KNOCKNAGOW, OR THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY
BY
CHARLES J. KICKHAM

AUTHOR OF "SALLY CAVANAGH," "FOR THE OLD LAND," ETC.


"Yet meet him in his cabin rude,
Or dancing with his dark-haired Mary,
You'd swear they knew no other mood,
But mirth and love in Tipperary."
  --  THOMAS DAVIS.


DEDICATION

I dedicate this Book
ABOUT THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY
TO
MY LITTLE NIECES, ANNIE AND JOSIE,
WITH MANY REGRETS AND APOLOGIES
THAT IN SPITE OF ALL THEIR ENTREATIES I WAS 
OBLIGED TO
"LET POOR NORAH LAHY DIE."
C. J. K.



CONTENTS.

Bibliographic note & acknowledgements

TITLE PAGE & DEDICATION

INTRODUCTION.
By MATTHEW RUSSELL, S.J.

CHAPTER I.
MR. HENRY LOWE BECOMES THE GUEST OF HIS UNCLE'S 
PRINCIPAL TENANT.

CHAPTER II.
"MY ELDEST DAUGHTER, SIR."

CHAPTER III.
MAT THE THRASHER.

CHAPTER IV.
THE TRACKS IN THE SNOW.

CHAPTER V.
THE DOCTOR MAKES HIMSELF COMFORTABLE.

CHAPTER VI.
THE STATION -- BARNEY BRODHERICK'S PENANCE -- 
MRS. SLATTERY CREATES A SENSATION

CHAPTER VII.
NORAH LAHY, -- THE OLD LINNET'S SONG.

CHAPTER VIII.
HONOR LAHY'S GOOD LUCK.

CHAPTER IX.
BILLY HEFFERNAN AND HIS FLUTE.

CHAPTER X.
"A LITTLE NOURISHMENT."

CHAPTER XI.
FATHER HANNIGAN'S SERMON.

CHAPTER XII.
MATRIMONY AND "MARRIAGE MONEY." -- THE WIDOW'S LAST WISH.

CHAPTER XIII.
THE DOCTOR IN A FIX.

CHAPTER XIV.
MOUNT TEMPE AND ITS MASTER.

CHAPTER XV.
A DAY'S SHOOTING LOST.

CHAPTER XVI.
AN UNINVITED VISITOR.

CHAPTER XVII.
LORY.

CHAPTER XVIII.
MISS LLOYD'S FOIBLES.

CHAPTER XIX.
WILL SIR GARRETT RENEW THE LEASE?

CHAPTER XX.
MR. LOWE GETS A LETTER OF WARNING.

CHAPTER XXI.
FIVE SHILLINGS WORTH OF DANCE.

CHAPTER XXII.
THE BLUE BODY-COAT WITH GILT BUTTONS -- ABSENCE OF MIND. 
"AULD LANG SYNE."

CHAPTER XXIII.
MAT DONOVAN AT HOME.

CHAPTER XXIV.
"GOD BE WITH YE!"

CHAPTER XXV.
PHIL LAHY IN THE BOSOM OF HIS FAMILY.

CHAPTER XXVI.
A BRIDEGROOM WHO COULDN'T DESCRIBE HIS BRIDE.

CHAPTER XXVII.
THE JAY.

CHAPTER XXVIII.
BARNEY WINS A BET, AND LOSES MUCH PRECIOUS TIME.

CHAPTER XXIX.
THE HAULING HOME. -- "IS NORAH LAHY STRONG?"

CHAPTER XXX.
NED BROPHY'S WEDDING

CHAPTER XXXI.
MR. LLOYD DOES WHAT IRISH LANDLORDS SELDOM DO.

CHAPTER XXXII.
AN OLD CROPPY'S NOTIONS OF SECURITY OF TENURE.

CHAPTER XXXIII.
BILLY HEFFERNAN'S TRIUMPH.

CHAPTER XXXIV.
LONELY

CHAPTER XXXV.
ON THE ROAD TO THE BIG TOWN WITH THE CLOUD OVER IT.

CHAPTER XXXVI.
HOME TO KNOCKNAGOW. -- A TENANT AT WILL.

CHAPTER XXXVII.
DISCONTENT AND RESIGNATION

CHAPTER XXXVIII.
ARE YOU IN LOVE, MARY?"

CHAPTER XXXIX.
THE HOOK-NOSED STEED.

CHAPTER XL.
THE DRAGOON'S PRESENT. -- THE BEAUTY RACE.

CHAPTER XLI.
MISS KATHLEEN HANLY THINKS IT ADVISABLE TO BE 
"DOING SOMETHING."

CHAPTER XLII.
A HAUNTED FARM.

CHAPTER XLIII.
TOM HOGAN BOASTS THAT HE NEVER FIRED A SHOT.

CHAPTER XLIV.
HUGH KEARNEY THINKS HE WILL GET HIS FISHING-ROD 
REPAIRED.

CHAPTER XLV.
TOM CUDDEHY BIDS HIS OLD SWEETHEART GOOD-BYE.

CHAPTER XLVI.
"MAT DONOVAN IS KILLED!"

CHAPTER XLVII.
BILLY HEFFERNAN WONDERS WHAT IS "COMING OVER" NORAH.

CHAPTER XLVIII.
THE "DEAD PAST" AND THE "LIVING PRESENT." -- 
MRS. DONOVAN'S SAD FACE.

CHAPTER XLIX.
IN THE LONESOME MOOR -- MEDITATING MURDER -- 
DARBY RUADH THINKS HIMSELF BADLY USED -- 
TOM HOGAN HAS AN ARGUMENT AGAINST PHIL LAHY.

CHAPTER L.
TOM CUDDEHY FEELS "SOMEWAY QUARE." -- 
A GLANCE BACKWARDS TO CLEAR UP THE MYSTERY OF
THE TRACKS IN THE SNOW.

CHAPTER LI.
MAT DONOVAN IN TRAMORE. -- MRS. KEARNEY AND 
HER "OWN CAR." -- THE "COULIN."

CHAPTER LII.
THE BULL-BAIT. -- THE CARRICK-MAN AND 
HIS DOG "TRUE-BOY." -- LORY PUNISHES BERESFORD PENDER,
 AND RIDES HOME BEHIND MR. BOB LLOYD, 
ON THE GREY HUNTER. -- MISS LLOYD INVOLUNTARILY SITS DOWN.

CHAPTER LIII.
THE HURLING IN THE KILN-FIELD -- CAPTAIN FRENCH 
THROWS THE SLEDGE AGAINST MAT THE THRASHER -- 
BARNEY IN TROUBLE. -- FATHER M'MAHON'S "PROUD WALK."

CHAPTER LIV.
BOB LLOYD IN DANGER. -- MAT DONOVAN'S OPINION OF 
"DESAVING" PEOPLE IN THE WAY OF COURTSHIP.

CHAPTER LV.
BILLY HEFFERNAN MAKES DR. KIELY A PRESENT, 
"AS A FRIEND OF PHIL LAHY'S."

CHAPTER LVI.
THE WHITE JACKET.

CHAPTER LVII.
A GREAT EVENT. -- TOMMY LAHY'S ACCOMPLISHMENTS. -- ARTHUR O'CONNOR.

CHAPTER LVIII.
FATHER CARROLL'S HOARDINGS.

CHAPTER LIX.
ANOTHER EVENTFUL DAY. -- "MAGNIFICENT TIPPERARY."

CHAPTER LX.
BURGLARY AND ROBBERY.--MAT DONOVAN A PRISONER. -- 
BARNEY DISAPPEARS -- MR. SOMERFIELD AND ATTORNEY HANLY
APPLY FOR LEASES, AND OLD ISAAC DREADS THE CONSEQUENCES.

CHAPTER LXI.
BARNEY IS CAPTURED -- HIS ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF -- 
MAT THE THRASHER IN CLONMEL JAIL, AND THE BIG DRUM SILENT.

CHAPTER LXII.
SAD NEWS FROM BALLINACLASH.

CHAPTER LXIII.
EJECTED. -- THE BAILIFFS IN THE OLD COTTAGE. -- 
BILLY HEFFERNAN PLAYS "AULD LANG SYNE" AGAIN, AND 
THE OLD LINNET SINGS IN THE MOONLIGHT.

CHAPTER LXIV.
A CONSPIRACY. -- THE "COULIN. " -- MISS LLOYD 
WANTS TO KNOW ALL ABOUT IT. -- VISIONS OF HAPPY DAYS.

CHAPTER LXV.
MAT DONOVAN FOLLOWS GRACE'S ADVICE; BUT BESSY MORRIS 
IS GONE. -- HONOR AND PHIL LAHY IN THEIR NEW HOME.

CHAPTER LXVI.
ONLY A WOMAN'S HAIR. -- MORE WEDDINGS THAN ONE -- A HEART 
AS "BIG AS SLIEVENAMON." -- BEAUTIFUL IRELAND. -- 
THE SORT OF A WIFE THAT BARNEY GOT.

CHAPTER LXVII.
GOOD-BYE. -- THE OLD ROOM. -- MRS. HEFFERNAN'S 
TROUBLES. "MAGNIFICENT TIPPERARY." -- 
A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE. -- BUT KNOCKNAGOW IS GONE!


INTRODUCTION.

	KNOCKNAGOW has been out of print for a considerable 
time, and very many eager inquiries have been made for it. It now 
reappears in a new and cheap edition, which may be usefully 
introduced by a brief account of its Author. The secondary title 
which he gave to his tale was  --   "The Homes of Tipperary." His 
own home was one of them.
	Charles Joseph Kickham was born in the year 1825, at 
Mullinahone, a small town of the County Tipperary. The Anner 
flows past the town, and Slievenamon rises not far away  --  the 
river and the mountain which figure often in his writings. His 
father, John Kickham, had a large drapery establishment in that 
place, and was widely respected for his intelligence and probity. 
His mother, Anne O'Mahony, was a pious and charitable woman, 
whom he lovingly described in the earliest of his stories, "Sally 
Cavanagh; or, Untenanted Graves." His uncle, Father Roger 
Kickham, was a zealous member of the Vincentian Order; and 
another uncle, whose name he bore, was a priest in the 
Archdiocese of Cashel. But the Author of KNOCKNAGOW was 
probably called after his grandfather, Charles Kickham. In his 
youth he was greatly influenced by The Nation of Davis and 
Duffy; and, like his kinsman, John O'Mahony, he took an active 
part in the '48 movement. He was the leading spirit in the 
Confederate Club, in Mullinahone, which he was chiefly 
instrumental in forming; and after the failure of the rising at 
Ballingarry, which was not far from his home, be was forced to 
hide himself for a time. A little later, while still a very young man, 
he worked earnestly in the Tenant Right League, hoping against 
hope that something would be done to keep the people at home. 
When that failed, he lost faith in legal agitation.
	In persevering in a political career, and devoting his life to 
what he believed to be the service of his country. Charles Kickham 
showed not a little of that iron will which enabled Henry Fawcett 
to achieve distinction as a public man, in spite of tremendous 
difficulties of a similar character. The Englishman, on the 
threshold of manhood, was totally deprived of sight by an accident 
in a shooting party; yet in spite of this misfortune (the more 
distressing because his father's hand fired the shot), Fawcett 
contrived to work on, to ride, to skate, to fish, to become a 
successful University professor, an active and influential Member 
of Parliament, and a most efficient Postmaster-General. Young 
Kickham's accident was not so tragical in its cause, nor so 
destructive in its effects, at least in one respect. One day, while he 
was drying a flask of damp gunpowder, it exploded, injuring 
permanently not only his sight, but his hearing. This was not (as 
we have seen stated in print) in his sixteenth year, but two or three 
years earlier. Both sight and hearing grew duller, and his frame 
less robust, as time went on; and the hardships of his prison life 
greatly increased these infirmities.
	For it was to a prison that his political career conducted 
him He was one of the writers in The Irish People, the organ of the 
Fenian movement. Of course, there was an informer working in the 
very office of the newspaper. Kickham was arrested in November, 
1865. He was tried in the court-house of Green Street, Dublin, on 
the 5th of January, 1866. He was found guilty, and Judge Keogh, 
after expressing his sympathy for the prisoner, and respect for his 
intellectual attainments, sentenced him to penal servitude for 
fourteen years. His attorney announced the sentence to him 
through his ear-trumpet. He heard it with a smile. As he was led 
away to his cell, something on the ground attracted his notice, and 
he picked it up. It was a little paper picture of the Blessed Virgin, 
and he kissed it reverently. "I was accustomed to have the likeness 
of the Mother of God morning and evening before my eyes since I 
was a child," he said to the warder. Will you ask the governor if I 
may keep this?" *[see note at end] In prison he showed great 
patience and fortitude. His health, already impaired, soon gave 
way, but he bore up bravely. He felt deeply his sister's death in the 
first year of his prison life. The sister of his associate, Mr. John 
O'Leary, asked in after years, did he pray much while there? He 
answered that he said exactly the same prayers as when he was out 
in the world. From the solitary confinement of Pentonville he was 
removed to the invalid prison at Woking. Once he was set to knit 
stockings. The warder pointed out that he was not making much 
progress in this novel art. "I have time enough to learn in fourteen 
years," he replied. What proficiency he had attained we do not 
know when this particular study was interrupted. His wretched 
health, helped no doubt by his blameless character and gentle 
demeanour, shortened very considerably his term of imprisonment. 
He was released in March, 1869.
	To somebody who asked what he had missed most in gaol, 
he replied, "Children, and women, and fires." He was very fond of 
little children, and knew how to win their hearts, "It delighted 
him," says one of his best friends," when the little ones tried to talk 
to him on their fingers; and he was most patient in teaching them, 
taking particular care not to allow them to speak incorrectly. 
Children who loved him, were playing about his feet in the 
sunshine when the stroke of paralysis came upon him at the last." 
There was much of what is best in woman and in child in his 
nature; and it was impossible, says another devoted young friend, 
to know him well without feeling that he was trustful, and kindly, 
and sympathetic as a woman. His slender hand was fashioned like 
a woman's, too. There was a great deal of silky grey hair in curls 
about his head, which was finely shaped and he was very tall.
	These last phrases are taken from a writer, who, in her 
affectionate obituary, speaks thus of the tale which we are now 
introducing anew to the public:-
	"No writer has produced more faithful pictures of Irish 
country life than Charles Kickham. For no other writer possessed a 
mind quicker to see, or wider to hold the best feelings of our 
people; none other owned head or hand more obedient to the 
highest impulses of the Celtic character, and his memory was filled 
with the traditions of our land and race. 'Knocknagow' illustrates 
many sides of his own personality and of his ready humour, which 
was never cynical. In this book, as in nearly all he wrote, tears and 
laughter are close together.
	"'Knocknagow' had always been my favourite Irish story, 
and when an opportunity of meeting its Author came, it was an 
event in my life. I remember giving him the sort of information he 
must have had from hundreds of persons   --   of what a pleasure 
his stories and songs were, and how dear to me and my friends 
were Grace Kiely, and Mary Kearney, and poor Norah Lahy, 
whom, in spite of his niece's entreaties, he had to let die. He bore 
the infliction good-humouredly and talked about his heroines as if 
they had just gone out for a walk."
	Besides the present novel and "Sally Cavanagh," and some 
shorter tales, Mr. Kickham left behind him a full length novel, 
which was published last year, in a cheap form, under the title of 
"For the Old Land." His knowledge and love of the Irish character 
in many different phases are shown in every page of this tale, and 
fun and pathos are very skilfully intermingled. Charles Kickham's 
poems are very few and short, those at least which be gave to print. 
Very many of our readers must be familiar with the pathetic little 
ballad about the Irish peasant girl who "lived beside the Anner, at 
the foot of Slievenamon." Also, "Rory of the Hills" and "Patrick 
Sheehan" have taken a great hold on the people.
	This Introduction has now, perhaps, served its purpose by 
letting the reader know something before hand about this book and 
its Author. With the addition of a few names and dates learned 
from his kinswoman, the Sister of Mercy who helped to make his 
death bed as holy as his life had been innocent, our sketch, as it has 
acknowledged more than once, has followed the published 
recollections of Miss Ellen O'Leary and Miss Rose Kavanagh. To 
the personal description cited from the latter, we may join that 
given by the former lady.
	"In person, Charles Kickham was tall and strongly built. He 
walked like a sailor, swaying from side to side. He had a fine 
picturesque head, on which the wavy brown hair, of late years 
thickly streaked with grey, grew in soft curls; a large forehead, 
keen, piercing eyes, which had a strange power of reading one's 
very thoughts, and a rough skin, somewhat scarred by that terrible 
powder accident. The expression of his face when in repose was 
striking  --   a face you'd love to look upon: earnest, thoughtful, 
rather sad, and so good. In conversation he showed wonderful 
powers of observation, an intuitive insight into character. His talk, 
when in good spirits, was very pleasant. He had a great fund of 
quiet humour, and would describe a scene or a character with a few 
well-painted strokes. Though gentle and kind in disposition, he 
could be a good hater as well as a fervent lover."
	Charles Joseph Kickham died at Blackrock, near Dublin on 
the 22nd of August, 1882. His body was brought home to the 
Tipperary graveyard where his father, and mother, and sister, and 
many kinsfolk were buried. In the Dublin Exhibition of 1864, he 
had lingered long before a painting, "the Head of a Cow," by one 
of the Old Masters, not on account of any subtle genius be 
discovered in it, but "because it was so like an old cow in 
Mullinahone." A quaint trait of the affectionate, home-loving 
nature which made it fitting that his grave should be where his 
cradle had been  --   "beside the Anner, at the foot of 
Slievenamon."

MATTHEW RUSSELL, S.J. 
Dublin, 27th Feb., 1887.

Note: This touching incident probably comes from Kickham 
himself, for we take it from an affectionate memorial written 
"before the first bloom of daisies was dead upon his grave," by the 
young lady whose kindness soothed his last years and his last 
hours, Miss Rose Kavanagh. She recalls a "parallel passage" in his 
life, when almost the last use his tongue made of language after the 
fatal blow came, was to say aloud the Rosary of the Blessed 
Virgin.



CHAPTER I.

MR. HENRY LOWE BECOMES THE GUEST OF HIS UNCLE'S 
PRINCIPAL TENANT.


