had for an hour been fixed on the same page; but Arthur was
not yet sufficiently in manhood's years to know that deep feeling is an
honour, and not a weakness.

Towards evening, the purple mountain ranges of Kerry were fast fading
over the waters; well-known peaks, outlines familiar from childhood to
the dwellers at Dunore, were sinking beneath the great circle of the
sea. Cape Clear is left behind, and the lonely Fassnet lighthouse; the
Ocean Queen is coming to the blue water, and the long solemn swell
raises and sinks her with pendulum-like regularity.

'Ah, then, Masther Robert, an' we're done wid the poor ould counthry for
good a