more desolately, than ever I had done before.  My father had never seemed to love, or to take an interest in me.  He had desired a son, and I think he never thoroughly forgave me my unfortunate sex.  My having come into the world at all as his child, he regarded as a kind of fraudulent intrusion, and, as his antipathy to me had its origin in an imperfection of mine, too radical for removal, I never even hoped to stand high in his good graces.  My mother was, I dare say, as fond of me as she was of any one; but she was a woman of a masculine and a worldly cast of mind.  She had no tenderness or sympathy for the weaknesses, or even for the affections of woman’s nature, and her demeanour towards me was peremptory, and often even harsh.  It is not to be supposed, then, that I found in the society of my parents much to supply the loss of my sister.  About a year after her marriage, we received letters from Mr. Carew, containing accounts of my sister’s health, which, though not actually alarming, were calculated to make us seriously uneasy.  The symptoms most dwelt upon, were loss of appetite and cough.  The letters concluded by intimating that he would avail himself of my father and mother’s repeated invitation to spend some time at Ashtown, particularly as the physician who had been consulted as to my sister’s health had strongly advised a removal to her native air.  There were added repeated assurances that nothing serious was apprehended, as it was supposed that a deranged state of the liver was the only source of the symptoms which seemed to intimate consumption.  In accordance with this announcement, my sister and Mr. Carew arrived in Dublin, where one of my father’s carriages awaited them, in readiness to start upon whatever day or hour they might choose for their departure.  It was arranged that Mr. Carew was, as soon as the day upon which they were to leave Dublin was definitely fixed, to write to my father, who intended that the two last stages should be performed by his own horses, upon whose speed and safety far more reliance might be placed than upon those of the ordinary post-horses, which were, at that time, almost without exception, of the very worst order.  The journey, one of about ninety miles, was to be divided; the larger portion to be reserved for the second day.  On Sunday, a letter reached us, stating that the party would leave Dublin on Monday, and, in due course, reach Ashtown upon Tuesday evening.  Tuesday came:  the evening closed in, and yet no carriage appeared; darkness came on, and still no sign of our expected visitors.  Hour after hour passed away, and it was now past twelve; the night was remarkably calm, scarce a breath stirring, so that any sound, such as that produced by the rapid movement of a vehicle, would have been audible at a considerable distance.  For some such sound I was feverishly listening.  It was, however, my father’s rule to close the house at nightfall, and the window-shutters being fastened,