	IT is Christmas Day.
	Mr. Henry Lowe has just opened his eyes, and is debating 
with himself whether it is the grey dawn, or only the light of the 
young moon he sees struggling through the two round holes in the 
window shutters of his room. He has slept soundly, as well he 
might, after a journey the day before of some eighty miles on the 
outside of the mailcoach, from the metropolis to the town of  --; 
supplemented by an additional drive of a dozen miles in his host's 
gig to his present not uncomfortable quarters.
	The young gentleman knows little of Ireland from personal 
experience, having spent most of his life in what is sometimes 
oddly enough called "the sister country."
	Mr. Henry Lowe is at present the guest of his uncle's 
principal tenant, Mr. Maurice Kearney. The visit was partly the 
result of accident and partly a stroke of policy on the part of the 
young man's mother. Her brother, Sir Garrett Butler, owned  --  at 
least nominally  --  extensive landed property in the South of 
Ireland; and the prudent mother was trying to induce him to give 
her son the agency. And Mr. Kearney having gone to Dublin to see 
the landlord about the renewal of his lease, it was agreed that the 
young gentleman  --   whom we intend to introduce to the reader 
when be gets out of bed  --   should accompany him, on his return 
home, and spend some weeks among his uncle's Tipperary tenants.
	And so we find Mr. Henry Lowe half buried in down, this 
clear Christmas morning, in the best bedroom of Ballinaclash 
Cottage  --   for so Maurice Kearney's commodious, if not 
handsome, residence is called.
	He had just settled the question with which his mind had been 
occupied for some ten minutes back, in favour of the moon, and was 
relapsing into slumber, when it suddenly occurred to him  --   
	That he was a land agent in embryo.
	That he was at that moment in the midst of a district not 
unknown to fame in connection with "agrarian outrages;" and
	That his room was on the ground floor.
	This train of thought gave the holes in the window-shutters 
a new interest in his eyes.
	He was beginning to succeed pretty well in calling up a 
vision of a blunderbuss loaded to the muzzle with slugs, and two 
tall figures in frieze coats and knee breeches, with crape over their 
faces, when a tremendous report  --   as if the blunderbuss had 
gone off and burst  --   made him start to a sitting posture.
	A second bang, if possible more stunning than the first, 
caused Mr. Henry Lowe to execute a jump  --   or rather to put 
forth a degree of muscular action which, under more favour able 
circumstances, would have resulted in that gymnastic feat; but 
which, owing to his position and the non-elasticity of a feather-
bed, must be pronounced a failure. The repetition of the sound a 
third, and a fourth, and a fifth time, was followed by as many 
vigorous but  -- whether we have regard to a "high" or a "long 
jump"  --   abortive efforts on the part of Mr. Henry Lowe.
	At this stage of the proceedings the bedroom door was 
opened, and Mr. Kearney entered with a lighted candle in his hand. 
He held the light above his head, and looked considerably 
astonished when his guest was revealed to him, performing, as he 
thought, the identical African dance which the Reverend Edward 
Wright, the missioner, had been describing to him a few days 
before.
	The gentlemen regarded each other with looks of mutual 
surprise and inquiry. But Mr. Kearney, divining the cause of his 
guest's perturbation, said, apologetically:
	"I'm sorry they're after disturbing you."
	"Wha  --  what is it?" gasped Mr. Lowe, who maintained 
his sitting position and his scared look.
	"The drum," replied his host, in a self-satisfied way, as if 
further explanation would be altogether superfluous." I came in to 
tell you not to mind it."
	"Oh! -- a drum," the young gentleman repeated, somewhat 
reassured, but evidently still bewildered. "Yes, there it is again. 
But what drum? What does it mean?"
	"The Knocknagow Drum," was the reply. "They always 
meet at the Bush. But don't stir. They'll shortly be off, and you can 
have a good sleep before breakfast is ready."
	"Knocknagow! The Bush! What o'clock is it?"
	"Not six yet. We're going to seven o'clock Mass. We'll be 
back to breakfast at nine. So stay where you are, snug and warm, 
till I call you."
	Am I to understand the whole family are going to prayers?" 
the visitor inquired; not at all relishing the idea of being left alone 
in the house.
	"Yes; we always go to early Mass on Christmas Day."
	"Would there be any objection to my going with you?"
	"Not the least. But the morning is very cold; hard frost."
	"Well, but I'd like to witness as many of the customs of the 
country as possible."
	"Very well. Please yourself. I'll send up Wattletoes with hot 
water to you."
	He laid the candlestick on the dressing-table, and Mr. Lowe 
soon heard him shouting to Wattletoes to bring hot water to the 
gentleman in the "middle room." 
	The gentleman in the middle room lay back upon his 
pillow, and surveyed the bearer of the hot water with some 
curiosity.
	The first thing that struck him was, that it would be 
impossible to say whether this individual were old or young or 
middle-aged. He was low-sized and stooped somewhat. But his 
face, though shrivelled and puckered in an extraordinary manner, 
was the face of a withered boy, rather than of an old man. He wore 
an old frock coat, which evidently reached to the knees of the 
original owner, but nearly touched the heels of its present 
possessor. The legs of his trousers, which were as much out of 
proportion as the other garment, were rolled up, and formed thick 
circular pads half-way between his knees and his ankles.
	Before Mr. Lowe could proceed further with his inspection, 
this odd-looking figure was disappearing through the door.
	"What is your name?" he asked.
	The grotesque figure stopped suddenly in the doorway, and, 
wheeling round, with his hand to his forehead, he answered with a 
grimace, of which it would be vain to attempt a description:
	"Barney, sir  --   Barney Brodherick."
	"Not Wattletoes," thought the young gentleman, as he 
pulled the blankets tightly over his shoulder. "I wonder who the 
devil is Wattletoes! Have I much time to dress?" he asked aloud.
	"Lots uv time, sir. On'y if you don't hurry you'll be too 
late."
	"Lots of time," Mr. Lowe repeated; "but I'll be too late if I 
don't hurry."
	Before he could ask for an explanation of this somewhat 
contradictory piece of information. Barney vanished, scratching his 
head and muttering something about "the boots," as if he felt 
himself in a difficulty.
	Mr. Lowe had nearly completed his toilet when Barney 
returned with his boots, followed by Mr. Kearney, whip in hand, 
and wrapped in a frieze great-coat.
	The master had evidently been "pitching into" the man for 
Barney explained as he placed the visitor's boots on the floor:
	"Blur-an-agers, have sinse, sir  --   have sinse."
	"Have sense yourself -- and that's what you'll never have, 
you ninny-hammer" retorted the master, in an apparently angry 
tone. "He was told," he continued, turning to his guest, "to bring 
blacking from Kilthubber yesterday; and they desired him to get 
Martindale's blacking. When they found they had no blacking, and 
asked him why he didn't bring it  --   'I tried every house,' he says, 
'from Gallowshilt to Quarryhole, and the devil a Martin Dale could 
I find,"
	Though no trace of a smile could be detected in Maurice 
Kearney's ruddy face while he spoke, his repeating Barney's 
explanation of the non-appearance of the blacking, twice over, 
showed that he enjoyed it in his own way.
	When they stood within the glow of the blazing wood fire 
in the parlour, the host again advised his guest to remain within 
doors till the family had returned from Mass. But the young 
gentleman repeated his desire to accompany them.
	The roll of the drum  -- the performer evidently using less 
force than when he so startled the stranger a while ago  --   
accompanied by the shrill but not unpleasing music of half-a-dozen 
fifes, signified that the procession  --   which consisted of nearly 
the whole population of Knocknagow  --   had set out for 
Kilthubber.
	Mr. Kearney and his guest were soon seated in the gig in 
which they had arrived the night before, and slowly following the 
crowd along the snow-covered road,
	It was too dark to see much either of the country or the 
people, and Maurice Kearney could do little more to amuse the 
stranger than to point out the direction in which some objects of 
interest would be visible in the daylight. But, even with the light 
they had, Mr. Lowe could not help being struck with the fine 
outline of the mountain range in front of them.
	The far-famed Knocknagow drum shook the windows of 
the old town of Kilthubber, as the procession marched through the 
principal street to the chapel, at the gate of which the music 
suddenly ceased.
	Barney Brodherick was in waiting to take the horse to the 
hotel, and Mr. Lowe was conducted by his host up the gallery 
stairs and soon found himself in a front pew, next a lady who, he 
rightly conjectured, was his host's eldest daughter, but to whom he 
had not yet been introduced, owing to the lateness of the hour 
when he arrived at the cottage the night before, and to the fact that 
Miss Kearney was on her way to church before he left his room in 
the morning.
	Never having been in a Catholic place of worship during 
divine service before, he looked around him with some curiosity, 
not unmingled with a sense of awe. The altar was brilliant with 
innumerable tapers and tastefully decorated with flowers and ever-
greens. Three branches, suspended by long chains from the ceiling, 
gave light to the congregation that filled the spacious aisle, while 
candles in sconces attached to the pillars and round the walls 
enabled the occupants of the pews in the gallery to read their 
prayer books. The tinkle of a small bell called back his attention to 
the altar, and he saw that during his survey of the church, the 
priest, accompanied by a number of boys in white surplices, had 
moved from the sacristy and now stood bowing with clasped hands 
in front of the altar. As he ascended the carpeted steps the organ 
pealed out solemnly; and in spite of his prejudices, the ceremony 
and the evidently earnest devotion of the worshippers impressed 
Mr. Lowe with a respect for their form of religion which he never 
had felt before. This feeling, however, was giving place to a sense 
of weariness, when he was startled by the suddenness with which 
the people rose from their knees and pressed forward towards the 
altar. He looked down with astonishment upon the swaying sea of 
upturned faces till it settled into stillness as the clergyman turned 
to address the congregation.
	A peculiar ring in the preacher's sweetly-modulated tones 
at once attracted the stranger's attention. Having read the text, he 
replaced the book on its stand, and, leaning back against the altar, 
commenced his sermon. At first his words came slowly and 
hesitatingly. But as he warmed with his subject he moved about, 
now to the right, now to the left, and sometimes straight forward to 
the verge of the altar-step, which formed the platform upon which 
he stood  --   pouring forth what seemed to the unaccustomed ears 
of Mr. Lowe a torrent of barbaric eloquence, which rose into a kind 
o gorgeous sublimity, or melted into pathos, sometimes homely, 
sometimes fancifully poetical. Such language Mr. Lowe would 
have thought ill-suited to such a crowd as he now looked down 
upon, if he had not witnessed the effect it produced. And he was 
surprised to find that it was the figurative passages that moved the 
people most. For instance, when the preacher depicted the Virgin 
wandering through the streets of Bethlehem, seeking for shelter 
and finding every door closed against her, and proceeded: "The 
snow falls; the cold winds blow  --   and the Lily of Heaven is 
withered," a cry burst from the congregation, and the sobs were so 
loud and, frequent that the preacher was obliged to pause till the 
emotion he had called forth had subsided.
	The sermon was short and withal practical; for while it 
comforted the poor, it impressed upon the rich the duty of 
alleviating their sufferings.
	And as the clock struck eight, the Knocknagow drum told 
such of the inhabitants of Kilthubber as had not yet left their beds 
that first Mass was over and the congregation were on their way 
homeward.



CHAPTER II.

"MY ELDEST DAUGHTER, SIR."

	MR. LOWE judged from the hearty "I wish you a merry 
Christmas, sir," which greeted his host so frequently on the way 
homeward, that Mr. Kearney was on excellent terms with his 
neighbours. They did not wait for the procession; and, after a brisk 
drive of twenty minutes, the young gentle man again found himself 
in front of the crackling wood fire. While looking out on the snow-
covered landscape, his attention was attracted by the extraordinary 
gait of a person approaching the house, swinging his legs and arms 
about in a manner impossible to be described. As he came nearer, 
the size and shape of the feet were particularly noticeable. And as 
the figure was passing the window, the fact flashed upon Mr. 
Henry Lowe, as if by inspiration, that after all Barney Brodherick 
was Wattletoes.
	He had the curiosity to raise one of the windows to see 
what Barney meant by stopping suddenly opposite the hall-door, 
and holding out his hand with a coaxing wink of his little grey 
eyes.
	Maurice Kearney's youngest son, a fat, innocent-looking 
boy, stood, with his shoulder leaning against the jamb of the door, 
picking the raisins out of a great slice of plum-cake.
	"I'll bring you to hunt the wran," said Barney.
	"I can go with Tom Maher," the boy replied.
	"I'll give you a ride on Bobby," Barney continued, in a still 
more insinuating voice.
	But the boy continued picking the raisins out of his plum-
cake.
	"Be gob, Mr. Willie, I'll -- I'll show you a thrish's nist!" 
exclaimed Barney, in a sort of stage whisper.
	The boy looked from the cake to the tempter, and hesitated.
	"With five young wans in it," continued Barney, pressing 
the advantage he saw he had gained," feathered an' all  --   ready to 
fly."
	This was too much. The thrush's nest carried the day; and 
Barney was in the act of taking a bite out of the plum-cake as he 
repassed the parlour window on his way round to the kitchen. But 
the promise of a thrush's nest, with five young ones in it, on a 
Christmas morning in our latitude, impressed Mr. Lowe with a 
high opinion of Barney Brodherick's powers as a diplomatist.
	"Come, Mr. Lowe," said his host, as he placed a chair for 
him at the breakfast table, "you ought to have a good appetite by 
this time. I'm sorry you would not take some thing before you went 
out this morning."
	"Oh, thank you," he replied, "but I'm all the better able to 
do justice to your viands now."
	As the young gentleman was sitting down, Mrs. Kearney's 
portly figure caught his eye in the doorway. She at once walked up 
to him, holding out her hand, and apologised for not having been 
prepared to receive him properly on his arrival "But indeed," she 
added, "we had not the least notion that any one was coming. Why 
did you not write to say that Mr. Lowe would be with you?" she 
asked, turning to her husband.
	"Where was the use of writing, when I knew I'd be home 
myself before the letter," was the reply, in a rather brusque 
manner, which was peculiar to Maurice Kearney.
	"The time," said Mr. Lowe, "is very unusual for such a 
visit; but you know I am a homeless wanderer at present."
	"My eldest daughter, sir," said Mr. Kearney, waving his 
hand towards the door, near which the young lady had stopped 
hesitatingly for a moment.
	Mrs. Kearney took her portly person out of the way; and 
her face beamed with pride and fondness as she surveyed the 
lovely girl, who, after curtseying gracefully, advanced, and, with a 
half-bashful smile, gave her hand to her father's guest.
	The young gentleman was taken completely by surprise. He 
had felt some curiosity to know what sort was the face hidden by 
the thick veil next him in the chapel. He thought it would be rather 
a pleasant discovery to find that the face was a handsome one; and 
was quite prepared for a blooming country girl in the person of his 
burly host's daughter. But the lady who now stood before him 
would have arrested his attention anywhere. She was tall, though 
not of the tallest. The driven snow was not whiter than her neck 
and brow. A faint blush at that moment tinged her usually pale 
cheek, which, together with a pair of ripe, rosy lips, and eyes of 
heavenly blue, imparted a warmth to what otherwise might be 
considered the marble coldness of her almost too ideal beauty.
	Mr. Henry Lowe, for once in his life, felt at a loss for 
something to say; but the entrance of two young girls spared him 
the necessity of making a speech. The taller of the two moved 
timidly behind her father's chair without venturing even to glance 
at the stranger; while the other surveyed him from head to foot, 
and then turned to Miss Kearney with a look of surprise if not 
reproach. Miss Kearney under stood the look, and said with a 
smile:
	"Mr. Lowe, let me introduce you to my friend, Miss Grace 
Kiely."
	"Miss Grace Kiely," said the little lady, drawing herself up 
to her full height, and bowing with great dignity.
	She was moving away, with an air of studied gravity, when 
Mr. Kearney said:
	"Come, Grace, sit here near me. 'Tis a long time since you 
and I had a talk together."
	Her face lighted up at once, and, forgetting all her womanly 
dignity, she ran with child-like glee to the chair which he had 
drawn close to his own. She resumed her serious look again; but 
her keen sense of the ludicrous was too much for it, and one of 
Maurice Kearney's characteristic observations had even the effect 
of making our dignified young lady laugh into her cup, and spill so 
much of the tea that Mrs. Kearney insisted upon filling her cup 
again.
	"How did you like the sermon, Mr. Lowe?" Miss Kearney 
asked.
	"It was so unlike anything I ever heard before," he replied, 
"that I really cannot venture to give an opinion. But he certainly 
moved his hearers as I have never seen an audience moved by a 
preacher. Some passages were quite poetical; and these, I was 
surprised to find, produced the greatest effect. It is very strange."
	I believe," said Miss Kearney, "we Irish are a poetical 
people."
	"I particularly admired that passage," Grace observed, with 
her serious look, "beginning, 'From the ripple of the rill to the 
rolling of the ocean; from the lily of the valley to the cedar on the 
mountain.' That passage was very beautiful."
	"Yes, I remember that," said Mr. Lowe, with a nod and a 
smile, which so flattered Miss Grace's vanity that she could only 
preserve her look of gravity by dropping her eyelids and almost 
frowning. But, in spite of her efforts, a glance shot from the corner 
of her eye which plainly showed how gratified she was.
	"She could preach the whole sermon to you," said Mr. 
Kearney, in his emphatic way. And then, after a pause, he added, 
still more emphatically: "I'd rather have her in the house than a 
piper."
	This was too much for Grace; and Miss Kearney and her 
mother joined in her ringing laugh, while Mr. Lowe looked quite 
as much puzzled as amused, as he turned full round and stared at 
his host, apparently expecting some explanation of this 
extraordinary testimony to Miss Grace's powers of pleasing.
	Mr. Kearney, however, rubbed his whiskers, 
contemplatively, to all seeming quite unconscious of their mirth, 
and added, with a jerk of his head:
	"Wait till you hear her play 'The Foxhunter's Jig.' Miss 
Butler is a fine girl," he observed, abruptly changing the subject.
	All eyes were turned upon Mr. Lowe, and he felt called 
upon to say something. So he said:
	"Indeed yes, a very fine girl."
	But the young gentleman felt that a certain opinion which 
he had always held regarding the respective merits of black and 
blue eyes, was considerably modified during the past half-hour.
	"She plays the harp," said Mr. Kearney confidently to 
Grace, who nodded, and evinced by her look that the concerns of 
great people possessed a great interest for her.
	"And the guitar," he added. "Though the devil a much I'd 
give for that, only for the singing. She has a fine voice, "he 
remarked, turning to Mr. Lowe.
	"Does Miss Kiely sing?"
	"She does, she does," his host replied, rather impatiently.
	"But I'm talking of your cousin, Miss Butler."
	"Oh, she sings very well," said Mr. Lowe.
	"I never heard 'Savourneen Dheelish' or the 'Coulin' played 
better. She brought the tears to my eyes."
	"She is quite an enthusiast about Irish music," said Mr. 
Lowe.
	"Kind father for her," put in Mrs. Kearney. "He and my 
Uncle Dan used to spend whole days and nights together playing 
Irish airs. My Uncle Dan played the fid -- violin," said Mrs. 
Kearney, correcting herself, for she liked to call things by their 
grandest names, Particularly when they happened to be connected 
with her Uncle Dan, or, indeed, with any of the great O'Carrol's of 
Ballydunmore. "Mr. Butler," she continued, "used to play the flute. 
He made some beautiful songs about Annie Cleary before they 
were married. He was not Sir Garrett then, for it was in Sir 
Thomas's time. My Uncle Dan, too, had a great turn for poetry, and 
he used to help Mr. Butler to arrange the music for the songs. 
'Twas my Uncle Dan," she added, turning to her husband, as if she 
were imparting a piece of information he had never heard before, 
"'twas my Uncle Dan that translated the 'Coravoth ' into English."
	"I know, I know," said her husband, rubbing the side of his 
head uneasily -- knowing from sad experience that when his portly 
better half once set off upon her hobby it was no easy matter to 
pull her up.
	"My Uncle Dan," she proceeded, "was the most talented of 
the family, though the Counsellor had the name."
	Mrs. Kearney closed her lips after uttering the word 
Counsellor, and then opened them with a kind of smack, followed 
by a gentle sigh, as she bent her head languidly to one side, and 
rested her folded hands upon her knees. Her husband rubbed his 
head more and more frantically; for these were infallible signs that 
the good lady was settling down steadily to her work. But 
fortunately Mr. Lowe, whose curiosity was really excited, averted 
the threatened infliction.
	"Did Sir Garrett," he asked, "really make verses?"
	"Oh, yes," Mrs. Kearney replied; "'Father Ned's sweet 
Niece,' and 'Over the Hills,' and several others,"
	"I knew his marriage was a romantic business," said Mr. 
Lowe. "But I was not aware that my uncle was a poet. He was 
greatly blamed by his family, but Sir Thomas's conduct was quite 
unjustifiable. There was nothing so extraordinary in such a 
marriage, after all."
	While Mr. Lowe was speaking, a robin flew round the 
room, and dashed itself against the window. Miss Kearney leaning 
back in her chair and shading her eyes from the light with her 
hand, looked up at the bird as it fluttered against the glass. And the 
picture thus presented had, we suspect, something to do with Mr. 
Henry Lowe's inability to see anything extraordinary in his uncle's 
marriage. She stood up to let the robin escape, and her father and 
Mr. Lowe also left the breakfast table. The latter, with an air of 
easy good breeding, put back the bolt and drew up the window; 
while the graceful girl gently took the robin in her hand, and, after 
looking for a moment into the bold, bright little eyes with a smile 
that made Mr. Henry Lowe swear mentally that eyes of bird or 
man never beheld anything more lovely, let him fly out into the 
sun shine.
	"As ready as he is to come in," she said, as she followed the 
released prisoner with a melancholy gaze, which in the difference 
her companion thought was even more killing than the smile it 
succeeded -- "as ready as he is to come in, he is always impatient 
to get away. I believe no bird loves liberty so well."
	"If you could set all your captives free as easily it would be 
well."
	"I'd wish to do so -- that is, if I had made any, of which I 
am unconscious."
	She felt conscious, however, of the young gentleman's 
disposition to be more openly complimentary than she thought 
quite agreeable, and to divert his attention to some thing else, she 
said:
	"I fear you will find our neighbourhood very dull. But my 
brothers will be home to-day, and I hope they may be able to find 
some amusement for you."
	This speech was calculated to have the very opposite effect 
of what she intended; but her father unintentionally came to her 
relief.
	"You have good snipe shooting in the bog," he said 
abruptly, "and if we have a thaw, the hounds will be out."
	"I am most anxious," said Mr. Lowe, "to have a day with 
the Tipperary hounds."
	"I can mount you well," said Mr. Kearney. "Come and I'll 
show him to you. Tell Wattletoes," he continued, turning to the 
servant who had come in to replenish the fire, "to lead out Mr. 
Hugh's horse."
	"He's gone to hunt the wren, sir," she replied.
	Mr. Lowe saved Barney from a storm of abuse by 
remarking that as often as he had heard of hunting the wren he had 
never seen it.
	"Let us walk over toward the fort," said his host, "and you'll 
see enough of it."
	"We'll go too, Mary," exclaimed Grace, leaping from the 
sofa upon which she had been reclining in a graceful attitude, and 
in what she persuaded herself was a dreamily sentimental mood.
	Miss Kearney held up her hand warningly, but her father 
turned round before he had reached the door and said:
	"Yes, Grace, let you and Mary come with us."
	"Of course you will come too, Ellie," said Miss Kearney to 
her young sister, who was reading a book near the fire, and 
apparently afraid of attracting attention.
	"Oh, no," she replied with a start, "mamma will want me."



