nglish life and habits,
in contradistinction to Irish, seemed to infer that his experiences were
more at home there; and whatever might have been Layton's own secret
promptings, there was nothing in the clergyman's manner to provoke the
slightest constraint or awkwardness.

The reader is now sufficiently informed to accompany us to the
little cottage on the beach of Port-na-Whapple. It is a warm autumnal
afternoon, the air calm and still, but the great sea comes heaving in,
wave swelling after wave, as though moved by a storm. Strange contrast
to that loud thundering ocean the little peaceful cottage, whose blue
smoke rises in a thin, straight column into the air. The door is open,
and a few ducks, with their young brood, are waddling up and down the
blue stone step, as though educating their young in feats of difficulty
and daring. On a coarse wooden perch within the hall sits a very old
gray parrot, so old that his feathers have assumed a sort of half-woolly
look, and his bleared eyes only open at intervals, as though he had seen
quite enough of this world already, and could afford to take it easily.
In the attitude of the head, partially thrown forward and slightly on
one side, there is a mock air of thought and reflection, marvellously
aided by a habit the creature has of muttering to himself such little
broken ends of speech as he possesses. Layton had bought him a great
many years back, having fancied he could detect a resemblance in him
to a once famed vice-provost of Trinity, after whom he called him "Dr.
Barret," a name the bird felt proud of, as well he might, and seemed
even now, in his half dotage, to warm up on hearing it. Through the open
door of a little room adjoining might be seen a very pale, sickly woman,
who coughed almost incessantly as she bent over an embroidery-frame.
Though not much more than middle-aged, her hair was perfectly white, and
deep discolorations--the track of tears for many a day--marked her worn
cheeks.

On the opposite side of the hall, in a small room whose furniture was
an humble truckle-bed, and a few shelves with physic-bottles, the doctor
was engaged at his toilet, if by so pretentious a term we may record the
few preparations he was making to render his every-day appearance more
presentable. As he stood thus in trousers and shirt, his broad chest
and powerful neck exposed, he seemed to testify even yet to the athletic
vigor of one who was known as the best hurler and racket