This information—­if information it could be called—­was nothing more nor less than wormwood and gall to the gentleman on whose ears and into whose heart it fell.  The consciousness of his present position—­discarded by a kind uncle for dishonesty, and deprived, as he thought, by the caprice or mental imbecility, of another uncle, of a property amounting to upwards of twelve hundred per annum—­sank upon his heart with a feeling which filled it with a deep and almost blasphemous resentment at every person concerned, which he could scarcely repress from the observation of his guide.

“What is your name?” said he abruptly to him; and as he asked the question he fixed a glance upon him that startled his companion.

The latter looked at him, and felt surprised at the fearful expression of his eye; in the meantime, we must say, that he had not an ounce of coward’s flesh on his bones.

“What is my name, sir?” he replied.  “Faith, afther that look, if you don’t know my name, I do yours; there was your mother’s eye fastened on me to the life.  However, take it easy, sir; devil a bit I’m afeared.  If you’re not her son, Misther Woodward, why, I’m not Barney Casey, that’s all.  Don’t deny it, sir; you’re welcome home, and I’m glad to see you, as they all will be.”

“Harkee, then,” said Woodward, “you are right; but, mark me, keep quiet, and allow me to manage matters in my own way; not a syllable of the discovery you have made, or it will be worse for you.  I am not a person to be trifled with.”

“Troth, and you’re right there, sir; it’s what I often said, often say, and often will say of myself.  Barney Casey is not the boy to be trifled wid.”

On arriving at the house, Barney took round the horse—­a hired one, by the way—­to the stable, and Woodward knocked.  On the door being opened, he inquired if Mr. Lindsay was within, and was answered in the affirmative.

“Will you let him know a gentleman wishes to see him for a few minutes?”

“What name, sir, shall I say?”

“O, it doesn’t matter—­say a gentleman.”

“Step into the parlor, sir, and he will be with you immediately.”

He did so, and there was but a very short time when his step-father entered.  Short, as the time was, however, he could not prevent himself from reverting to the strange equestrian he had met on his way, nor to the extraordinary ascendancy he had gained over him.  Another young man placed in his circumstances would have felt agitated and excited by his approaching interview with those who were so nearly related to him, and whom, besides, he had not seen for such a long period of time.  To every such emotion, however, he was absolutely insensible; there was no beating pulse, no heaving of the bosom, not a nerve disturbed by the tremulous vibrations of awakened affection, no tumult of the heart, no starting tear—­no! there was nothing of all this—­but, on the contrary, a calm, cold, imperturbable spirit, so dead and ignorant of domestic attachment, that the man could neither feel nor understand what it meant.