CHAPTER III.

MAT THE THRASHER.

	AS the party approached the avenue gate, on their way to 
the fort, a tax-cart was seen coming from the direction of the 
village.
	"Oh! 'tis Richard," Grace exclaimed; "I'm so glad."
	She evinced her joy by a series of little bounds as she took 
Miss Kearney's arm and tried to hurry her forward. But her 
companion's pace was too slow for her impatience. and she ran on 
alone.
	"She is a very interesting child," said Mr. Lowe.
	"She would not thank you for calling her a child," said Miss 
Kearney, with a smile.
	"I should scarcely have called her a child a moment ago," 
he replied, "for she talked and even looked like a very sensible 
woman. Perhaps she is older than she seems?
	"No; she is a child in years. But she really astonishes me 
sometimes."
	"Who are the gentlemen?" he added, as the tax-cart 
stopped.
	"My brothers."
	Grace pulled open one side of the heavy gate with all her 
might; but as she was about exerting her strength with the other, 
she suddenly let go her hold, and ran out on the road. The taller of 
the two occupants of the tax-cart reached her his hand, and she was 
standing between his knees in an instant. They drove on; and Miss 
Kearney said, in reply to her companion's look of surprise:
	"They are going round to the back gate. Grace will bring 
them out immediately, you may be sure."
	"Is she a relative of yours?" he asked.
	"Her mother's sister is married to an uncle of mine," she 
replied. "Her father, Doctor Kiely, is a very eminent physician, and 
a man of distinguished talent."
	"Oh, I believe I have heard of him. Is he not one of your 
great agitators?"
	"Yes; I suppose you would call him an agitator. He does 
not try to conceal his patriotism; and yet, strange to say, he is the 
favourite doctor of nearly all the great families of the county, and 
he has ever so many public appointments. Grace would say, 'quite 
a monopoly of them,'" she added, smiling her angelic smile -- as 
much at her own homely phrase as at the more learned one her 
little friend would have used.
	"That tells well for the liberality of the aristocracy."
	"Perhaps it tells as well for the high character and skill of 
Dr. Kiely."
	"About what age is he?" Mr. Lowe asked.
	"I believe about fifty," she replied. "He is the finest looking 
man I ever saw."
	"Has he a large family?
	"No; two daughters. The eldest is a very beautiful girl; but 
Grace is her father's idol."
	"Has he no son?"
	"Yes; he has a son."
	There was a kind of hesitation in her manner of replying to 
his last question that caused Mr. Lowe to look inquiringly at her. 
But their conversation was interrupted by a tall, brawny peasant, 
who stopped, as he was passing the gate, to talk to Mr. Kearney.
	The peasant's name was Donovan, but he was universally 
known as Mat the Thrasher. He excelled in all kinds of work as a 
farm labourer, and never met his match at wielding a flail. As a 
consequence, he was in great request among farmers from October 
to March; and, indeed, during all the year round -- for Mat could 
turn a hand almost to anything, from soleing a pair of brogues to 
roofing and thatching a barn. His superiority as a ploughman was 
never questioned. As a proof of his skill in this line, we may 
mention that when Maurice Kearney was about running what in 
Ireland is called a "ditch" through the centre of the "kiln field," the 
difficulty presented itself -- how to make the fence perfectly 
straight. And, as a matter of course, Mat Donovan was 
immediately sent for.
	"Now," said Mat, after looking at the ground, "where do 
you want to run it?"
	"From this bush," his employer replied, laying his walking-
stick on a whitethorn bush in the fence, "to the ash-tree at the left-
hand side of the gap," pointing to a tree at the opposite side of the 
field, "In a straight line," he added, looking at Mat as if the 
problem were worthy to be grappled with even by his genius.
	Mat walked away without uttering a word, leaving Mr. 
Kearney and the half-dozen workmen, who, leaning on their 
spades, were waiting the order to begin at the construction of the 
new ditch, altogether unable to conjecture how he intended to 
proceed; but with unshaken faith in his ultimate success.
	Mat walked leisurely back to the "gurteen" where he had 
been at work, and was soon seen coming through the gap near the 
ash-tree with his plough and horses. With one huge hand he leant 
on the handle of the plough, thereby lifting the irons, so as that 
they might glide over the ground without cutting through it, till he 
came to the ash-tree. Facing his horses towards the whitethorn 
bush at the opposite end of the field, he fixed his eye steadily on 
that object.
	Mr. Kearney and the workmen heard his "Yo-up!" to the 
horses, and on he came, nearer and nearer, slow but sure, till they 
could catch the air of the song which he commenced to chant with 
as great solemnity of look and intonation as if its accurate 
rendering were a necessary condition of the success of his 
undertaking. They soon had the benefit even of the words, and as 
Mat pulled the horses to one side as their breasts touched the 
whitethorn bush, he continued while he reined them in: -- 

"Oh, had I the lamp of Aladdin.
And had I his geni also.
I'd rather live poor on the mountain,
With coleen dhas cruiteen amo."

"There it is for you," he exclaimed, as he folded his arms, after 
flinging down the reins, "as straight as the split in a peeler's pole."
	Mr. Kearney thrust his thumbs into the arm-holes of his 
waistcoat, and looked intensely solemn, which was his way of 
expressing extreme delight. The workmen looked at one another 
and shook their heads in silent admiration -- Jim Dunn, as he flung 
his coat against "the belly of the ditch," declaring in a decided 
tone, as if there could be no possible question of the fact, "that 
nothin' could bate him." And Tom Maher, after spitting first in one 
fist and then in the other (if we may be pardoned for chronicling 
such a proceeding), firmly clutched his spade with both hands, and 
eyeing his hero from head to foot, devoutly wished "bad luck to the 
mother that'd begrudge him her daughter. "By which Tom merely 
meant to express in a general way his belief that Mat the Thrasher 
was good enough for any woman's daughter, and intended no 
allusion to any particular mother or daughter. But the flush that 
reddened the honest face of the ploughman, and a certain softening 
of his grey eyes, told plainly enough that Tom Maher had 
unconsciously touched a sensitive chord in the heart of big Mat 
Donovan.
	Some readers may, perhaps, require an explanation of Mat's 
allusion to "the split in a peeler's poll." The fact is, that respectable 
"force," now known as the Royal Irish Constabulary, have always 
been noted for the extreme care bestowed by them on the hair of 
their heads. At the time of which we write, a "crease" down the 
back of the head was one of the distinguishing marks of a 
policeman in country districts where "swells" were scarce. And to 
such a pitch of perfection had the "force" attained in the matter of 
this crease, that Mat the Thrasher could find nothing in art or 
nature capable of conveying a just idea of the straightness of the 
line he had marked out for Maurice Kearney's new ditch but "the 
split in a peeler's poll." We have thought this explanation 
necessary, lest the split in the poll should be mistaken for a split in 
the skull -- a thing which our good-natured friend never once 
thought of. The "new ditch" is to this day the admiration of all 
beholders. To be sure, it never was and never will be the slightest 
earthly use -- a fact of which Hugh tried to convince his father 
before this whim was put into execution. But Maurice Kearney 
was headstrong, and would have his way in such matters. The new 
ditch narrowly escaped being a furze ditch -- or what in other parts 
of the country would be called a whin hedge -- by a characteristic 
blunder of Wattletoes, who was sent by his master to sow the seed 
of the "unprofitably gay" shrub. In due time a drill of turnips 
appeared along the top of the new ditch; while Hugh Kearney was 
astonished one fine morning to find a promising crop of furze in 
the very middle of his "purple-tops."
	Miss Kearney wished Mat a happy Christmas.
	"I wish you the same, and a great many of them, Miss," he 
replied, looking towards her for a moment, and then turned to 
resume the conversation with her father.
	"He is a magnificent specimen of the Irish peasant," said 
Mr. Lowe to Miss Kearney.
	"Let us wait till you hear him talk," said she. "You will be 
sure to hear something out of the common from Mat the Thrasher, 
as we call him."
	Mat, it appeared, wanted to know if Mr. Kearney would 
sell him "a couple of barrels of the Swedes."
	"No," replied the latter;" I won't sell any turnips. I'll want 
all I have; and more. But I thought you had a good crop of 
potatoes. I never saw finer."
	"They turned out bad," said Mat,
	"Were those the potatoes behind your house, Mat? Miss 
Kearney asked." Nelly pointed them out to me one day, and asked 
me did I ever see a flower-garden so blooming."
	"The very same, Miss, "Mat replied, with a sorrowful shake 
of the head." I never laid my eyes on such desavers."
	"I suppose they were blighted," said Miss Kearney. "No 
then, Miss," he replied, with a reproachful sadness in his look and 
voice." Every stalk uv 'em would make a rafter for a house the first 
of November. But put the best man in the parish to dig 'em after, 
and a duck 'ud swally all he'd be able to turn out from morning till 
night."
	The idea of a potato-stalk making a rafter for a house made 
Miss Kearney smile' in spite of herself; but the duck swallowing all 
the potatoes a man could dig in a day, forced her to laugh outright. 
To make amends for what she considered her ill-timed mirth, she 
said to her father
	I think, sir, you might give Mat the turnips he requires." 
"Do you want to have the whole parish coming for turnips?" 
exclaimed her father in no amiable tone.
	"Sure you can refuse the next person that comes.'
	"Very well," said he, with a resigned look and a shrug of 
the shoulder, as if there were no help for it.
	Mat Donovan expressed his thanks; but in a manner that 
showed he was pretty sure his request would have been granted in 
any case. He strode up the hill with an easy, swinging gait; and as 
he carried a huge stick in his hand and turned in the direction of the 
fort, Miss Kearney remarked that he was going to join the "wren 
boys."
	She should have known better, however, than use the words 
"wren boys" in the sense she did. They are only called wren boys 
who carry the wren in a holly bush decorated with ribbons from 
house to house on St. Stephen's Day; and many who hunt the wren 
do not join in this part of the proceedings. We may remark also 
that though the "king of all birds" is said and sung to be "caught in 
the furze" on St. Stephen's Day, he is invariably "caught," and 
often ruthlessly slain, too, on Christmas Day.
	Mr. Lowe was beginning to feel quite at home with his fair 
companion -- whom we shall call by her Christian name, Mary, in 
future -- and on seeing her brothers coming through the lawn 
toward them, asked her to tell him something about them.
	"Well," she replied, "my eldest brother, Hugh, lives at 
home and attends to the farm with my father. Richard is a surgeon; 
he has a great wish to go to Australia, but my father and mother are 
opposed to it."
	Richard and Grace came on merrily together; while Hugh 
walked thoughtfully, if not moodily, behind them. He was about 
the middle height, broad-shouldered and strongly built. His hair 
and beard were black as night, and his complexion so dark that 
strangers sometimes asked if he had been a sailor, or had lived 
under a tropical sun. His dress of grey tweed betokened the farmer; 
but a heavy gold watch chain seemed to indicate that he was not 
indifferent to display. He was not popular like his father; but the 
respect with which he treated even the humblest day-labourer, and 
a certain quiet independence in his bearing towards the gentry of 
his neighbourhood, won for him the esteem of all classes. On the 
whole, Hugh Kearney was looked upon as something of a puzzle 
by his friends. And latterly his sister Mary, who loved him above 
all her brothers, used to feel uneasy at the thought that he was not 
happy.
	Richard was a contrast to Hugh in almost every respect. He 
was tall, slender, fair-skinned, light-haired, gay, thought less, and 
talkative.
	Maurice Kearney introduced his sons to Mr. Lowe -- "Sir 
Garrett's nephew," and as Grace had told them all about that 
gentleman, and his intention of spending some days with them, 
Richard and he were on excellent terms immediately and had all 
the talk to themselves till they came up with the wren-hunters.
	Mr. Lowe was astonished to see an excited crowd of men 
and boys armed with sticks, and running along on either side of a 
thick, briery fence, beating it closely, and occasionally aiming 
furious blows at he knew not what. After a while, however, he 
caught a glimpse of the tiny object of their pursuit, as, escaping 
from a shower of blows, it flitted some ten yards along the fence, 
and disappeared from view among the brambles. The crowd, 
among whom Mat the Thrasher and Wattletoes were conspicuous, 
rushed after; and as they poked their sticks into the withered grass 
and beat the bushes, the poor little wren was seen creeping through 
the hedge, and the blows rained so thick and fast about it that its 
escape seemed miraculous. It did escape, however, and after a 
short flight had just found shelter in a low sloe-bush, when Mat the 
Thrasher leaped forward, and with a blow that crashed through the 
bush as if a forest-tree had fallen upon it, seemed beyond all doubt 
to have annihilated his kingship. Grace, who could only see the 
ludicrous side of the scene, laughed till she had to catch at Mary's 
cloak for support, while Mary turned away with an exclamation of 
pain. But though she kept her head turned away to avoid seeing the 
little mutilated representation of the protomartyr, even she was 
forced to laugh when the huge Thrasher shouted -- "I struck her! I 
struck her! and knocked my hat full of feathers out of her!"
	After a minute of complete silence, during which all eyes, 
except Mary's, were fixed upon the sloe-bush, a scream of delight 
from Grace surprised her into looking round. When, lot there was 
the wren, safe and sound, high up in the air! instead of taking 
refuge in the briery fence it changed its tactics altogether, and flew 
right across the field into a quarry overgrown with brambles, 
followed by all its pursuers except Mat the Thrasher, whose look 
of amazement, as he stared with open mouth after the wren, 
elicited another peal of laughter from Grace, in which Mary and 
the young men could not help joining. Mat, however, looked at 
them as if to his mind it was no laughing matter, and requested 
some person or persons unknown to "let him alone after that." 
Then, after pondering deeply for a moment, with his eyes fixed on 
the ground, he walked slowly away; as if, in spite of Jim Dunn's 
assertion to the contrary, he bad met some thing to "bate him" at 
last.
	It is very ridiculous," said Mr. Lowe, "to see grown men in 
pursuit of a little wren, and as much carried away by the 
excitement of the chase as if it were -- "
	"A big hare," said Mary, with an arch look that surprised 
Grace, and even her brother -- for archness, particularly in the 
presence of a stranger, was not in Mary's way.
	"Well," said Mr. Lowe, who was a little posed by the 
remark, "I believe hunting the wren is not the only kind of hunting 
that could easily be made to appear ridiculous."
	A couple of pointers that had kept close to Hugh's heels 
since he left the house suggested the subject of shooting; and Mary 
was relieved from the task of talking -- for it often was a task to 
her -- during their walk back to the cottage.



