preacher, who had a chapel there;
and, finally, the landlord told me, that Mrs. Barry's son had gone to
foreign parts, enlisted in the Prussian service, and had been shot there
as a deserter.

I don't care to own that I hired a stout nag from the landlord's stable
after dinner, and rode back at nightfall twenty miles to my old home.
My heart beat to see it. Barryville had got a pestle and mortar over the
door, and was called 'The Esculapian Repository,' by Doctor Macshane;
a red-headed lad was spreading a plaster in the old parlour; the little
window of my room, once so neat and bright, was cracked in many places,
and stuffed with rags here and there; the flowers had disappeared
from the trim garden-beds which my good orderly mother tended. In the
churchyard there were two more names put into the stone over the family
vault of the Bradys: they were those of my cousin, for whom my regard
was small, and my uncle, whom I had always loved. I asked my old
companion the blacksmith, who had beaten me so often in old days, to
give my horse a feed and a litter: he was a worn weary-looking man now,
with a dozen dirty ragged children paddling about his smithy, and had no
recollection of the fine gentleman who stood before him. I did not
seek to recall my-self to his memory till the next day, when I put ten
guineas into his hand, and bade him drink the health of English Redmond.

As for Castle Brady, the gates of the park were still there; but the old
trees were cut down in the avenue, a black stump jutting out here and
there, and casting long shadows as I passed in the moonlight over
the worn grass-grown old road. A few cows were at pasture there. The
garden-gate was gone, and the place a tangled wilderness. I sat down on
the old bench, where I had sat on the day when Nora jilted me; and I do
believe my feelings were as strong then as they had been when I was a
boy, eleven years before; and I caught myself almost crying again, to
think that Nora Brady had deserted me. I believe a man forgets nothing.
I've seen a flower, or heard some trivial word or two, which have
awakened recollections that somehow had lain dormant for scores of
years; and when I entered the house in Clarges Street, where I was born
(it was used as a gambling-house when I first visited London), all of a
sudden the memory of my childhood came back to me--of my actual infancy:
I recollected my father in green and gold, holding me up to look at a
gilt coach which