O'Donoghue's late wife, for the old man had been a widower for several
years. Certain circumstances of a doubtful and mysterious nature had
made him leave his native country of Scotland many years before, and
since that, he had taken up his abode with his brother-in-law, whose
retired habits and solitary residence afforded the surest guarantee
against his ever being traced. His age must have been almost as great as
the O'Donoghue's; but the energy of his character, the lightness of his
frame, and the habits of his life, all contributed to make him seem much
younger.

Never were two natures more dissimilar. The one, reckless, lavish,
and improvident; the other, cautious, saving, and full of forethought.
O'Donoghue was frank and open--his opinions easily known--his
resolutions hastily formed. M'Nab was close and secret, carefully
weighing every thing before he made up his mind, and not much given to
imparting his notions, when he had done so.

In one point alone was there any similarity between them--pride of
ancestry and birth they both possessed in common; but this trait, so
far from serving to reconcile the other discrepancies of their naturess,
kept them even wider apart, and added to the passive estrangement of
ill-matched associates, an additional element of active discord.

There was a lad of some fifteen or sixteen years of age, who sat beside
the fire on a low stool, busily engaged in deciphering, by the fitful
light of the bog-wood, the pages of an old volume, in which he seemed
deeply interested. The blazing pine, as it threw its red gleam over the
room, showed the handsome forehead of the youth, and the ample locks
of a rich auburn, which hung in clusters over it; while his face was
strikingly like the old man's, the mildness of its expression--partly
the result of youth, partly the character imparted by his present
occupation--was unlike that of either his father or brother; for Herbert
O'Donoghue was the younger son of the house, and was said, both in
temper and appearance, to resemble his mother.

At a distance from the fire, and with a certain air of half assurance,
half constraint, sat a man of some five-and-thirty years of age, whose
dress of green coat, short breeches, and top boots, suggested at once
the jockey, to which the mingled look of confidence and cunning bore
ample corroboration. This was a well-known character in the south of
Ireland at that time. His name was Lanty Lawler. The sporting