CHAPTER IV.

THE TRACKS IN THE SNOW.

	THE window of Mary's room faced the west, and she was 
fond of sitting there in the evening. It was a curious little bower, up 
in the pointed roof of the oldest part of the cottage -- which had 
been added to at different periods, and presented the appearance of 
a promiscuous collection of odds and ends of houses, not one of 
which bore the slightest resemblance to any of the rest. The 
window was the only one in the ivy-covered gable, and looked into 
a little enclosure, half garden and half shrubbery. Mary sat near the 
window, looking at the fast-sinking sun, while Grace stood 
opposite the loo king-glass arranging her hair.
	"Ah, Mary," she said, with a sigh, "that's the elegant young 
man."
	"Who?"
	"Mr. Lowe."
	"Is he, indeed? Then I suppose Richard is to be discarded?"
	"Oh, Richard is quite an Adonis. But, then, Mr. Lowe has 
such an air -- he is so aristocratic. He seems to admire you," she 
continued. "But that's of course. They all admire a b-e-a-u-t-y." 
Miss Grace dwelt upon the word with a curl of the lip, as if she had 
the most sovereign con tempt for beauty. At the same time she 
stood upon her toes and surveyed herself in the glass from every 
possible point of view.
	"Do you think yourself handsome, Grace?
	"Well, between you and me, Mary. I do. Though not in the 
usual way, perhaps."
	"You mean 'handsome is that handsome does?'"
	"Not at all! I was not thinking of that stupid old proverb. 
But there is Adonis in the garden, and -- what shall we call the 
other? -- Apollo."
	Mary looked round and saw her brothers and Mr. Lowe in 
the garden.
And what will you call Hugh?" she asked. "Oh, Nabuchodonosor, 
if you like -- or, Finn Macool," replied Grace, laughing. "I really 
don't know what to make of him. He seems to be always trying to 
calculate how many thorns in an acre of furze."
	Richard here called to his sister, saying:
	Can you tell us anything about the tracks in the snow? We 
are puzzled by them?
	"No," Mary replied, opening the window, and looking 
down with surprise.
	"The puzzle is," said Richard. "that there are no tracks
coming towards the house The person must have jumped from 
your window."
	"Do you think anything has been stolen?" she asked.
	"The tracks," he replied, "are those of slight high-heeled 
boots, such as gentlemen wear,"
	"I don't know on earth how to account for it," said Mary.
	"And he must have been well acquainted with the place," 
Richard continued;" for he faced straight to the stile behind the 
laurels: and no stranger would have done that,"
	Mary's face flushed crimson; but: to her great relief her 
brothers and Mr. Lowe were looking towards the laurels and did 
not observe her. They followed the footprints out on the road near 
"The Bush" -- where the lads and lasses of Knocknagow were 
wont to assemble -- and here all trace of them was lost in the 
trampled snow.
	The three young men returned to the house through the 
farmyard, Mr. Lowe having expressed a wish to see the horse of 
which his host had spoken in the morning.
"Really, Mary," said Grace, "it is like that one of the Melodies --  

Weep for the hour
When to Eveleen's bower
The lord of the valley with false vows came:

Is there a lord of the valley in the case?"
	"I don't know what to make of you," said Mary, looking at 
her as if she thought it just possible that Miss Grace Kiely might be 
the queen of the fairies. "But as you really must be a witch of 
some, kind -- "
	Not one of those ladies, I hope," Grace interrupted, "who 
nightly travel upon broomsticks."
	"Well," Mary resumed, laughing, "anything you like. But, 
perhaps, you could make out the mystery?"
	Well, let me see."
	She knelt down, and resting her elbows on the low window 
frame, put her hands under her chin, and with knitted brow 
contemplated the footprints in the snow.
	"The solution of the mystery is this," she gravely began. 
"There is nothing very extraordinary in a man's footprint in snow. 
The footprint is an ordinary affair enough; but the wonder is, as 
Sydney Smith said of the fly in the amber, 'how the devil it got 
there.' Have you read any of Sydney Smith's writings?"
	"No."
	"Never read Peter Plymley's Letters?"
	"Never," Mary replied.
	Grace shook her head, and was about proceeding with what 
she called the solution of the mystery, when she again broke off 
with --  "By-the-by, there was a discussion at our last literary 
dinner party, as I call them when we have the poets and editors -- 
about Longfellow's

'Footprints on the sands of time.'

'Tis to be hoped when I speak of Longfellow you do not suppose I 
mean your graceful brother?"
	"No," replied Mary, laughing, "I am not quite so illiterate 
as you suppose. Though I dare say your poets and editors would be 
apt to set me down for a fool,"
	"A fool!" Grace exclaimed. "Bless your innocence, they 
adore fools. No girl but a fool has the ghost of a chance of making 
any impression upon them. The 'Brehon,' to be sure, seems to 
appreciate your humble servant slightly, and has perpetrated an 
acrostic which I will repeat for you some time. But unfortunately 
the 'Brehon' is the rummest of the whole lot."
	"The what?"
	"Oh, such ignorance! The rummest, But 'Shamrock,' who 
writes divinely, and who is really a nice fellow -- I confess to a 
weakness for nice fellows -- is quite gone about my foolish sister.

'Now, if I am, indeed, a bard,
Immortal song, uncrowned, unstarred -- 
Though gold, and friends, and rivals guard -- 
Shall win thee, spite of Fate, Jessie.'

She substitutes 'Eva ' for 'Jessie,' and takes it all to herself, I fear 
the poor child's head is a little turned," sighed Miss Grace, with a 
very wise shake of her own.
	Mary laughed, for the poor child was five years her senior.
But Grace, without condescending to notice the interruption, went 
on:
	"To return, however, to the

'Footprints on the sands of time.'

It was objected that the returning tide would wash away a footprint 
from the sand, and therefore the idea was a bad one. But papa very 
properly observed that time, when compared with eternity, was 
nothing more than the strand between the ebbing and flowing of 
the tide. But to come to our footprints in the snow. We need not 
trouble ourselves with the notion that his Sable Majesty has had 
anything to do with them. Of course you read Robinson Crusoe?"
	"Yes," replied Mary, wondering what Robinson Crusoe 
could have to do with it.
	"Very good. Well, the solution of the mystery is this: our 
man Friday -- in a stylish pair of Wellington boots -- was standing 
there when the snow commenced to fall; and, like a patient savage 
as he was, there he remained till the snow left off -- and then 
walked away. Quod erat demonstrandum. Excuse my weakness for 
Latin."
	"I declare," said Mary, with a look of wonder, "that must be 
it."
	"Oh," exclaimed Grace, resuming her bright look, "there 
are a pair of feet 'making tracks,' as our Yankee friends would say, 
which might well frighten John the Baptist himself if he met them 
in the wilderness."
	And she pointed to Barney Brodherick, who was making 
for the stile behind the laurels, in his not-to-be-described mode of 
locomotion.
	Mary called to him, and Barney swung round and looked 
up at them.
	"Barney," said she, "did you meet anyone on your way 
from town last night?
	"Begob, I did, Miss," replied Barney, with a start. "An' God 
forgive me," he continued, pulling off his hat and taking a letter 
from the lining, "I forgot to give you this bit uv a note."
	He came under the window and threw the letter up to 
Grace, who caught it and handed it to Mary.
	"What o'clock might it be, Miss Grace?" Barney asked,
with the coaxing grin he always wore when speaking to her.
	"It is past four, Barney."
	"Thanum-on-dioul, can it be late so early? "he exclaimed. 
"Tare-an-'ouns, I'll be kilt." And Barney "make tracks' for the stile 
behind the laurels.
	Grace laughed, and turned round to repeat his words; but 
checked herself on seeing Mary with the open letter in her hand, 
gazing towards the distant mountains.
	"And now," she said abstractedly, "he is gone."



CHAPTER V.

THE DOCTOR MAKES HIMSELF COMFORTABLE.


	"I FEAR, Mr. Lowe," said Mary, "you will be put to some 
inconvenience to-morrow, as we are to have the Station."
	"What is that?" he inquired.
	"Oh, don't you know? Well, Catholics go to Confession and 
Communion at Christmas and Easter. And, in country districts, 
instead of requiring the people to go to the chapel, the priests come 
to certain houses in each locality to hear confessions and say Mass. 
So that our house is to be public property for some hours to-
morrow, and I fear you will find it unpleasant. But you can remain 
in your room; and I suppose you will have no objection to 
breakfast with the priests?"
	"By no means," he replied, "it will be a pleasure. Shall we 
have the gentleman who preached that remarkable sermon?"
	"Oh, of course. He is our parish priest, Father M'Mahon. 
He is a most charitable man, and almost adored by the people. It is 
commonly said that when Father M'Mahon dies he will not have as 
much money as will bury him. I must warn you, however, that you 
will find him reserved. and you may be tempted to think him 
haughty. But it is only his manner."
	"He looks awfully proud, at all events," said Grace.
	"He astonished us all a few weeks ago," Mary continued, 
by making this peculiarity the subject of his discourse from the 
altar."
	"He began in such an extraordinary way," said Grace. "I 
was very near being obliged to laugh."
	"Very near?" said Mary. "Why, you did laugh; and it was 
really too bad for a sensible young lady like you."
	I could not help it. Only think, Mr. Lowe, the first word he 
said was -- 'Ye say I have a proud walk.' And then he went on to 
explain to them in the most earnest manner, that when they thought 
he was walking proudly, he was, perhaps, not thinking of himself 
at all. 'Indeed,' he said, I never knew until lately that I had a proud 
walk. And I fear it is too late to try to correct it now. 'tis hard to 
break an old dog of his trot.' Sure everybody laughed then."
	It was a most instructive discourse," said Mary.
	Oh, of course," replied Grace. "And it must have been very 
consoling to people who give themselves airs, as we are not by any 
means to infer from the said airs that they are not all humility in 
their hearts. But I hope it is Father Hannigan Mr. Lowe will have 
an opportunity of hearing to-morrow."
	Yes, I think it is not unlikely, as Father M'Mahon has not 
been strong for some time back, and one of the curates usually says 
Mass now at the Stations. You can have no idea, Mr. Lowe, what 
an amount of labour an Irish priest has to go through."
	"I can imagine it must be very considerable from what you 
tell me," Mr. Lowe observed.
	"Come, Grace," said Mary, "the Rosary."
	Hugh stood up, and went with them to the kitchen, as he 
always, when at home, "headed" the Rosary.
	Instead of summoning the servants to prayers in the parlour 
it is the general custom, among Irish Catholics of the middle class, 
for the master and mistress of the house with their children and 
guests  --  unless the latter should happen not to be Catholics  --  to 
"say the Rosary" in the kitchen.
	In Hugh's absence the duty of beginning and ending the 
Rosary  --  the same person always "heads" and " finishes"   --  fell 
to Mrs. Kearney or Mary; which was looked upon as a grievance 
by Barney and some of the other servants.
	"I'd always like to have Mr. Hugh to head the Rosary," 
Barney used to say. "He never puts trimmin's to id like Miss Mary 
and the mistress."
	During the Rosary Richard and the stranger lighted their 
cigars in Hugh's room, and had a pleasant talk  --  the doctor as 
usual having the lion's share. His volubility was considerable; but 
though people generally found it pleasant enough to listen to him  -
-  young ladies particularly  --  it was not easy to tell what it was all 
about after.
	Hugh came in with a large book under his arm, and seemed 
unprepared for the honour that had been done him.
	Mr. Lowe was standing by the fire, with his elbow on the 
chimney-piece. The doctor had his two heels on it, and reclined in 
a curious old arm-chair at the other side of the fire.
	"We're just talking," said the latter, "of what we are to do 
with ourselves to-morrow. Mr. Lowe votes for the snipe."
	"Very well," Hugh replied, "I'll have everything ready; but 
you must be satisfied with a single-barrel."
	"Oh, 'tis all the same, except that I can't make so much 
noise. Curious," continued the doctor, contemplatively, "that there 
are some things that some people can't do. Though I blaze away, 
the birds don't fall. I generally forget that there is anything required 
but to pull the trigger. Or when it does occur to me that I must take 
aim, somehow I first think of my feet  --  a graceful attitude you 
know. And before I am all right the bird is a mile away. And then I 
fire."
	"You can ride better than you can shoot," said Mr. Lowe. 
"Pretty well at the riding; but I never could do that either, like 
Hugh. The cursed attitudinizing ruins me there, too. Do you 
remember Kathleen Hanly? "he asked, turning to his brother.
	"Yes, I remember," Hugh replied, laughing.
	"Oh, 'tis misery to think of it," the doctor continued, taking 
his feet from the chimney-piece, and thrusting his hands in the 
pockets of his shooting jacket.
	"What was it?" Mr. Lowe asked.
	"The prettiest girl in the country," replied the doctor, "I'll 
show you where she lives to-morrow,"
	"Well? " said Mr. Lowe.
	"Oh, you want to know all about it. Well, Hugh and I were 
out schooling one day, and I caught a glimpse of Kathleen walking 
up and down by a hedge not far from where we were. There was a 
wall about three feet high near where she was walking; and I 
thought I might as well ride down by the ditch and take a jump 
over the wall. I waited till she had turned at the end of her walk, 
and came on at the wall in a canter. I was thinking of a picture in 
one of Lever's novels, and my only regret was that the wall was not 
five instead of three feet high. Just as I was coming to the jump, it 
occurred to me that my left elbow was not at the proper angle. So I 
glanced at it and turned it more in  --  forgetting the necessity of 
keeping my seat and everything else but the elbow and Kathleen."
	The doctor paused and looked at the lighted end of his 
cigar, as if it were the miniature of a departed friend.
	"Well, what happened? " said Mr. Lowe.
	"Well, I was spun," replied the doctor, with a sigh, "out 
between his two ears. I resolved to get out of a window in the 
middle of the night, and run away and enlist in a regiment under 
orders for India. But I changed my mind."
	The doctor looked again at the ashes of his cigar, and shook 
his head.
	"Kathleen said afterwards," he resumed, "that she always 
thought of me with my heels in the air. Back view, you know. And 
my legs are rather long."
	The doctor took a last look at the ashes of his cigar, and 
flung the butt into the fire. He then stood up, and taking a cigar-
case from the chimney-piece, carefully selected the best one in it 
for himself.
	"Have a cigar? " said he, presenting one to Mr. Lowe; 
which was very civil, seeing that the case and its contents belonged 
to Mr. Lowe himself.
	"Do you know," said the doctor, turning to his brother, after 
resuming his place in the arm-chair, "we may as well make 
ourselves comfortable."
	"By all means," replied Hugh, tearing the corner off a 
newspaper, and offering it to him to light his cigar.
	"Hold on, old boy," said the doctor.
	He left the room and returned in a few minutes, with a 
decanter in one hand and a sugar-bowl in the other. Placing them 
on the table, he rather surprised Mr. Lowe by producing three 
tumblers and a wine-glass from the pockets of his shooting-coat. 
He then sat down, with his feet on the fender, and poked the fire. 
While thus employed, a servant came in with a kettle, which the 
doctor took with his disengaged hand, and spilled a little of the 
water under the grate to see that it was boiling.
	"All right, Judy," said he. "Mum's the word."
	"Yes, sir," the girl replied, and left the room,
	The doctor then mixed a stiff tumbler for himself, and 
motioned to Hugh and Mr. Lowe to follow his example; which 
they did.
	Having lighted his cigar, he turned sideways in his chair, 
throwing one of his long legs over the other, and said:
	"Now Hugh, your opinion is worth having on most 
subjects. But I want your opinion now on a subject, of which so far 
as ever I could see, you have had no personal experience."
	"What is it? " Hugh asked.
	"Love," replied the doctor, commencing to puff so 
vigorously that he was soon enveloped in a cloud.
	"Well, what about it?"
	"Do you believe in first love and love at first sight and all 
that sort of thing?
	"Of course, if there's love at all, there must be first love to 
begin with. And," he added, after a pause, "I rather think love at 
first sight is not an impossibility."
	"But is the first love the true love? The 'never forget, you 
know, and so forth?'"
	"I don't think so. It may or may not."
	"The fact is, you think there is no limit to the number of 
times a man may be really in love?"
	"Well, I do believe a man may be really in love more than 
once in his life. But I'll tell you what I believe," he continued, after 
a pause. "I believe it is the destiny of many to love once, or meet 
somebody whom they feel they could have loved as they never 
loved before and never can love again."
	"But they can love again!" said Mr. Lowe, who began to 
feel interested in the conversation.
	"Yes, certainly," replied Hugh. "A man can love again, and 
be happy in the love of another. But it will not be the same kind of 
happiness as might have been his."
	"Do you think this higher sort of happiness is the lot of 
many? I fancy, in the majority of cases, people must be satisfied 
with the secondary kind of happiness you allude to."
	"Yes, I think so, too," replied Hugh.
	"And why so? " Richard asked, as he took the kettle from 
the fire, and poured the boiling water carefully on the lumps f 
sugar in his tumbler. "Why should they not be supremely blessed?"
	And while pouring in the whiskey after the water, the 
doctor sang in a pleasing voice:

"Our life should resemble one long day of light,
And our death come on holy and calm as the night."

