to be sold.  A hill that had been covered with an oak wood, in which, in his childhood, our hero used to play, and which he called the black forest, was gone; nothing to be seen but the white stumps of the trees, for it had been freshly cut down, to make up the last remittances.—­’And how it went, when sold!—­but no matter,’ said Finnucan; ’it’s all alike.—­It’s the back way into the yard, I’ll take you, I suppose.’

And such a yard!  ‘But it’s no matter,’ repeated Lord Colambre to himself; ‘it’s all alike.’

In the kitchen a great dinner was dressing for Mr. Garraghty’s friends, who were to make merry with him when the business of the day was over.

’Where’s the keys of the cellar, till I get out the claret for after dinner,’ says one; ‘and the wine for the cook—­sure there’s venison,’ cries another.—­’Venison!—­That’s the way my lord’s deer goes,’ says a third, laughing.—­’ay, sure! and very proper, when he’s not here to eat ‘em.’—­’Keep your nose out of the kitchen, young man, if you plase,’ said the agent’s cook, shutting the door in Lord Colambre’s face.  ’There’s the way to the office, if you’ve money to pay, up the back stairs.’

‘No; up the grand staircase they must—­Mr. Garraghty ordered,’ said the footman; ’because the office is damp for him, and it’s not there he’ll see anybody to-day; but in my lady’s dressing-room.’

So up the grand staircase they went, and through the magnificent apartments, hung with pictures of great value, spoiling with damp.  ‘Then, isn’t it a pity to see them?  There’s my lady, and all spoiling,’ said the widow.

Lord Colambre stopped before a portrait of Miss Nugent.—­’Shamefully damaged!’ cried he.  ‘Pass on, or let me pass, if you plase,’ said one of the tenants; ‘and don’t be stopping the doorway.’  ’I have business more nor you with the agent,’ said the surveyor; ‘where is he?’

‘In the presence-chamber,’ replied another; ’where should the viceroy be but in the presence-chamber?’

There was a full levee, and fine smell of greatcoats.  ’Oh! would you put your hats on the silk cushions?’ said the widow to some men in the doorway, who were throwing off their greasy hats on a damask sofa.—­’Why not? where else?’ ‘If the lady was in it, you wouldn’t,’ said she, sighing.—­’No, to be sure, I wouldn’t; great news! would I make no differ in the presence of old Nick and my lady?’ said he, in Irish.  ‘Have I no sense or manners, good woman, think ye?’ added he, as he shook the ink out of his pen on the Wilton carpet, when he had finished signing his name to a paper on his knee.  ’You may wait long before you get to the speech of the great man,’ said another, who was working his way through numbers.  They continued pushing forward, till they came within sight of Mr. Nicholas Garraghty, seated in state; and a worse countenance, or a more perfect picture of an insolent, petty tyrant in office, Lord Colambre had never beheld.