BY CH--L--S L--V--R.


CHAPTER I.

MY HOME.


The little village of Pilwiddle is one of the smallest and
obscurest hamlets on the western coast of Ireland. On a lofty
crag, overlooking the hoarse Atlantic, stands "Denville's Shot
Tower"--a corruption by the peasantry of D'Enville's Chateau, so
called from my great-grandfather, Phelim St. Kemy d'Enville, who
assumed the name and title of a French heiress with whom he ran
away. To this fact my familiar knowledge and excellent
pronunciation of the French language may be attributed, as well as
many of the events which covered my after life.

The Denvilles were always passionately fond of field sports. At
the age of four, I was already the boldest rider and the best shot
in the country. When only eight, I won the St. Remy Cup at the
Pilwiddle races,--riding my favorite bloodmare Hellfire. As I
approached the stand amidst the plaudits of the assembled
multitude, and cries of, "Thrue for ye, Masther Terence," and "O,
but it's a Dinville!" there was a slight stir among the gentry, who
surrounded the Lord Lieutenant, and other titled personages whom
the race had attracted thither. "How young he is,--a mere child;
and yet how noble-looking," said a sweet low voice, which thrilled
my soul.