	"'Tis easily accounted for," replied Hugh. "The feeling may 
not be mutual; and even when it is, how many insurmountable 
obstacles may be in the way? But if it ever does happen, that a man 
or a woman can love only once, it is when two spirits rush together 
in this way, and are then parted by death, or some other cause that 
does not involve weakness of any kind on the part of either."
	"Now, did a case of this kind ever come within your 
knowledge?"
	"Yes," Hugh replied. "I know of one such case. And it is 
what I have observed in this instance that has made me think about 
the matter at all."
	"You seem to think," said Mr. Lowe, "that reciprocity is 
necessary to give immortality to the sentiment, if I may so express 
what I mean to convey."
	"I am inclined to think," Hugh replied, "that without that it 
will die a natural death."
	"Have you been taking large doses of poetry of late? said 
Richard. "It would scarcely surprise me to find some tender stanzas 
in this." And he opened the ledger which Hugh had laid on the 
table.
	"And that would be getting blood from a turnip," said the 
doctor, as he turned over the leaves. "But do you really keep your 
accounts in this way? I thought it was only merchants did that."
	"And why should not manufacturers?
	"Manufacturers? Do you mean that you are a butter 
maker?"
	"And a manufacturer of arable land," said Hugh.
	"That's nonsense," said the doctor, who had a dim 
recollection of a lecture on political economy which he had heard 
some time before. "Land cannot be manufactured."
	"Well if I were writing a treatise on the subject I might 
hesitate to use the expression; and yet it could, I think, be 
defended."
	"You mean a producer," said Richard, pedantically.
	"No, that would not express my meaning. I'll show you an 
example of it to-morrow."
	Richard commenced rubbing his chin with a rather serious 
expression of face, as he ran his eye down a column of figures. He 
opened his eyes and his mouth on coming to the "carried forward," 
and was about finding the page when Hugh glanced over his 
shoulder, and said:
	"Come, shut it up. You will look in vain for a stanza of any 
sort," Saying this, Hugh shut the book and pushed it away.
	The fact was the doctor had lighted upon a page where 
sundry sums were entered, which he himself had received  in the 
shape of half notes and post-office orders; and his brother good-
naturedly wished to prevent him from seeing what would be a very 
forcible illustration of the proverb that "many a little makes a 
muckle."
	The doctor took up a note which slipped from between the 
leaves of the account-book and read it. It ran thus:
	"DEAR HUGH  --  Send me five pounds by return like 'the 
quintessence concentrated of a sublimated brick,' as you are. I was 
obliged to pop my watch last night. Particulars in my next,  --  
Yours,
"DICK."
	The author of this pithy production shook his head gravely, 
and, folding the paper, was about lighting another cigar with it, but 
changing his mind, he took a short pipe from his pocket and 
lighted that instead.
	"I believe," said he, "I have been a little improvident in my 
time. But you have no idea how economical I have become. I got 
eleven bob from a Jew for two pair of trousers and an old coat," 
Here he pulled vigorously at his pipe till it was well kindled, and 
threw what remained unburned of the note into the fire. "And 
bought a second-hand clarionet at the back of the Bank," he added. 
"I'll give you a tune as soon as I get a new reed. Keating has given 
me some lessons."
	He smoked on with a placid look, evidently deriving 
exquisite pleasure from the contemplation of his economy, as well 
as from the weed, which he seemed to economise, too, so tiny were 
the wreaths that glided from between his lips.
	Hugh thought it well to take advantage of this virtuous 
mood, and suggested the advisability of retiring to rest, The doctor 
took Mr. Lowe's arm and conducted him to his room. And, after 
embracing that gentleman affectionately six times, he retired to his 
own apartment.
	Hugh made an entry or two in his account book; and after 
totting up a column of figures at one side, and comparing the 
amount with the sum total of a shorter account at the opposite side, 
he shook his head doubtfully, and closed the book. Opening his 
desk, he took out a letter and read it over. It was from Sir Garrett 
Butler to his father, referring him to his agent, Mr. Isaac Pender, on 
the subject of renewing the lease.
	"I fear," he thought, as he put the letter back into the desk  -
-  "I fear that there is foul play somewhere. And yet this old man is 
said to be so simple and kind-hearted it is hard to suspect him. But 
Pender and his hopeful son are a bad pair. Well, there's nothing to 
be gained by brooding over it, Let me think of something else."
	He was startled out of what was evidently a pleasant 
reverie, by a noise, which, after a moment's thought, he concluded 
was the death-shriek of an unlucky goose. Reynard was unusually 
active at that season, and he resolved upon going out and setting 
the dogs upon his track. But the sound being repeated in a 
somewhat less excruciating key, he smiled and proceeded to his 
brother's room.
	The doctor, with his coat and one boot off, was in the act of 
unscrewing the mouth-piece from the second-hand clarionet. 
	"D--n it!" be exclaimed, examining it with a solemn look, 
"I can get no good of it."
	Then putting the instrument, without the mouth-piece, to 
his lips, he hummed, "Believe me if all those endearing young 
charms," through it, with great feeling.
	"Dick," said his brother, "have you a mind to disturb the 
whole house? Do you know 'tis past twelve o'clock?
	"All right," said the doctor, with a jerk of his head side 
ways. And he dropped softly into "Nora Creena."
	"Come, go to bed, and don't make a fool of yourself."
	"Hugh, isn't Kathleen Hanly a devilish pretty girl?"
	"Decidedly. But what's the use of freezing for her? Go to 
bed and dream about her."
	The doctor was so struck with the wisdom of this 
suggestion that he pulled off the other boot with extraordinary 
quickness and energy; evidently bent upon following his brother's 
advice without the loss of a moment.
	Mr. Henry Lowe had his reveries, too.
	"No, no," he thought "it cannot be anything of that sort."
	He was thinking of the tracks in the snow, which Grace 
accounted for so logically.
	But even Grace's "solution of the mystery" was not 
altogether satisfactory to Mr. Henry Lowe.





CHAPTER VI.

THE STATION  --  BARNEY BRODHERICK'S PENANCE  --   
MRS. SLATTERY CREATES A SENSATION

	EVERYTHING was so quiet about the house next morning 
that Mr. Lowe quite forgot the station. But on reaching the hall he 
was taken by surprise to find it filled by a crowd of people; and, 
instead of pushing his way to the parlour, he beat a hasty retreat 
back to his bedroom. His attention was arrested by Barney 
Brodherick, who, holding a beads between his fingers, was 
kneeling in the lobby, praying with great energy and volubility. 
Barney sat back upon his heels and muttered his prayers in a 
breathless sort of way, evidently afraid of losing the clue before he 
had got all around the beads. When he did come to the end, it was 
with a rush; and throwing himself forward, with his elbows on the 
floor, he performed some ceremony which Mr. Lowe was quite 
unable to comprehend.
	After this, Barney fell back upon his heels and commenced 
the round of his beads again. Altogether, he had the look of a man 
walking over a river or ravine on a narrow plank, and feeling that 
to pause for an instant, or to swerve to the right or left, was as 
much as his life was worth. The manner in which he hurried on at 
the end and flung himself forward, completed the parallel.
	"In the name o' the Lord, Barney," exclaimed the house 
keeper. "what are you doing there?"
	She stood near Barney, with a silver coffee-pot in her hand, 
and her look of astonishment satisfied Mr. Lowe that Barney's 
proceedings were something out of the common.
	"Salvation saze your sowl  --  God forgive me for cursin'  --   
be off out uv that, and don't set me astray."
	"A nice lad you are," muttered the housekeeper, as she 
walked away, "to be goin' to your duty."
	Richard here made his appearance, looking as if he had not 
slept enough, and Mr. Lowe called his attention to the figure near 
the window. He, however, appeared quite as much puzzled as the 
housekeeper.
	Barney, at this moment, was leaning forward on his left 
and, and seemed be counting something on the floor with his right. 
The effort was evidently too much for him, for, scratching his poll, 
he looked about him in a bewildered way.
	"Mr. Dick," said he, on seeing the doctor, "come here and 
count 'em for me." 
	On coming near enough, the doctor and Mr. Lowe saw a 
pretty long score chalked upon the boards.
	"How many times, Mr. Dick?" Barney asked anxiously. 
Richard stooped down and counted the marks; and when Barney 
was informed of the number, he drew a long breath of relief, and 
got up from his knees, the effort appearing to cost him some pain.
	"Glory be to God", he exclaimed, pressing the knuckles of 
his left hand against his back, as if trying to straighten it, "I have id 
over me."
	"What is it you have over you? "Richard asked, who had 
only seen the last act of the drama.
	"The pinance, sir," replied Barney. "The pinance he put an 
me the last time; an' I'd have no business nixt or near him if I 
wasn't after doin' id."
	And Barney moved away as if a great load had been taken 
off his mind.
	The two young men stood at the window and amused 
themselves by observing the people who loitered about the house. 
Mat the Thrasher stood leaning against a cart, surrounded by a 
group of admirers, among whom were Jim Dunn and Tom Maher. 
But even their admiration evidently fell short of that of Billy 
Heffernan, the musical genius of Knocknagow  --  who dreamt a 
piece of music entitled " Heffernan's Frolic," and played it next 
morning to the wonder and delight of the whole hamlet. For Billy's 
mother ran out to proclaim the joyful news among her neighbours; 
and men, women, and children, came crowding around the inspired 
musician, and requesting him over and over again to play his new 
composition; till Billy, fairly out of breath, put his fife in his 
pocket and asked them all, with an injured look, "did they think he 
had Jack Delany's bellows in his stumack?"  --  Jack Delany being 
the village blacksmith. From which query it may be inferred that 
Billy Heffernan was under the impression that his stomach played 
an important part in the production of sweet sounds.
	Billy Heffernan now took his fife from his pocket, and after 
examining it minutely, handed it to Mat the Thrasher.
	Richard let down the window softly, to try and catch their 
conversation.
	After looking at the instrument, Mat said:
	"I'll reg'late that. I'll put a new ferl on id.'
	He handed back the fife to the owner, who put it to his lips 
and seemed to execute a pantomimic tune  --  for though his 
"flying fingers" played nimbly over the stops, no sound was 
audible. By degrees he breathed more and more strongly into the 
orifice till a lively air began to be fitfully distinguishable even to 
the two young men in the window. Mat the Thrasher commenced 
to "humour" the tune with his head; and after a while, resting his 
hands on the tail-board of the cart, he performed a few steps of a 
complicated character. Billy Heffernan moved a pace or two 
backwards, keeping his eyes fixed on the dancer's feet, evidently 
determined not to lose a single "shuffle." Indeed, the eyes of the 
whole group who had also moved back and formed a ring  --  were 
riveted en the dancer's brilliantly polished shoes. Mat's shoes 
presented a contrast to those of his companions in this respect; for 
while his shone resplendent, theirs were only greased.
	As Billy Heffernan "loud and louder blew," Mat the 
Thrasher's feet "fast and faster flew " and letting go his hold on the 
cart, he gave himself "ample room and verge enough," till even 
Mr. Lowe caught some of the enthusiasm his performance excited.
	"He's a splendid fellow,' he exclaimed, as Mat finished with 
a bound in the air, followed by a low "bow to the music."
	"Take notice of him," said Richard, pointing to a man who 
came from the kitchen door towards the group collected round Mat 
and his musical admirer, picking his steps carefully, and taking 
long strides, as if he were walking upon ice that he feared might 
break under him. He was dressed in  a black frock coat and dark 
trousers, very much the worse for the wear. His well-bleached shirt 
(save that the "bluebag" had been too liberally drawn upon in its 
"making-up"), of which there was an unusually extensive display 
of front and collar, presented a striking contrast to the dinginess of 
the rest of his habiliments. He had come from the house without 
his hat, notwithstanding the coldness of the morning; and carried a 
prayer-book, with his finger between the leaves, in his left hand.
	"I suppose he is the clerk?" said Mr. Lowe.
	"No; that is Phil Lahy, our tailor."
	Why, he is quite an important-looking personage, Yes," he 
continued, turning his head to listen, "he is remonstrating with 
them for their levity."
	"What's the harm in a bit uv divarsion?" said Billy 
Heffernan drawing the tip of his nose, which was very blue, across 
the sleeve of his coat,
	"That's thrue, Billy," Phil observed, gravely, "but there's a 
time for everything. And when a man is goin' to his duty," he 
added, still more impressively, "he ought to turn his mind to id."
	"He's right," said Mat the Thrasher, as he sat down on one 
of the shafts of the cart, resting his chin on his hands, and his 
elbows on his knees, with a penitent look.
	"Mat," said Phil, evidently satisfied with the impression he 
had made, "I'm not neglectin' you. I won't disappoint you. I'll do 
that job before Sunday."
	"Faith, 'twould be time for you."
	"But consider, I had two full shoots to make for Ned 
Brophy and Tom Brien. Ned is to be married as soon as everything 
is settled, an' Tom is goin' to match-make down to the county 
Limerick."
	"An' didn't I tell you I was to be Ned's sidesman?
	"I won't disappoint you."
	And Phil, taking his pipe from his waistcoat-pocket, was in 
the act of catching the wooden stem between his teeth, when his 
hand was caught by Billy Heffernan:
	"Aren't you goin' to resave?" Billy asked with a half 
alarmed, half reproachful look.
	"Yes, Billy; but I have liberty to take a blast on account of 
my constitution."
	And there was something quite pathetic in Phil's look as he 
pressed the spring of a small iron tobacco-box, in which an ounce 
of "Lomasny's" was tightly rolled up.
	"Give me a light, Mat," said he, after filling his pipe, with 
the air of a man about performing a solemn act of duty.
	Mat produced his flint and steel, and, lighting a bit of 
touch-paper, laid it with his own hand on Phil Lahy's pipe, while 
Phil commenced to "draw" with such vigour that his first "shough" 
frightened the sparrows from the fresh straw spread over the yard, 
as if a shot had been fired at them, and the sight and the fragrance 
of the blue tobacco smoke, as it curled in the frosty morning air, 
made more than one mouth water in the crowd that loitered about 
the yard awaiting the arrival of the priests. It may be necessary to 
inform some readers that a "shough o' the pipe," without special 
leave from the priest, is considered a violation of the rule "to be 
fasting from midnight" before Communion.
	When the two curates rode into the yard by the back 
entrance, Phil Lahy, evidently vain of his privilege, puffed away 
ostentatiously  --  which impressed upon the beholders an idea of 
Phil's importance, that all but placed him on a level with the priests 
themselves.
	Father Hannigan was the first to dismount. He was a tall 
man, in the prime of life, and the frieze riding-coat, flung loosely 
over his broad shoulders, set off his manly figure to the best 
advantage, and gave him a homely, warm, Irish look altogether. 
The other curate, Father O'Neill was a very young man, with an air 
of refinement suggestive of drawing-rooms rather than of Irish 
cabins and farm-houses. They were met by the "man of the house" 
before they reached the kitchen door, and as he gave a hand to 
each, Father Hannigan's hearty "Good-morrow, Maurice," struck 
Mr. Lowe as being admirably in keeping with his appearance. And 
the words  --  "The top of the morning to you, Miss Grace," 
suggested the idea that Father Hannigan affected the phraseology 
of the peasantry.
	"There is Father M'Mahon," said Richard, as a car passed 
the gate.
	"Is he not to be here?
	"Yes; but he is going round to the front gate. Come into the 
room, and you will See him arrive."
	The first thing that struck Mr. Lowe was that Father 
M'Mahon's servant was in livery, and that his horse and car were a 
decidedly handsome turn-out. When he leaped lightly from the car 
and walked towards the hall-door, with his shoulders thrown back, 
and his head raised and slightly leaning to one side, Mr. Lowe was 
not surprised that people said Father M'Mahon had a "proud walk."
	Barney Brodherick hurried to the car, and was taking the 
priest's cloak, which he had let drop from his shoulders upon 
alighting, to hang it up in the hall; but the servant snatched it from 
him. He was rushing headlong to resent the affront, when the 
return of the priest, who had left his breviary on the seat of the car, 
prevented hostilities. Barney shook his fist at the man in livery, 
from behind his master's back; but without deigning to notice the 
challenge, that important functionary led the horse to the car-house 
and commenced unharnessing him.
	The priest, without exchanging a word with any one, 
walked into the drawing-room. After saying a short prayer, he put 
on his stole and sat down in the arm-chair which was placed near 
the fire.
	The "man of the house" was already on his knees beside the 
chair, and at once commenced his confession.
	The door was now surrounded by a closely-packed crowd, 
who went in one by one, in their turn, to be "heard "  --   finding it 
no easy matter to push their way out again.
	An almost equally large and quite as eager a throng stood 
round the parlour door at the opposite side of the hall where Father 
O'Neill sat.
	Father Hannigan, by his own choice, remained in the 
kitchen, which was filled by his penitents  --  principally women  --  
who, in spite of his loud remonstrances, would crush and tumble 
almost up against his knees. He had repeatedly to stand up and 
push them off by main force; and was at last obliged to fence 
himself in with two chairs and a form.
	"If ye come apast that," said he, excitedly, "except in your 
turn, 'twill be worse for ye."
	Things got on pretty smoothly after this, save for a 
suppressed scuffle now and again when two equally resolute 
dames happened to meet in the front rank, and disputed the 
question of precedence with an energy only second to that which 
they threw into the "Hail Mary" or "Holy Mary" that accompanied 
every shove and jostle. One of those who had been several times 
pushed back at the very moment when victory seemed certain, lost 
all patience, and resolved to gain her point by stratagem. She 
walked along a form and stepped from one to another of two or 
three chairs ranged along the wall, with a dogged sort of 
determination to conquer or die. She was in the act of climbing 
over a high-backed settle behind the priest, when she missed her 
footing and fell backwards, bringing down with her a dish-cover 
and several other utensils with a tremendous crash and clatter. So 
great was the noise that Richard and Mr. Lowe hastened to the 
scene to see what could have happened.
	Father Hannigan jumped to his feet as if he thought the 
house was falling about his ears, and looked all around him, but 
could see nothing to account for the clatter. At last he looked 
behind the settle, which was a few feet out from the wall, and there 
beheld the too eager devotee on her back, with one foot caught in 
something that held it high in the air. Father Hannigan released the 
foot, and, as he did so, shaking his head and compressing his lips, 
muttered a proverb in the Irish language, the best translation of 
which we are able to give being  --  "A woman would beat a pig, 
and a pig would beat a fair."
	"Get up now," he continued, seeing her show no symptom 
of changing her position. "Sure you're not hurt?" he asked, 
reaching her his hand.
	The poor woman suffered herself to be raised up.
	"Are you hurt?" he repeated.
	She seemed to think it necessary to weigh the question well 
before replying to it. So long did she continue to ponder over it that 
Father Hannigan asked again, with some concern:
	"In the name of God, Mrs. Slattery, is there anything the 
matter with you?"
	Mrs. Slattery looked all around her, as if expecting that 
some one would come forward to set her mind at rest.
	"What in the world ails the woman?" exclaimed the priest.
	Mrs. Slattery looked into his face anxiously, and after 
another long pause, spoke:
	"I wonder am I killed?" said Mrs. Slattery.
	"Wisha, there's great fear of you," replied Father Hannigan. 
"And now go and say your prayers and take the world aisy like a 
Christian. Sure I'll be able to hear ye all before I go, and what more 
do ye want? There's a strange gentleman from England looking at 
ye; and what will he say of the Island of Saints when he goes back, 
if this is the way ye behave yourselves. Look at the men, how quiet 
and dacent they are. Can't you take pattern by the men? But 'tis 
always the way with the women," exclaimed Father Hannigan, 
with a gesture of both hands, "to run headlong; and never look 
before 'em."
	After this there was comparative order among Father 
Hannigan's penitents. But poor Mrs. Slattery made her way slowly 
to the hall, looking as if she were still quite unable to settle the 
question whether she was "killed" or not.



