ic turn, and vowed I had never seen such rain
in Ireland. The master of the house could scarcely show himself amid
this torrent of abusive criticism; and when he did by chance appear, he
looked as much ashamed as though he himself had pulled out the spigot,
and deluged the whole land with water.

Meanwhile, none of those I looked for appeared. Neither the colonel's
daughter nor the baronne came down; the abbe too, did not descend to
the breakfast room, and I was considerably puzzled and put out by the
disappointment.

After then enduring a good hour's boredom from the old colonel on the
subject of my late lamented parent, Mark O'Leary; after submitting to a
severe cross-examination from the Yankee gentleman as to the reason
of my coming abroad, what property and expectations I had, my age and
birthplace, what my mother died of, and whether I did not feel
very miserable from the abject slavery of submitting to an English
Government--I escaped into the library, a fine, comfortable old room,
which I rightly conjectured I should find unoccupied.

Selecting a quaint-looking quarto with some curious illuminated pages
for my companion, I drew a great deep leather chair into a recess of one
window, and hugged myself in my solitude. While I listlessly turned over
the leaves of my book, or sat lost in reflection, time crept along, and
I heard the great clock of the chateau strike three; at the same moment
a hand fell lightly on my shoulder; I turned about--it was the abbe.

'I half suspected I should find you here,' said he. 'Do I disturb you,
or may I keep you company?'

'But too happy,' I replied, 'if you 'll do me the favour.'

'I thought,' said he, as he drew a chair opposite to me,--'I thought
you'd scarcely play dominoes all day, or discuss waistcoats.'

'In truth I was scarcely better employed; this old volume here which I
took down for its plates----'

'_Ma foi_, a most interesting one; it is Guchardi's _History of Mary of
Burgundy_. Those quaint old processions, those venerable councils, are
admirably depicted. What rich stores for a romance writer lie in the
details of these old books! Their accuracy as to costume, the little
traits of everyday life, are so naively told; every little domestic
incident is so full of its characteristic era. I wonder, when the
springs are so accessible, men do not draw more frequently from them,
and more purely also.'

'You forget Scott.'

'No; far from it. He is the great exce