and tear of
a life so little in unison with them. To be her teacher, he had toiled
through the long hours of the night, hoarding up his miserable earnings
to buy some coveted book of reference, some deeply prized authority in
criticism. By dint of downright labor,--for his was not one of those
bright intelligences that acquire as if by instinct,--he had mastered
several of the modern languages of Europe, and refreshed his knowledge
of the ancient ones. With such companionship and such training, Polly
Fagan's youth had been fashioned into that strange compound, where high
ambitions and gentle tastes warred with each other, and the imaginative
faculties were cultivated amidst views of life alone suggestive of gain
and money-getting.

If Fagan took little interest in the care bestowed by Raper on his
daughter's education, he was far from indifferent to the devotion of
his faithful follower; while Joe, on the other hand, well knowing that
without him the complicated business of the house could not be carried
on for a single day, far from presuming on his indispensable services,
only felt the more bound in honor to endure any indignity rather than
break with one so dependent on him. It had been a kind of traditionary
practice with the Fagans not to keep regular books, but to commit all
their transactions to little fragments of paper, which were stuffed,
as it seemed, recklessly into some one or other of that vast nest of
pigeon-holes, which, like a gigantic honeycomb, formed the background
of Joe Raper's desk, and of which he alone, of men, knew the secret
geography. No guide existed to these mysterious receptacles, save when
occasionally the name of some suitor of uncommon importance appeared
over a compartment; and as an evidence of what a share our family
enjoyed in such distinction, I have heard that the word "Carew" figured
over as many as five of these little cells.

Joe turned round hastily on his stool as his chief entered, and saluted
him with a respectful bow; and then, as if continuing some unbroken
thread' of discourse, said, "Whyte is protested,--Figgis and Read
stopped."

"What of Grogan?" said Fagan, harshly.

"Asks for time. If he sells his stock at present prices, he 'll be a
heavy loser."

"So let him,--say that we'll proceed."

"The writ can't run there; he lives in Mayo."

"We 'll try it."

"We did so before, and the sub-sheriff was shot."

"Attorneys are plenty,--we 'll send down another."