CHAPTER VII.

NORAH LAHY,  --  THE OLD LINNET'S SONG.


Richard's proposal to take a stroll to an old castle within about a 
mile of the house was readily agreed to by Mr. Lowe; and, as they 
passed through Knocknagow, the latter had a good opportunity of 
seeing for himself what an Irish hamlet looked like. Though most 
of the houses looked comfortless enough, and the place as a whole 
had the straggling appearance which he was accustomed to 
associate with an Irish village, there was none of that unredeemed 
squalor and wretchedness which certain writers had led him to 
expect. With one or two exceptions every house had at least two 
windows. Several had each a small out-house, and the little cart or 
"car," with a high creel in it, indicated that the owner was the 
proprietor of a donkey.
	Mat the Thrasher's habitation, with its whitewashed walls 
and elegantly thatched roof, was particularly noticeable. Mr. Lowe 
remarked also the little ornamental wooden gate, the work of Mat's 
own hands, that led to the kitchen-garden  --   invariably called the 
"haggart" in this part of the world  --   which was fenced all round 
by a thick thorn hedge, with a little privet and holly intermixed 
here and there. There were two or three small farm-houses, the 
owners of which held from ten to twenty acres each. Two pipes 
"across" a pound of soap, with a button of blue stuck to it, and a 
very yellow halfpenny candle in the windows  --  if we may 
dignify them with the name  --  of four or five poor cabins, showed 
that there was brisk competition in the shop-keeping line in 
Knocknagow.
	The title of "shop," however, was exclusively given to the 
establishment of Phil Lahy  --  or rather of Honor his wife  --  who 
occupied an old slated house with pointed gables and very thick 
chimneys, which had seen better days, and which tradition said had 
been an inn in the reign of Queen Anne. But a later tradition had 
fixed the name of "the barrack" on Phil Lahy's house, greatly to his 
annoyance. In spite of all he could say or do however, his 
neighbours persisted in calling his house "the barrack."
	The absence of the human face divine was easily accounted 
for, so far as the adults were concerned, seeing that they were all at 
the Station. But the fact that there was not one of the rising 
generation visible began to excite the surprise of the two young 
men as they sauntered leisurely through what seemed literally a 
deserted village, till a loud shout called their attention to a pretty 
considerable crowd in a deep quarry, near a limekiln, by the 
roadside  --  the attraction which the quarry possessed for the 
urchins on this occasion being a frozen sheet of water.
	The shout brought a curly-headed boy in corduroy jacket 
and trousers to Honor Lahy's shop-door. He looked wistfully 
towards the sliders, as if sorely tempted to join them,, when a very 
weak but singularly sweet voice called to him from inside: "Ah, 
Tommy, don't go."
	I'm not goin' to go," he replied. "I'm on'y goin' to look at 
my crib." 
	Mr. Lowe and Richard, as if moved by the same impulse, 
walked into the house. Sitting in a straw arm-chair, near the 
kitchen fire, was a young girl, whose back was towards them. Herr 
wasted hand, which was laid on the head of a large, rough terrier 
that sat near her, with its head, or rather, its throat resting on her 
knees, at once attracted Mr. Lowe's attention. She did not seem to 
be aware of their presence. The dog, however, watched them with 
no friendly eye; but, as if spellbound by the wasted hand on his 
head, he remained quite motionless save that his eyes alternately 
glared on the intruders and looked wistfully in her face.
	"Tommy," said she, "like a good boy, will you hold the 
prayer-book again, till I finish the Preparation for Confession? I 
won't be long."
	Richard placed his finger on his lips, and beckoned to the 
boy to do as she desired. The prayer-book was on her knees, but 
she had not sufficient strength to hold it up. The boy knelt down, 
and held the book open before her, so that she could read it. His 
fresh, round, rosy face and laughing blue eyes contrasted strikingly 
with her death-like paleness, and the deep melancholy of her eyes, 
which were almost black. She raised her emaciated hand slowly 
and painfully, as if the action were almost beyond her strength, and 
made the sign of the Cross. Then, with her hands clasped, and 
resting on her knees, she raised her eyes for a moment, as if 
offering up a short mental prayer, and commenced to read from the 
book which her brother held for her.
	The scene was so touching that the two young men stole 
softly from the house, neither of them uttering a word till they 
reached the old castle.
	"I suppose that poor girl cannot live long," said Mr. Lowe. 
"I never saw a human face so wasted away. It will haunt me, I fear, 
for some time. There is something unearthly in her eyes  --  and did 
you remark the long eyelashes, how they contrasted with the pale 
cheeks? I suppose she is dying of consumption?
	"I can't quite understand her case," replied Richard, with an 
air of professional importance; "it is rather peculiar. She has not 
had the use of her limbs for several years back. I think it is the 
spine, though Kiely says not."
	The view from the top of the old castle was very fine, 
though the breeze was too keen to allow of their dwelling for any 
length of time upon its beauties. Richard, how ever, remained so 
resolutely gazing in one direction, though the wind was directly in 
his face, that his companion suspected there was some object of 
peculiar interest in that quarter.
	"That is a pretty house on the side of the hill," he remarked.
	"Yes, the white house in the trees," said Richard, turning 
his eyes in quite a different direction.
	"No, I mean the house on the hill near that square grove. 
Who lives there?"
	"A Mr. Hanly."
	"I thought so. And have we any chance of getting a glimpse 
of the beauty?
	Richard stared at him with surprise.
	"You forget," said Mr. Lowe, laughing, "that you promised 
that night to show me where she lived. I dare say the wall  near the 
paling at the end of the grove is the scene of your misadventure?"
	 The doctor began pulling his moustache, and put on a 
grave, not to say a frowning look. He was trying to recall what he 
had said on the subject the night before, but apparently without 
success,
	"Yes," he replied, quite seriously, as if he considered it no 
subject for jest, "that is the place where the accident occurred. Miss 
Hanly is a highly respectable and very superior young lady. 
However," he added, fixing another lingering, look on the house 
near the grove, "this would be too early an hour to call. And, 
besides, we must be back before breakfast," He looked at his 
watch, and finding there was no time to be lost, they walked 
briskly back towards Ballinaclash.
	As they passed through the village, Tommy Lahy was in 
the act of climbing up a rather tall beech tree that stood in  front of 
the old house, the lower part of its trunk protected by a piece of 
mason-work which looked like a foot or two of a thick round gate 
pier. Tommy's laughing face looked down at them over his 
shoulder, as he mounted higher and higher, with the ease and 
regularity of a swimmer. But after reaching the topmost bough, he 
came tumbling down  with such breakneck precipitation that Mr. 
Lowe started, under the impression that he had missed his hold and 
was  grasping at the branches to save himself from being dashed to 
pieces. This view of the case was at once proved to be erroneous, 
when Tommy reached the smooth part of the tree, and slid down to 
the low pedestal, which he touched as lightly as a bird. Without a 
moment's pause he ran up the hill and into Mat the Thrasher's 
garden, where the thick hedge concealed him from view.
	"What the devil is he up to?" said Richard.
	"I can't imagine," replied Mr. Lowe, "let us hurry up and 
see."
	On looking over the hedge they saw Tommy standing in the 
middle of the cabbage plot, scratching his poll with a look of 
vexation and disappointment. He knelt for a moment among the 
cabbages, and stood up with a bird in his hand which he eyed with 
no friendly expression.
	"What is it? " Richard asked.
	Tommy looked up, surprised at finding himself observed, 
but immediately answered
	"A robineen, sir." And Tommy deliberately pulled the tail 
out of the robin, and then let it fly away. It perched on the square 
chimney of Mat the Thrasher's house  --  looking decidedly 
woebegone without its tail.
	"Why have you pulled out the bird's tail?" Mr. Lowe asked.
	"What made he knock my crib?" replied Tommy. I'd have a 
blackbird only for him."
	Richard explained to his companion that the robin was the 
plague of boys who had cribs set to catch birds, as he was 
perpetually getting himself caught, thereby making it necessary to 
"set" the crib again. And, as taking the life of cock-robin was a 
crime from which even the wickedest urchin would shrink aghast, 
pulling out his tail, which was looked upon as a legitimate mode of 
punishment, was the only revenge they could have for all the 
trouble and loss he put them to.
	"Did you catch much to-day, Tommy? " Richard asked.
	"No, sir; only two wran-boys an' an aeneen."
	"What have you your trap baited with?" Mr. Lowe 
inquired.
	Tommy opened his eyes wide, evidently not understanding 
the question.
	"He means," said Richard, "what have you under the crib to 
tempt the birds to go into it?
	"A bit of a biled pueata, sir," Tommy answered readily.
	an' a shillig-a-booka, and a few skhehoshies."
	Richard explained that the "biled pueata" meant a boiled 
potato, the shillig-a-booka a snail in its shell, and the skhehoshies 
the scarlet hips of the wild briar. While he was speaking, a 
blackbird flew across the garden and into the holly at the other 
side; and Tommy knelt down to put the crib in order for his 
capture. But as he turned away to leave the coast clear for the 
blackbird, his countenance fell, for on looking at his brogues, 
which felt even heavier than usual, he saw the red clay clinging to 
them. And this fatal symptom of the awful calamity of a thaw 
caused poor Tommy Lahy's heart to die within him.
	Remembering his promise, however, that he would not 
leave his sister till his mother returned from the Station, be hurried 
back towards home, merely stopping to climb to the top of Tom 
Hogan's gate, and take a look down into the quarry. The boys 
shouted and waved their hats at him, but Tommy felt no way 
shaken in his resolution not to join them till his mother came 
home. But the sight of Jacky Ryan gliding over the frozen pond on 
one leg was so frightful a temptation, that it was only by instantly 
shutting his eyes and flinging himself down from the gate that he 
was able to resist it. He rejoined his sister in high spirits. So proud 
was he, indeed, of the victory he had just gained, that even the 
apprehended misery of finding the frost all gone next morning was 
forgotten.
	"Mind," said he to his sister, "'twas settin' my crib I was."
	She smiled, and turned her large, sorrowful eyes towards 
him, but without turning her head, which rested against the back of 
her straw chair.
	"What did you ketch, Tommy?" she asked in her sweet, low 
voice.
	A robineen," he replied, "bad  --  ." He was going to say, 
"bad luck to him," but checked himself.
	"Did you pull the tail out of him?"
	"I  --  I  --  did." He was on the point of saying he did not; 
but, like the rough terrier, which was now coiled up at her feet, 
Tommy seemed under a spell in her presence. He could not curse 
or tell a lie while speaking to her. Wickedness of every kind 
seemed doubly wicked when Norah was by.
	"Ah! Tommy," said she, "I told you never to do that again. 
It is not so bad to kill the poor blackbirds, as we can roast 'em an' 
ate 'em; but to wantonly hurt any living creature  --  above all, the, 
poor little robin that hops into the house to us, an' that everybody 
loves."
	"That was the third turn wud him knockin' id to-day," said 
Tommy, almost beginning to blubber, for her reproaches affected 
him as nothing else could. "An' sure, what harm did it do him? 
On'y like Wat Corcoran, when the b'ys cut the tail off uv his 
bodycoat."
	This logic, and the recollection of Wat Corcoran's figure on 
the occasion referred to made the poor girl laugh; and Tommy felt 
that his peace was made. We should mention that Wat Corcoran 
was a bailiff who had received some rough handling in the 
neighbourhood a short time before.
	Tommy sat on a stool near the fire, to all appearances on 
excellent terms with himself. He had acquitted himself to his own 
entire satisfaction during the morning. The task of "having an eye 
to the shop" was almost a sinecure, as the customers were nearly 
all at the Station. So he took the tongs in his two hands and built up 
the turf fire till it blazed pleasantly.
	The twitter of a bird made him turn round and fix his merry 
eyes on a cage that hung near the window.
	"Norah," said he, " I think the goldfinch will shortly be 
tame enough for Miss Ellie. He's beginnin' to sing already."
	"That was the old linnet," she said.
	"No, 'twasn't," he replied positively. "Do you think I don't 
know the call of a linnet from a goldfinch? An' look out at the tree  
--  the lower branch at the right-hand side  --  an' you'll see what 
made him call. Don't lean your head that way. Wait, an' I'll turn the 
chair."
	He turned her chair round till she faced the window. Then 
with his chin resting on the hack of the chair, and his rosy cheek 
leaning against her dark hair, he pointed to two birds in the tree.
	"Do you see their yellow wings? "he exclaimed, gleefully, 
as the birds fluttered among the branches.
	"Oh, they're beautiful!" she replied, her dark eyes beaming 
with pleasure.
	"I could ketch them two, now, if I liked," said Tommy, 
"wud black buttons. But I won't, as I don't want 'em. But I'll bring 
the wan I have to Miss Ellie to-day or to-morrow. She sent for seed 
for him o' Saturday. But Wattletoes brought all hemp seed instead 
of having it mixed  --  half canary seed  --  as I tould him. Miss 
Grace said 'twas a sign he'd be hanged."
	"What sort of a girl is Miss Grace, Tommy? Is she as nice 
as Miss Ellie?
	"She'll never see the day," said Tommy, with emphasis. 
"She's as proud as a peacock," he continued. "'Who is that boy? Do 
you speak to such boys?'" And Tommy mimicked Grace's manner, 
and conveyed his opinion of that proud little lady by a very 
expressive toss of his curly head.
	"And what did Miss Ellie say?"
	"She said I was Tommy Lahy, an' why wouldn't she speak 
to me."
	"I think, Tommy, poor Dick wants water. Look, he'll choke 
himself trying to put his bill down to the bottom of the gallipot. 
You're not taking care of him since you got the goldfinch for Miss 
Ellie."
	Tommy immediately got upon a chair and filled the 
gallipot.
	"And now, Tommy, put a couple of sods behind the fire, 
and run to the well for a kettle of fresh water, and put it down to 
boil, as mother will soon be home."
	Tommy seized the kettle, and after whistling in a peculiar 
manner to his birds, with his underlip bulged out by his tongue, he 
trotted off to the well in the "rushy field" near the bridge. But 
stopping suddenly at the beech-tree he laid down the kettle and 
climbed sufficiently high to look at his crib in Mat the Thrasher's 
garden. The crib, however, was standing; so he slid down as slowly 
as he possibly could with his eyes shut  --  after the manner of boys 
when left "to die" on a swing-swong  --  and then, suddenly 
regaining his wonted vigour on touching mother earth, he caught 
up the kettle, and set off for the well in "buck-jumps."
	Norah Lahy watched the linnet as it sipped its water.
	"Ah, poor old Dick," said she, "you must not be forgotten 
for that gay young gentleman. When will he be able to sing like 
you, I'd like to know? As grand as he is with his golden wings, and 
his crimson-velvet head, and his pretty, sharp bill, I would not give 
one of your songs, poor old fellow, for all his grandeur."
	The linnet, as if he understood her praises, regained his 
perch with a single hop, and lying down upon his breast, ruffled 
out his feathers. Then, with his eyes closed, the old linnet poured 
forth a low, sweet, wondrously varied song. She listened till her 
bosom began to heave, and something which we cannot call a 
blush glowed on her cheek. And seldom has human heart thrilled 
with more exquisite pleasure than that which the song of the linnet 
awakened in the heart of Norah Lahy, as she sat there alone in her 
straw chair; though she felt and believed that God had willed she 
should never rise unassisted from that chair  --   never again join 
her young companions in their rambles by the hedge-rows and 
through the green fields, and along by the bank of the clear, noisy 
little brook, to gather the wild flowers, and listen to the lark high 
up in the sky, and the "bold thrush" on the tree-top, and the 
blackbird's whistle from the thicket, and, welcomest of all, the 
shout of the cuckoo, proclaiming that summer was come!
	Never again!
	And yet, as she listened there, alone, to the linnet's song, 
her whole being, every faculty of her soul, was a hymn of praise 
and gratitude to God for His boundless goodness.



CHAPTER VIII.

HONOR LAHY'S GOOD LUCK.

