is
more obviously wasted if one goes home with nothing to show than if one
brings a table or a bedstead purchased at twice its proper value. Thus
the bidding at Hyacinth's auction was brisk, and the prices such as gave
sincere satisfaction to the auctioneer. Everything was sold except 'the
valuable library.' It was in vain that the auctioneer made personal
appeals to Father Moran and the Rector of Clifden, as presumably the
two most learned gentlemen present. Neither of them wanted the venerable
classics. In fact, neither of them could have read a line of the crooked
Greek type or construed a page of the Latin authors. Even the Irish
books, in spite of the Gaelic revival, found no purchasers. When all was
over, Hyacinth wheeled them away in barrowfuls, wondering greatly what
he was to do with them.

Indeed, the disposal of his library was not the chief of his
perplexities. He wondered also what he was to do with himself. When the
auctioneer sent in his cheque, and the London Committee of the Mission
had paid over certain arrears of salary, Hyacinth found himself the
possessor of nearly two hundred pounds. It seemed to him quite a large
fortune, amply sufficient to start life with, if only some suitable way
of employing brains, energy, and money would suggest itself. In order to
consider the important topic at his leisure, he hired the only lodging
in Carrowkeel--the apartment (it was both bed and sitting room) over Mr.
Rafferty's public-house. The furniture had suffered during the tenancy
of a series of Congested Districts Board officials. An engineer, who
went to sleep in the evenings over the fire, had burnt a round hole in
the hearthrug. An instructor in fish-curing, a hilarious young man,
had cracked the mirror over the mantelpiece, and broken many ornaments,
including the fellow of the large china dog which now mourned its mate
on the sideboard. Other gentlemen had been responsible for dislocating
the legs of two chairs and a disorganization of the handle, which made
it impossible to shut the door from the inside. The chief glory of the
apartment, however, still remained--a handsomely-framed document,
signed by Earl Spencer, then Lord Lieutenant, ordering the arrest of the
present Mr. Rafferty's father as a person dangerous to the Commonwealth.

The first thing which brought Hyacinth's meditations to a definite point
was a letter he received from Dr. Henry.

'I do not know,' the professor wrote, 'and of course I