Odds and Ends by B.M. Croker

It was a melancholy afternoon early in November, and a cold pitiless rain was streaming down the library windows of Clonallon, the Irish residence of Sir Domnick Donnelly, Bart., J.P., D.L.

At the other side of the wet panes, a pretty young face gazed out upon the falling dusk and fallen leaves, with an expression of hopeless boredom. Clonallon was one of those solid box-shaped mansions that arose in the country two centuries ago: spacious and comfortable, with fine lofty rooms for the family, and gloomy caverns for their retainers; it boasted a prolific garden, a fine demesne, and a long and imposing avenue. On the other hand, it was ten miles from a station, did not possess a bathroom, and could only count upon one post a day.