he thought of his own
condition--very hopeless and purposeless as it was.

'What a journey, to be sure, was life without a goal to strive for.
Kilgobbin would be his one day; but by that time would it be able to pay
off the mortgages that were raised upon it? It was true Atlee was no
richer, but Atlee was a shifty, artful fellow, with scores of contrivances
to go windward of fortune in even the very worst of weather. Atlee would do
many a thing _he_ would not stoop to.'

And as Kearney said this to himself, he was cautious in the use of his
verb, and never said 'could,' but always 'would' do; and oh dear! is it
not in this fashion that so many of us keep up our courage in life, and
attribute to the want of will what we well know lies in the want of power.

Last of all he bethought himself of this man Donogan, a dangerous fellow in
a certain way, and one whose companionship must be got rid of at any price.
Plotting over in his mind how this should be done in the morning, he at
last fell fast asleep.

So overcome was he by slumber, that he never awoke when that venerable
institution called the college woman--the hag whom the virtue of unerring
dons insists o imposing as a servant on resident students--entered, made up
the fire, swept up the room, and arranged the breakfast-table. It was only
as she jogged his arm to ask him for an additional penny to buy more milk,
that he awoke and remembered where he was.

'Will I get yer honour a bit of bacon?' asked she, in a tone intended to be
insinuating.

'Whatever you like,' said he drowsily.

'It's himself there likes a rasher--when he can get it,' said she, with a
leer, and a motion of her thumb towards the adjoining room.

'Whom do you mean?' asked he, half to learn what and how much she knew of
his neighbour.

'Oh! don't I know him well?--Dan Donogan,' replied she, with a grin.
'Didn't I see him in the dock with Smith O'Brien in '48, and wasn't he in
trouble again after he got his pardon; and won't he always be in trouble?'

'Hush! don't talk so loud,' cried Dick warningly.

'He'd not hear me now if I was screechin'; it's the only time he sleeps
hard; for he gets up about three or half-past--before it's day--and he
squeezes through the bars of the window, and gets out into the park, and he
takes his exercise there for two hours, most of the time running full speed
and keeping himself in fine wind. Do you know what he said to me the other
day? "Molly," says he, "w