Just then the setting sun glinted on the windows of Brosna, the great
house that neighbours ours, which belongs to the Cardews, and has been
empty, as its owner, Anthony Cardew, has been away from it many years.
The sun was going down in a great glory, and window after window in the
long house-front took fire and flamed like a torch.

"You would think," said I, "that they were lighting fires over there
against Captain Cardew's return."

Maureen rose from her place and peered curiously in the direction of my
gaze.

"I wonder he doesn't be selling it," she said, "and not be letting it go
to rack and ruin and him never comin' home. 'Tis an unlucky country so
it is where the houses of the gentry must be all stannin' empty or
tumblin' to ruins, or bein' turned into asylums or the like."

"I should like to see the inside of Brosna," I said. "Is it as fine as
they say?"

"It is the finest house in this country, Miss Bawn--finer even than the
Abbey. But all goin' to rack and ruin for want of an owner to look after
it. But as for seein' it, I wouldn't be talkin' about such a thing. It
is a long time since his Lordship and her Ladyship could bear to hear
the name of Cardew."

"I have heard you say, Maureen," I went on, "that Anthony Cardew was the
handsomest young man ever seen in this country, that he had a leg and
foot as elegant even as Uncle Luke's, and that to see him dance was the
finest sight you could wish for, and that all the ladies were in love