THE kettle was just beginning to join its song to the song of the 
old linnet when Mrs. Lahy  --  or Honor Lahy, as she was more 
generally called by her neighbours  --  returned from the Station. 
She was a comfortable-looking dame, enveloped in a blue cloth 
cloak, with the hood drawn over her head, and her hands encased 
in grey worsted mittens.
	During the greater part of her life, Honor Lahy had found it 
hard enough to make both ends meet. For honest Phil used to "take 
a drop," and his earnings seldom did more than clear off the 
weekly score at the public-house. His customers dropped off one 
by one, the few who remained faithful to him having often to keep 
their purchases for weeks and even months till they could catch 
him in their own houses; and then Phil Lahy and his goose and lap-
board were jealously guarded till the "new shoots" were finished 
off, when the artist was set at liberty, looking fat and healthy after 
a week or two of good fare and enforced sobriety. His wife eked 
out the necessaries of life by rearing poultry and fattening a pig; 
the pig going the way of most Irish pigs  --  to the landlord. In spite 
of all her exertions, however, she grew poorer and poorer, till at 
last she and her husband returned one fine evening from the fair of 
Ballymullin, and all the neighbours remarked that, instead of the 
"slip" which, as usual, they expected to see trotting before them, 
and which was sure to be a good one  --  for Phil Lahy was 
acknowledged to be "the best judge of a pig" in the county  --  Phil 
on this May evening carried a "bonneen" under his arm.
	When the next gale day came round  --  'twas an 
"admiration" how fast and sure gale days did come round in 
Knocknagow  --  "Berky," in spite of the care lavished on her  --   
including scratching her sides during meal times, to keep her in 
good humour  --  was little better than a "slip"; and poor Honor 
looked into her sick child's face with a heart almost breaking.
	One fine morning, however, Barney Brodherick tumbled 
himself out of the little blue donkey cart in which he made his 
daily journeys to town, and announced to Honor the startling piece 
of news that there was an American letter for her at the post-office.
	Honor flung her old cloak on her head, and set off to town 
in a very excited state of mind, a proceeding which caused every 
soul of a pretty numerous female crowd, who were "bittling" in the 
little stream, to "wonder" where she was going. There was a 
feeling of anxiety among the younger girls lest it might be that 
Norah had got suddenly worse. and that her mother was hastening 
for the priest or the doctor. But a girl standing on the bridge, with a 
child in her arms, removed their anxiety on this point by assuring 
hem that she could see Norah from where she stood, sitting in her 
straw chair under the beech tree, reading a book with "Friskey" on 
his haunches  --  "grug" was the word she used   --  on the "bench," 
snapping at the flies.
	When Honor came back from the post-office she passed 
Norah without uttering a word. She took off her cloak and hung it 
on its own proper peg, and sat upon a chair, for she was rather out 
of breath, and waited patiently and in silence till her husband had 
dismissed a boy who was looking into the tailor's face, and 
evidently awaiting an answer of some kind to a message which he 
had just delivered with a pair of trousers, which, as Phil held them 
up to the light, seemed very suitable to drape the limbs of a 
scarecrow.
	"Who sent this?" Phil asked, holding up the garment with 
both hands.
	"Mr. Andrews, sir."
	"Well, tell him," said Phil, in a tone of the blandest 
politeness  --  "tell him I don't mend. I only make and repair."
	The boy tucked the dilapidated garment under his arm and 
disappeared.
	Mrs. Lahy took the letter from her bosom, and let the hand 
which held it drop down by her side, looking into Phil's face as if 
she suspected he knew all about it, and was playing off some trick 
upon her.
	"Read it," she said at last calmly, and sat down again after 
handing him the letter.
	Phil put on his spectacles, and studied the superscription 
and the post-marks with great deliberation, a proceeding which 
Honor seemed to consider quite necessary, for when she saw him 
baffled by a blotted post-mark, she stood up and pulled aside the 
little window-curtain to give him more light.
	"'Twas posted in Boston, United States," said Phil, "on 
either the first or fourth of September, eighteen hundred and   --  "
	"Maybe, wud the help uv God, 'tis from Larry," said she, 
leaning affectionately on Phil's shoulder. "Open it, Phil, in the 
name uv God."
	Phil did so, and holding back his head, read: "My dear 
sister   --  "
	"'Tis Larry," she exclaimed, giving Phil a shake that made 
him request she would "be easy."
	"Thanks be to God! 'Tis Larry. He's alive. What did I tell 
you? Eh, Phil?"
	And she gave him another shake, which had the effect, of 
making Phil deliberately push back his chair and lean against the 
wail, thereby preventing further assaults from behind. He glanced 
at the end of the letter, and said after a pause:
	"'Tis from Larry."
	But on separating the leaves of the large sheet of letter-
paper a slip fell from between them on his knees.
	"There's ten pounds in id," said Phil, looking at the writing 
on the slip.
	"Arra whist, Phil! Where is id?"
	"Take this to the bank to-morrow, an' you'll get ten goold 
sovereigns for id."
	Honor fixed her eyes upon his face, as if his words were 
quite beyond her comprehension.
	"Phil achorra," said she, in a reproachful tone, and trying to 
recover her breath, "Phil, achorra, read the letter."
	She drew a low stool towards her, and gently pushing the 
dog from between Phil's legs, sat down in front of him with her 
hand under her chin. Phil read the letter in a steady monotonous 
tone, stopping occasionally to comment upon its contents, and 
leaving off altogether at one place, and fixing his eyes on the 
opposite wall, as if he were addressing a rather numerous audience, 
delivered an interesting lecture on the rapid growth of American 
cities; dwelling particularly on the fact that the man was still alive 
when the book from which be had his information was printed, 
who sold the ground upon which the city of Cincinnati was built 
for a "pony-horse"  --  greatly to the edification of his wife, who 
had a profound respect for his erudition.
	"Put that in your hussif," said Phil, handing her the cheque.
	She did so; and set about preparing Norah's boiled bread 
and milk without speaking a word.
	"Are you goin' to get that cheque cashed?" Phil asked next 
morning after breakfast, as he unfolded a newspaper the 
schoolmaster had just given him on his way to school.
	"Arra whist, Phil," was her only reply. 
	"Don't be makin' an oonshugh uv yourself," said Phil. "Go 
get yourself ready, and as soon as I finish this speech uv the 
counsellor's I'll go with you."
	During the afternoon of that day Mat the Thrasher observed 
Honor and Phil from the roof of Tom Hogan's barn, which he was 
thatching, slowly wending their way up the hill towards the hamlet. 
When they came opposite the first house Honor went in, and Phil 
slackened his pace to wait for her. There was nothing extraordinary 
in this, and Mat proceeded with his work. But when he saw the 
same thing occur at every house they passed, his curiosity was 
excited; and instead of looking over his shoulder, he turned round 
and sat upon the ladder to observe them more conveniently. He 
now saw that Honor, both on entering and leaving each house, held 
out her hand as if she were begging for alms. By the time she 
reached Tom Hogan's there was quite a crowd at her heels, the 
looks of most of whom expressed wonder and delight; but Mat did 
not fail to notice a dark scowl of envy in the faces of a few  --  
which only showed, how ever, that human nature in Knocknagow 
was like human nature all the world over. Mat came down from the 
roof of the house to see what it was all about.
	"Wisha, more uv that to you, Honor; an' didn't I always tell 
you the luck'd come when you laste expected id." exclaimed Tom 
Hogan's wife, as she followed Honor outside the door, with the 
stirabout stick smoking in her hand.
	And now Mat's own face assumed the look of astonishment 
which it so puzzled him to account for in the faces of those around 
him. For spread over the palm of Honor Lahy's extended hand he 
beheld ten bright gold sovereigns shining in the sun.
	Honor and Phil spent nearly the whole of that night 
discussing the important question of how their capital might be 
invested to the greatest advantage. Phil was divided between the 
purchase of a "new-milk's cow" and turning corn merchant.
	"As you won't agree to the cow," said Phil, "what do you 
think of buying oats? The loft 'd be very handy, by gettin' the holes 
mended. I always thought it a pity to see such 'a loft goin' astray. 
An' since the new school-house was built 'twasn't worth a penny to 
us  --  except the five shillings from the dancing-master, an' 
whatever trifle Biddy Murphy gave you for her benefit party."
	But Honor had her own plan, and was resolved upon 
following it.
	I'll talk to Mat Donovan to-morrow," said she, "an' he'll tell 
me what things'll be wanted to fit the place up properly."
	So Mat was consulted; and the second next day after, 
Wattletoes stopped his little blue cart at Phil Lahy's door again; but 
this time Phil was called out to assist in carrying in several inch 
and half-inch deal-boards. Tom Carey, the carpenter, was 
employed inside the house during the remainder of the week. And 
on a certain memorable Tuesday morning a straw basket heaped up 
with meal, with a bright tin measure on the top of the heap, was 
seen in the window of Phil Lahy's old house; a stand of the finest 
salt herrings that eye ever beheld  --  to judge from the three that 
glistened on the segment of the top of the barrel that was left  --  
stood outside the door; and Honor Lahy stood behind her new 
counter, upon which was laid a huge square of salt as white as her 
cap.
	From that day forward the world went well with Honor 
Lahy:  --  so well, indeed, that dark hints were thrown out by some 
people that the ten sovereigns were part of the contents of a 
"crock" found under the hearthstone in the "barrack," at the left-
hand side of the fire. There were no fewer than five living 
witnesses  --  but four of them happened to be in America  --  who 
could bear testimony to an important circumstance in connection 
with the story of the crock. The circumstance referred to was this: -
-  Three years before  --   the year of the big snow, in fact  --  Phil 
Lahy, while removing a projection of the hob, that encroached too 
far upon the fireplace, found a bad halfpenny all encrusted with 
mortar, which was so hard that Phil altogether failed to remove it 
from the coin by the application of his thumb. But when it was 
recollected that Phil himself had told his neighbours that the 
halfpenny was one of James the Second's  --  the truth of the story 
of the crock of gold was considered beyond all reasonable doubt.



CHAPTER IX.

BILLY HEFFERNAN AND HIS FLUTE.


HONOR LAHY, however, went on prospering; and on this fine 
frosty morning, after returning from the Station at Maurice 
Kearney's, we find her a perfect picture of comfort, good health, 
and good humour.
	"How is Norah? How is ma lanna machree? she asked, 
stooping down and looking into Norah's pale face.
	"Finely, mother," she replied, with a languid smile. "Will 
the priest come?
	"He will  --  Father M'Mahon himself, God bless him! He 
was goin' over to Boherbeg to answer a call, but the minute I tould 
him you wanted to go to confession to himself, he said he'd send 
Father O'Neill to answer the call."
	She pulled off her worsted mittens, and throwing back the 
hood of her cloak, thereby displaying a snow-white cap, a little 
crushed and crumpled by the weight of the hood, with a gorgeous 
broad ribbon as a band over the crown of her head and tied in a 
bow-knot under her chin, she sat on a low stool in front of Norah.
	"Give a guess what I have for you," she said, taking one of 
Norah's wasted hands between her own.
	"I don't know, mother."
	"Somethin' Miss Mary sent you for a Christmas-box."
	She put her hand into her ample pocket and took out a pair 
of handsome embroidered slippers.
	Norah's large eyes expressed the utmost surprise; for such a 
pair of slippers she had never seen before.
	Her mother slipped the wasted hand into one of them.
	"Isn't id cosy an' warm?" she asked, looking fondly in 
Norah's face, "lined with beautiful fur."
	She ran to the fire and held the slippers close to the blaze   -
-  which was purely a matter of form, for, even if they required 
warming, she allowed no time for the least heat to be imparted to 
them.
	Gently removing Norah's shoes, she put on the embroidered 
slippers, and looked up with a smile of delight. But the smile 
quickly vanished, giving place to a look of amazement and alarm. 
Norah's lips trembled and the tears gushed from her eyes.
	Surprise kept the poor woman passive for a moment; but 
recovering herself, she put her arm round her daughter's shoulder.
	"What is id, Norah? "she asked. "What ails my darlin'?" 
But it was after a long struggle Norah was able to answer. "Oh, 
mother," said she, "she is too good."
	And, pressing her face against her mother's breast, she 
sobbed so violently that the poor woman became quite alarmed.
	Phil Lahy hastened in from the shop door; where he had 
stopped to repeat his promise to Mat Donovan that he would not 
"disappoint him."
	"What ails her? " he asked.
	"Oh, wisha, what but she's so thankful to Miss Mary for the 
slippers," Honor replied. "I don't know what in the world to do 
wud her."
	"Have sense, Norah, have sense," said her father, gently. 
She recovered herself by an effort, and resumed her usual position 
with her head leaning against the back of her chair.
	"'Twill do me good, mother," said she.
	"Maybe so, wud the help uv God. An' Miss Mary tould me 
Doctor Kiely'll be out next week, an' she'll bring him over to see 
you; an' who knows, wud the blessin' uv God but he might be able 
to do somethin' for you. An' now," she continued, resuming her 
usual cheerful manner, "I'll go and get the breakfast ready. Sit 
down on that chair, Phil, an' talk to her, an' tell hey all Father 
Hannigan said; and 'tis he's the dhroll Father Hannigan. He'd have 
you laughin' wan minit an' cryin' the next. I wish we had Billy 
Heffernan to play a tune for her. That's what'd rise her heart. An', 
be all the goats in Kerry, but here he is himself. Sit down there in 
the corner, Billy, an' play a tune for Norah. She was so lonesome 
all the mornin', wud no wan but Tommy and Friskey to keep her 
company, a tune'll do her all the good in the world."
	Billy sat down on a bench near the window under the 
linnet's cage, and taking the joints of an old flute from his pocket, 
commenced screwing them together, without uttering a word. 
Norah preferred "the soft complaining flute" to the "ear-piercing 
fife," and because she did, Billy Heffernan  --  though he never 
said so  --  invested the proceeds of a load of turf in the purchase of 
this one, and patched up his old brogues to make them last another 
winter; to which last mentioned circumstance an occasional hiatus 
in his performance on this occasion  --  caused by a hurried 
application of the coat cuff to the nose  --  is, we think, to be 
attributed.
	"Billy, a chora," Mrs. Lahy exclaimed, remonstratively, 
laying down her cup without tasting it  --  for she and Phil were 
now at breakfast  --  " Billy, a chora, stop that. Her heart is too full 
to-day, for thim grievous ould airs. Play 'I buried my wife an' 
danced o' top uv her'  --  or somethin' lively."
	The musician took the hint, and delighted his audience with 
a succession of jigs and planxties that might "cure a paralytic."
	So captivated were they all that Father M'Mahon was 
actually standing with folded arms behind Norah's chair before any 
one was aware of his presence. A sudden break-off in the middle 
of a bar of "Paudheen O'Rafferty," and a sheepish dropping of the 
musician's under-jaw made Phil and Honor look around.
	Father M'Mahon at once relieved them from their evident 
embarrassment, by saying in a kindly way:
	"So, Billy, you are playing for Norah. That's right; that's 
right. I hope she'll soon be able to come to Mass and hear the 
organ." And he laid his hand softly on her head. She trembled as he 
did so, and in order to set her at ease he sat down on the chair 
which Honor carefully wiped with her apron, and said:
	"Come, Billy; 'Paudheen O'Rafferty' is a favourite of mine, 
so go on with it."
	Billy Heffernan, turning his head towards the wall, gave his 
troublesome nose a vigorous tweak, and obeyed.
	"Thank you, Billy. Thank you. Very good, indeed," said the 
priest.
	And with a gratified, though by no means cheerful, smile, 
and another assault upon his troublesome nose, Billy Heffernan left 
the house as silently as he entered it.
	"And now, Phil," said Father M'Mahon, "I want to have a 
serious word or two. with you. After the promise you made me I 
was exceedingly sorry to hear that you were under the influence of 
drink on Thursday at the fair."
	"An' you were tould I was under the influence of drink at 
the fair."
	"Yes."
	"An' would it be any harm to ax who tould you?"
	"Oh, I am not bound to give you my authority. But it was a 
person on whose word I can rely."
	"An' a person on whose word you can rely tould you that 
Phil Lahy was at the fair on Thursday  --  and that Phil Lahy was 
drunk? 
	"Yes," said the priest, for Phil paused for a reply.
	"An' now, will you tell me, did that person who tould you 
that Phil Lahy was at the fair and that Phil Lahy was dhrunk, tell 
you that Phil Lahy bought two pigs?"
	"Well, no; he did not mention that."
	"I'll be bound he didn't; for the devil a thing these people, 
on whose word yon can rely, ever think of telling but the bad 
thing."
	Father M'Mahon rubbed his hand over his face and tried o 
look very grave. But thinking it best not to pursue the argument 
further, he turned to Honor and said:
	"I think, Mrs. Lahy, I had better hear Norah's confession 
now.
	Phil and Honor left the kitchen, and Father M'Mahon put n 
his stole and drew his chair close to the sick girl to hear her 
confession.
	"Phil," said his wife, when the priest, was gone, "you may 
as well cut out that coat for Mat. 'Twould be too bad disappoint 
him, an' he goin' to be such a decent b'y's sidesman."
	"I won't disappoint him," Phil replied. "But I feel too wake 
to do anything to-day. I think I must take a stretch the bed."
	"Well, if you don't like the work, go out an' take a walk, 
'twill do you good." 
	"I can't do anything when this wakeness comes over me." d 
Phil did manage to look so faint, that a stranger would ver have 
suspected that he had just eaten a very hearty breakfast.
	"Tommy," he continued, "reach me the looking-glass."
	Tommy brought him a small looking-glass with the frame 
painted a bright red, and a brass ring in it to hang it up by; and 
after surveying his visage for some time, and pulling up his shirt 
collar, which was of the highest and stiffest, Phil aimed with his 
eyes still fixed on the glass:
	"Honor, I look very bad."
	 Phil, don't be makin' a fool uv yourself. I never you lookin' 
better in my life. Ax Norah."
	"You don't look bad at all, father," said Norah. "I feel very 
wake," said he, making a movement to rise, but looking as if he 
could not do so without assistance.
	"Wisha, wisha, what am I to do wud him at all at all?" 
Honor muttered to herself. "If wance he lies down there, he'll stay 
till Sunday mornin', at any rate. An' I don't like to sind for Miss 
Mary the day uv the Station, an' all   --  an' moreover a strange 
gintleman in the house."
	Honor had found from experience that no one but Miss 
Kearney could talk Phil out of his "weaknesses," and on critical 
occasions she was in the habit of sending for her unknown to the 
patient. Mary would come in, as it were, accidentally, and after a 
chat with Phil about "Columbkill's Prophecies," or some other 
interesting subject, she always succeeded in convincing him that he 
was perfectly well, that it was only his nerves  --  and that even the 
"inward pain" was imaginary.
	I think, Honor," said Phil, " I'll try the spirits o' turpentine. 
This pain is comin' at me."
	This decided Honor, and she whispered Tommy  --  to his 
great delight  --  to run and ask Miss Mary to take a walk over in 
the course of the day if she could at all.



