“Well and truly said, Harry,” said his step-father—­“well and generously said; give me your hand,—­my boy; thank you.  Now, madam,” he proceeded, addressing his wife, “what have you to say to the opinion of a man who has lost so much by the transaction, when you hear that that opinion is given in her favor?”

“Indeed, my dear Harry,” observed his sister, “she is all that you have said of her, and much more, if you knew her as we do; she is all disinterestedness and truth, and the most unselfish girl that ever breathed.”

Now, there were two persons present who paused upon hearing this intelligence; one of whom listened to it with unexpected pleasure, and the other with mingled emotions of pleasure and pain.  The first of these were Mrs. Lindsay, and the other her son Charles.  Mrs. Lindsay, whose eyes were not for a moment off her son, understood the significant glance he had given her when he launched forth so heartily in the praise of Alice Goodwin; neither did the same glance escape the observation of his brother Charles, who inferred, naturally enough, from the warmth of the eulogium that had been passed upon her, that she had made, perhaps, too favorable an impression upon his brother.  Of this, however, the reader shall hear more in due time.

“Well,” said the mother slowly, and in a meditating voice, “perhaps, after all, we may have done her injustice.  If so, no person would regret it more than myself; but we shall see.  You parted from them, Harry, on friendly terms?”

“I did, indeed, my dear mother, and am permitted, almost solicited, to make their further acquaintance, and cultivate a friendly intimacy with them, which I am determined to do.”

“Bravo, Harry, my fine fellow; and we will be on friendly terms with them once more.  Poor, honest, and honorable old Goodwin! what a pity that either disunion or enmity should subsist between us.  No; the families must be once more cordial and affectionate, as they ought to be.  Bravo, Harry! your return is prophetic of peace and good feeling; and, confound me, but you shall have a bonfire this night for your generosity that will shame the sun.  The tar-barrels shall blaze, and the beer-barrels shall run to celebrate your appearance amongst us.  Come, Charley, let us go to Rathfillan, and get the townsfolk to prepare for the fete:  we must have fiddlers and pipers, and plenty of dancing.  Barney Casey must go among the tenants, too, and order them all into the town.  Mat Mulcahy, the inn-keeper, must give us his best room; and, my life to yours, we will have a pleasant night of it.”

“George,” exclaimed his wife, in a tone of querulous remonstrance, “you know how expensive—­”

“Confound the expense and your penury both,” exclaimed her husband; “is it to your own son, on his return to us after such an absence, that you’d grudge the expense of a blazing bonfire?”

“Not the bonfire,” replied his wife, but—­”