“I’ll pay attention to it,” said Bryan; “I know you’ll find the agent at home now, for I seen him goin’ in a while ago; so hurry up, an’ ax him if he can say how soon we may expect the leases.”

“Never fear, I will.”

On entering Fethertonge’s Hall, M’Mahon was treated with very marked respect by the servant, who told him to walk into the parlor, and he would let his master know.

“He entertains a high opinion of you, Mister M’Mahon,” said he; “and I heard him speak strongly about you the other day to some gentlemen that dined with us—­friends of the landlord’s.  Walk into the parlor.”

In a few minutes M’Mahon was shown into Fethertonge’s office, the walls of which were, to a considerable height, lined with tin boxes, labelled with the names of those whose title-deeds and other valuable papers they contained.

Fethertonge was a tall, pale, placid looking man, with rather a benevolent cast of countenance, and eyes that were mild, but very small in proportion to the other features of his face.  His voice was exceedingly low, and still more musical and sweet than low; in fact it was such a voice as, one would imagine, ought to have seldom been otherwise employed than in breathing hope and, consolation to despairing sinners on their bed of death.  Yet he had nothing of either the parson or the preacher in his appearance.  So far from that he was seldom known to wear a black coat, unless when dressed for dinner, and not very frequently even then, for he mostly wore blue.

“M’Mahon,” said he, “take a seat.  I am glad to see you.  How are your family?”

“Both I an’ they is well, I’m thankful to you, sir,” replied the farmer.

“I hope you got safe home from the metropolis.  How did you travel?”

“Troth, I walked it, sir, every inch of the way, an’ a long stretch it is.  I got safe, sir, an’ many thanks to you.”

“That was a sudden call poor Mr. Chevydale got, but not more so than might, at his time of life, have been expected; at all events I hope he was prepared for it, and indeed I have reason to think he was.”

“I trust in God he was, sir,” replied M’Mahon; “so far as I and mine is consarned, we have raison to wish it; he didn’t forget us, Mr. Fethertonge.”

“No,” said the other, after some pause, “he did not indeed forget you, M’Mahon.”

“I tuck the liberty of callin’ down, sir,” proceeded M’Mahon, “about the leases he spoke of, an’ to know how soon we may expect to have them filled.”

“That is for your son Bryan and yourself.  How is Bryan proceeding with Ahadarra, by the way?  I spoke to him some time ago about his system of cropping that farm, and some other matters of the kind; I must ride up one of these days to see how he is doing.  As to the leases, there is no difficulty in the way, M’Mahon, except to get our young landlord to sign them.  That we will easily do, of course; in the meantime, do you go on, improve your land, and strive to do something for your children, M’Mahon; for, in this world, he that won’t assist himself will find very few that will.  The leases are in Dublin; if you wish, I’ll send for them, and have them ready for the landlord’s signature whenever he comes down here; or I’ll leave them in town, where I shall be more likely to see him.”