known in his profession. He felt for her
sorrows, and began to take an interest in his
client's case. Every day, after visiting the
prisoner, he brought her some intelligence
from him, and succeeded in whispering to
him, in return, a word of consolation from his
devoted sister. He also entered into her
schemes for interesting influential persons in
her favour; but he was a young man, and,
having risen by his own efforts above the
humble position of his own family, he had but
little personal interest. The atrocities
committed at Wexford, and the horrible story of
the barn at Scullabogue, had produced a
strong feeling against all prisoners from
the south; and their applications to the
Lord-Lieutenant were met by a cool official
answer.

Meanwhile, Roche directed all his energies
to preparing for the defence. The morning
appointed for the trial came. It was a
showery day. Gloom and sunshine changed
and counterchanged a dozen times, as the
young maiden trod the quiet streets near the
prison-walls, awaiting the hour when the
court should open. It was an anxious
moment when she stood in the presence of
the judge, and heard her brother's name
called, and watched the door through which
she knew that he would come. Many eyes
beheld her—not all, alas! eyes of compassion
—standing in the dusty bar of sunlight that
came through the high arched-window. Roche
calmly arranged his papers without looking
towards her, and the faint shriek that she
uttered when her brother appeared, after all
that long, dark winter, seemed to have
caught all ears save his. But the young
barrister, though seeming to be wrapt
in thought, lost nothing of what passed
—not even the impression that her beauty
made upon some persons present. Though the
evidence against the youth was too clear
to be doubted, Roche dwelt strongly upon his
youth, and the misfortunes his family had
already suffered, and told, in simple and
affecting language, the story of the sister's
struggles. The effect of the appeal upon
an Irish jury, was the acquittal of the
prisoner; who, after a solemn warning
from the judge of the danger of being ever
again accused, left the court with his
sister, and the friend to whom he owed
his life.

The impression of that trial, and of his
interesting client was not easily to be effaced
from the mind of Roche. Her frequent visits,
her importunities which at times had almost
vexed him, her fluctuating hopes and fears,
he now began to miss, as pleasing excitements,
which had passed away in the attainment
of their object. He corresponded with
Ellen Howley at intervals; and delighted
by the womanly sense and tenderness of her
letters, he soon became aware of his attachment
for her. A journey to Wexford—
though only sixty miles distant from the
capital—was not a slight matter then, and a
year and a half elapsed before he was enabled
to quit his duties and pay a visit to the Howleys.

It was on a rainy day in a rainy autumn
that Roche arrived in Wexford. A shrill
wind blew from seaward, driving on the
moist, heavy clouds. Traces of the late
conflict were still visible in the streets;
and the sullen manner of the common
people with whom he came in
contact, indicated their suspicions of a stranger.
But, when he inquired at the inn for the
residence of the Howleys, the son of the landlord
sprang forward, and eagerly offered to show
him the way.

Killowen, where the Howleys resided, was
at a distance of three miles from the town.
The way lay down a cross country road in
the neighbourhood of the sea-coast; a lane,
partly through an enclosed plantation
overgrown with rank shrubs, conducted to the
house. Not a single cottage, or even hut, did
they pass—except, once or twice, the
ruined walls of a house, wrecked, as
Roche's guide told him, by the royalist
yeomanry, after the recapture of the town.
The residence of the Howleys was a large
red-brick mansion, by no means old or dilapidated;
but the railing that surrounded the
shrubbery had been torn out for pikes, leaving
square holes, in which the rain had
accumulated, along the top of the parapet wall.
The grounds around the house were extensive,
consisting of shrubberies, paddock, and
plantations of young fir. There was a kind
of porter's lodge beside the rusty iron gate;
but its shutters were closed, and its door was
nailed up. Grass grew upon the soil; dry dust
lay thick upon the threshold; and the drops
of rain and the withered leaves that fell
with every movement of the wind, were fast
rotting away the wooden roof.

In this desolate and solitary spot, Roche
remained two months with the Howleys. The
rebellion had left Ellen no relative except her
brother. The serving-man, who had lived in the
lodge, had also lost his life in the insurrection,
and his place had never been filled up. The
brother and sister, and an old woman servant,
now formed the whole household. Owing to
the political troubles of the country, the land
belonging to them was then in great part
uncultivated; but the brother collected such
rents as could be recovered, and the Howleys,
though impoverished, were still in easy
circumstances. Roche accompanied the brother
in fishing or shooting excursions on the banks
of the Slaney, during which he frequently
spoke of political matters, and hinted that the
rebellion might again break out before long; but
Roche, who had no sympathy with
the insurrectionists, always turned aside the conversation,
or spoke to him of what his family had
already suffered, and warned him of his
imprudence in approaching such matters. Robert was
of a gay, reckless disposition; but the
sister was the same subdued and thoughtful