How good it was! There, within his sight, was the great escarpment of
rock known as the Devil's Ledge, and away to the east was the black spot
in the combe known as the Cave of Mary. Still farther away, towards the
south, was the great cattle-pasture, where, as he looked, a thousand
cattle roamed. Here and there in the wide prospect were plantations
where Irish landlords lived, and paid a heavy price for living. Men did
not pay their rents. Crops were spoiled, markets were bad, money was
scarce, yet--

"Please God, it will be better next year!" Michael Clones said, and
there never was a man with a more hopeful heart than Michael Clones.

Dyck Calhoun had a soul of character, originality, and wayward
distinction. He had all the impulses and enthusiasms of a poet, all the
thirst for excitement of the adventurer, all the latent patriotism of the
true Celt; but his life was undisciplined, and he had not ordered his
spirit into compartments of faith and hope. He had gifts. They were
gifts only to be borne by those who had ambitions.

Now, as he looked out upon the scene where nature was showing herself at
her best, some glimmer of a great future came to him. He did not know
which way his feet were destined to travel in the business of life. It
was too late to join the navy; but there was still time enough to be a
soldier, or to learn to be a lawyer.

As he gazed upon the scene, his wonderful deep blue eyes, his dark brown
hair thick upon his head, waving and luxuriant like a fine mattress, his
tall, slender, alert figure, his bony, capable hands, which neither sun
nor wind ever browned, his nervous yet interesting mouth, and his long
Roman nose, set in a complexion rich in its pink-and-cream hardness and