uredly an occupation he was little
given to--he might have indulged the vein naturally enough, as he
surveyed on every side the remains of long past greatness and present
decay. Beautifully proportioned columns, with florid capitals, supplied
the place of gate piers. Richly carved armorial bearings were seen
upon the stones used to repair the breaches in the walls. Fragments of
inscriptions and half obliterated dates appeared amid the moss-grown
ruins; and the very, door of the stable had been a portal of dark oak,
studded with large nails, its native strength having preserved it when
even the masonry was crumbling to decay. Lanty passed these with perfect
indifference. Their voice awoke no echo within his breast; and even when
he noticed them, it was to mutter some jeering allusion to their fallen
estate, rather than with any feeling of reverence for what they once
represented.

The deep bay of a hound now startled him, however. He turned suddenly
round, and close beside him, but within the low wall of a ruined
kennel-yard, lay a large foxhound, so old and feeble that, even roused
by the approach of a stranger, he could not rise from the ground, but
lay helplessly on the earth, and with uplifted throat sent forth a
long wailing note. Lanty leaned upon the wall, and looked at him. The
emotions which other objects failed to suggest, seemed to flock upon him
now. That poor dog, the last of a once noble pack, whose melody used to
ring through every glen and ravine of the wild mountains, was an appeal
to his heart he could not withstand; and he stood with his gaze fixed
upon him.

"Poor old fellow," said he compassionately, "it's a lonely thing for you
to be there now, and all your old friends and companions dead and gone.
Rory, my boy, don't you know me?"

The tones of his voice seemed to soothe the animal, for he responded in
a low cadence indescribably melancholy.

"That's my boy. Sure I knew you didn't forget me;" and he stooped over
and patted the poor beast upon the head.

"The top of the morning to you, Mister Lawler," cried out a voice
straight over his head--and at the same instant a strange-looking face
was protruded from a little one-paned window of a hay loft--"'tis early
you are to-day."

"Ah, Kerry, how are you, my man? I was taking a look at Rory here."

"Faix, he's a poor sight now," responded the other with a sigh; "but
he wasn't so once. I mind the time he could lead the pack over
Cubber-na-creena