CHAPTER X.

"A LITTLE NOURISHMENT."

	MARY, accompanied by her sister Ellie and Grace, soon 
made her appearance; and Phil jumped up from his chair with 
wonderful alacrity for a man who, a few minutes before seemed 
quite unable to rise without help.
	Poor Norah's eyes beamed with pleasure and gratitude and 
admiration as her beautiful friend bent over her and hoped, in her 
low, sweet voice, that she was better.
	"I am, Miss," was all Norah said. But she was so fascinated 
as to be unconscious of the little bunch of monthly roses which 
Ellie had silently placed in her hand.
	Grace cast a supercilious glance around, and seemed to 
think the conduct of her friends quite absurd. But when Mary 
moved aside and let the light from the window fall full upon the 
sick girl's face, Grace's haughty look gave place to one of pity. 
Unlike Mary or Ellie, however, her impulse was to shrink away 
from that pale face, and forget that she had ever seen it.
	When Mary turned round to speak to Phil Lahy, he 
suddenly remembered his weakness and dropped languidly back 
into his chair.
	Mrs. Lahy exchanged glances with her visitor, and placing 
a chair at a convenient distance from the rapidly sinking patient, 
said:
	"He's only poorly to-day, Miss. Maybe you could spare 
time an' sit down and talk to him for a start. I know he'd be in the 
better uv id."
	"I hope, Mr. Lahy," said Mary, "it is nothing serious. I 
thought you looked remarkably well this morning; and Father 
M'Mahon made the same remark."
	"I'd want a little nourishment," said Phil.
	Mary looked at his wife for an explanation; but Honor only 
shook her head.
	"Perhaps I could send you something," she remarked, still 
looking at Honor.
	But another shake of the head was the only reply.
	"He says," said Mary, "he requires nourishment."
	"That's what I want," said Phil, turning round and looking 
earnestly in her face. "A little nourishment."
	Mary again looked at Honor, evidently surprised that he 
should not have proper nourishment.
	"God help you, Miss," said Honor, at last, "don't you know 
the nourishment he wants? Nourishment!" she repeated. "I never 
heard him call anything but the wan thing nourishment."
	Mary now understood the state of the case, and changed the 
subject.
	"You asked me some time ago, Mr. Lahy," she said, "if I 
could lend you Moore's 'Lalla Rookh.' I hadn't it at the time, but I 
can give it to you now any day you come up."
	"Thank you, Miss," Phil replied "'Tis goin' on twenty years 
since I read id; an' I was wishin' to see id. What put id into my 
head was seein' some lines the counsellor brought into wan of his 
speeches an' I knew I seen 'em somewhere before:  --   

"Rebellion, foul, dishonouring word,
Whose wrongful blight so oft has stained
The holiest cause that tongue or sword
Of mortal ever lost or gained."

	I disremember if them lines isn't in ' Lalla Rookh.'"
	"Yes" said Mary smiling "those lines are from 'Lalla 
Rookh.'"
	"The Fire Worshippers" added Grace sententiously.
	"Sure enough 'tis the Fire Worshippers," said Phil looking 
at her with surprise.
	"But" he added turning to Mary "is the wan you have ge-
nu-ine?
	"Oh, I suppose it must be."
	"'Twas your Uncle Dan, God be good to him, that lint me 
the wan I read. An' by the same token 'twas the same day he gave 
me the 'Coravoth.' I was the fust that ever sung id in those parts. 
But I wouldn't give a pin for them little 'Lalla Rookhs' that's goin' 
now, That wan was as big as a double spellin' book."
	Mary who did her best to keep her countenance said she 
feared hers was one of the little ones; but as her brother Hugh had 
all her uncle's books she would see whether the genuine edition of 
"Lalla Rookh" was among them.
	Phil was by this time quite cured of his weakness and Mary 
rose to take her leave.
	During their conversation, Tommy was exhibiting the 
goldfinch's accomplishments to its new mistress.
	When the bird after much coaxing, moved sideways along 
its perch, now coquettishly advancing, now timidly holding back, 
at length picked hurriedly at the bunch of groundsel which Tommy 
held temptingly against the wires of its cage, Ellie's delight was 
only second to that of Honor Lahy herself, who gave much more 
attention to the little by-play at the window than to the 
conversation about "books and larnin'" between her husband and 
Miss Kearney.
	Mary, too, stopped for a moment to contemplate the scene.
 	Ellie's bonnet was hanging on her back, and her hair fallen 
loose over her face and shoulders; while the boy, who was on his 
knees, looked up at her with a triumphant smile, as the goldfinch 
snatched the groundsel through the wires, and, placing its foot on 
it, commenced pulling it to pieces.
	Mary thought the group would be a good subject for a 
pleasant picture.
	But how sad was the contrast when she turned to the straw 
chair, and the dark, melancholy eyes met hers. And when she felt 
the love  --  the almost worship  --  for herself that filled those 
melancholy eyes, Mary found it hard to keep back the emotion that 
swelled up from her heart. She turned her face away, and pulled 
down her veil before bidding Norah good-bye.
	"Oh, Mary," said Grace, when they had gone into the open 
air, "wouldn't it be well for that poor girl if she were dead, and for 
her mother, too?"
	"Oh, Miss!"
	Grace started and looked around.
	It was Honor Lahy who had followed them with Ellie's 
gloves, which she had forgotten. The poor woman's hands were 
stretched out as if begging for her child's life, and the tears stood in 
her eyes.
	"Oh, Miss, sure 'tis she brings all the luck to me!"
	This woman would snatch her child from the grave merely 
because "'twas she brought all the luck to her!"
	Ah, if that old house were built upon crocks of gold  --  
enough to purchase the fee-simple of broad Tipperary -- Honor 
Lahy would have flung it all into the sea, and been content to "beg 
the world" with her child, if by doing so she could keep the light in 
those languid eyes a little longer.
	Remonstrate with the heart-broken woman who paces the 
floor in wordless agony from morning till night, and often from 
night till morning. Tell her it is flying in the face of Providence; 
that it is time she should be reconciled to her loss; and she will 
reply: it is so sad a case. She had just settled her in the world; 
encroached upon the portions of her other children perhaps, in 
order to place her  --  her darling  --  in a home worthy of her. And 
now she is gone  --   the best and beautifulest of them all  --  and 
what a loss that money is! And she will try to make the wretched 
dross she had lost with her child the excuse for her sorrow. But if 
her darling's death had brought a queen's dowry to every other 
child of hers, the sorrow at her heart would be no lighter.
	Say to this other one: "You should let your child go where 
she can better herself. Do you want to keep her a drudge all her 
life?" And see, the tears are in her eyes, and she answers: "If she 
goes I won't have anyone to do anything for me." But give her a 
train of attendants to anticipate her every wish, and the tears will 
be in her eyes all the same.
	So, again, this other one, who has lighted upon a tiny pair 
of red woollen stockings at the bottom of an old drawer. The little 
feet they encased grew tired, and a sweet, sweet little voice said: 
"Carry me, mamma," and a little silky head drooped like a flower, 
and two violet eyes grew, first brighter and brighter, and then 
heavy, and fixed, and glazed  --  twenty years ago. And when she 
sees you shake your head she dries her eyes, and says, with a sigh: 
"If I had her now how useful she'd be to me." You foolish, woman! 
Look at those four healthy, blooming girls. Are they not good, and 
careful, and affectionate, and all that a mother's heart could wish? 
On the mere score of utility you have more help than you require, 
more hands than you can find employment for. And yet you would 
cheat us with: "How useful she would be to you." But we are 
forgetting our story.
	"Oh, Miss, sure 'tis she's bringin' all the luck to me," said 
Honor Lahy.
	Grace turned away, with her brows knit into something 
very like a frown.
	Mary was greatly moved, and felt at a loss for something to 
say that might soothe the poor woman, when Tommy's appearance 
relieved her from her embarrassment.
	Miss Ellie is certainly an untidy girl. She forgot her gloves, 
and now Tommy comes running, breathlessly, up to them with a 
woollen ruff held high above his head.
	"I hope, Mrs. Lahy," said Mary, "that Tommy continues to 
be a good boy."
	"He is, then, Miss," she replied, wiping the tears from her 
eyes with the corner of her apron, "very good at his books. An' 
every way  --  on'y for the climbin'."
	Ellie looked laughingly at the delinquent, who scratched his 
curly poll, and returned her smile with a shrug of his shoulders and 
a glance of his merry blue eyes.
	"Oh, but as he is so good, you must not be too strict with 
him," said Mary.
	"But 'tis on'y the mercy uv God,' Miss," Honor exclaimed, 
as if her patience were tried beyond endurance, "that he don't make 
smithereens uv himself. An' besides, I can't "keep a stitch on him."
	She turned round to survey the culprit, whose bones and 
habiliments she considered in such constant jeopardy.
	"Oh, oh, what am I to do wud him at all, at all? Look at 
him," she cried, catching Tommy by the shoulders and spinning 
him round. "How did you tear that piece out uv your breeches? An' 
where is it?"
	Tommy looked considerably surprised; but guided by the 
spectators' eyes  --  and even Grace honoured him with a sidelong 
glance  --  he clapped his hand behind and discovered that a pretty 
large piece was missing out of his corduroys.
	It could be seen by his puzzled look that he was trying to 
remember where or how the accident occurred. His mind was 
divided between Tom Hogan's gate and Mat the Thrasher's 
whitethorn hedge, when casting his eyes upwards, as people will 
do under like circumstances (meaning no reference to Tommy's 
mutilated garment, but only to the operation of his mind), a ray of 
light seemed to break upon him from he beech tree. To Grace's 
profound astonishment he rushed suddenly to the tree, and, 
clasping his arms round it, began to ascend. Mary, too, seemed 
taken by surprise. But the proceeding was evidently nothing new to 
Ellie, who was indebted to Tommy's climbing propensities for an 
extensive collection of birds' eggs.
	His mother shook her head, as if she had just made up her 
mind that Tommy's case was quite hopeless, and that reclaiming 
him was an utter impossibility.
	Grace's eyebrows became more and more elevated as he 
mounted higher and higher.
	But on reaching one of the highest boughs he stretched out 
his hand and the object of his ascent was visible to them all; for 
there was the missing piece of corduroy fluttering in the breeze. 
Thrusting it into his pocket, he descended with a rapidity that 
caused Mary to put her hands before her eyes, as if she thought the 
catastrophe which his mother considered so imminent was at hand, 
and that Tommy was then and there determined to "make 
smithereens of himself." It was greatly to her relief, if a little to her 
surprise, that when she looked round, the cause of her anxiety was 
nowhere visible  --  he having scampered into the house the 
moment his foot touched terra firma, as if he were quite 
unconscious of the presence of the little group who had watched 
his performance with so much interest.
	Mary said good-bye again to Honor Lahy, and went a little 
further up the hill to pay a visit to Tom Hogan's handsome 
daughter Nancy, who she suspected was pining in thought in 
consequence of an approaching event in which it was conjectured 
that one Ned Brophy was to play an important part.
	Perhaps there was something in Mary's own heart, which. 
unknown to herself, made her sympathise with pretty Nancy 
Hogan.



CHAPTER XI.

FATHER HANNIGAN'S SERMON.

	IT is right that we should follow the two gentlemen with 
whom we parted some hours ago on their way back from the old 
castle. Mass was nearly over when they arrived at the cottage; and 
Richard quieted his conscience for losing it, by persuading himself 
that his absence was a case of necessity.
	A table in the hall, raised to sufficient height by means of 
two chairs, upon the backs of which it rested, served the purpose of 
an altar.
	Mr. Lowe was again struck by the fervour of the people, 
who filled the hall and kitchen, while not a few knelt on the frozen 
ground outside the hall-door. He was not a little surprised to see 
Hugh Kearney, officiously assisted by Phil Lahy, "serving Mass."
	Piloted by Richard, he got into the hall, the people making 
way for them as they went on, into the parlour, where Father 
O'Neill was still hearing confessions.
	Mr. Lowe sat in the window seat next the door, where he 
could see the altar and the officiating clergyman. He saw that he 
was too late for the sermon he was so anxious to hear, as Father 
Hannigan was in the act of taking off his vestments.
	But though Father Hannigan had delivered his regular 
discourse after the first gospel, it was his habit to address a few 
homely words to the people at the conclusion of the Mass, upon 
what we may call local and individual topics. He now turned round 
and began, in his deep big voice, with:
	"Now, what's this I was going to say to ye?"
	He pressed the fore-finger of his left hand against his 
temple, as if trying to recall something that had escaped his 
memory. Mr. Lowe thought he was about giving up the attempt in 
despair, when he suddenly jerked up his head, exclaiming  --   Ay! 
ay! ay! D'ye give up stealing the turf in the name o' God!"
	"Everyone," he continued after a pause, "must steal turf 
such weather as this that hasn't it of their own. But sure if ye didn't 
know it was wrong, ye wouldn't be telling it to the priest. And ye 
think it would be more disgraceful to beg than to steal it. That's a 
great mistake. No dacent man would refuse a neighbour a hamper 
of turf such weather as this. And a poor man is not a beggar for 
asking a hamper of turf such weather as this when he can't get a 
day's work, and the Easter water bottles bursting. Ye may laugh; 
but Judy Manogue stopped me on the road yesterday to know what 
she ought to do. Her bottle of Easter water that she had under her 
bed was in a lump of ice, and the bottle  --  a big, black bottle that 
often gave some of ye a headache  --  an' maybe twasn't without 
giving more of you a heartache  --   before Judy took my advice 
and gave up that branch of her business: well, the big, black bottle 
was split in two with the fair dint of the frost  --  under the poor 
woman's bed. And the Lord knows no Christian could stand 
without a spark of fire to keep the life in him  --  let alone looking 
at a houseful of children shivering and shaking, and he able and 
willing to work, and not a stroke of work to be got. But ye all 
know that stealing is bad, and ye ought fitter make your cases 
known to the priest, and maybe something might be done for ye. 
Pride is a good thing  --  dacent, manly pride  --  and 'twill often 
keep a man from doing a mane act even when he's sorely tempted. 
Sperit is a good thing. But, take my word for it, there's nothing like 
HONESTY. And poverty, so long as it is not brought on by any 
fault of his own, need never bring a blush to any man's cheek. So, 
in the name o' God, d'ye give up stealing the turf."
	Here he paused, and Phil Lahy, supposing the discourse 
ended, advanced with a bowl of holy water with a kind of brush 
laid across it, for the purpose of sprinkling the congregation before 
they dispersed. But Father Hannigan motioned him back and 
proceeded.
	"Father O'Neill is against the beagles. He says 'tis a shame 
to hear the horn sounding, and see ye scampering over ditches and 
hedges on the Lord's Day. Well, I don't know what to say to that. 
'Tis the only day ye have for diversion of any sort. And as long as 
ye are sure not to lose Mass, I won't say anything against the 
beagles. The farmers tell me they don't mind the loss to them to let 
their sons keep a dog or two. And if ye meet after Mass  --  mind, I 
say, after divine service  --  I don't see much harm in it. I'm told, 
too, the gentlemen of the neighbourhood  --  that is, such of them 
as are gentlemen  --  don't object to it, as ye are honourable 
sportsmen and spare the hares. But then there's the hurling. There's 
a deal of bad blood when ye hurl the two sides of the river. If 
there's any more of the work that was carried on at the last match, 
ye'll be the disgrace of the country, instead of being, as ye are, the 
pride of the barony. 'Tis given up to the Knocknagow boys to be as 
spirited and well-conducted as any in the county. Didn't I point ye 
out to the Liberator himself the day of the Meeting, and he said a 
finer body of men he never laid his eyes on. Such men, said be, are 
the bone and sinew of the country. Some of the best boys ye had 
are gone since that time, short as it is  -- "
	Here there was a murmur amongst the women; and a low, 
suppressed wail from two or three whose sons had but lately 
emigrated, made him pause for a moment.
	"Well," he continued, shaking his head as the low wail died 
away; "thank God the crowbar brigade didn't pay ye a visit like 
other places; and I hope there is no danger of it, as the landlords 
here are not exterminators like some I could mention. I was in 
Cloonbeg the other day at a funeral  --  I was curate there six years 
ago  --  'twas the first parish I was sent to after being ordained, and 
it broke my heart to see the change. I could hardly believe 'twas the 
same place. The people swept away out of a whole side of a 
country, just as if 'twas a flood that was after passing over it. I 
married some of 'em myself and christened their children, and left 
'em happy and comfortable. 'Tis little I thought I'd ever pass the 
same road and not find a human face to welcome me. Well, please 
God, there's no danger of ye that way, at any rate. And yet, sure, 
'tis little security ye have  --  but I won't say anything that might 
discourage ye."
	Father Hannigan turned toward the altar, and Phil Lahy was 
again advancing with the holy water; but after taking a pinch of 
snuff he resumed his address:--
	"I want ye to keep up the good name ye have. And talking 
of funerals reminds me of your conduct at the berrin' of that poor 
man ye brought to Kilree the week before last. 'Twas a charitable 
thing to carry him thirteen long miles through the teeming rain, and 
I know ye had pains in your shoulders next morning after him. 
'Twas a charitable thing to lay his poor old bones alongside of his 
wife and children, as it was his last wish  --  though he hadn't a 
chick or child living belonging to him. I say that was a charitable, 
Christian, Irish act  --  and may God reward ye for it. But that was 
no excuse for the way ye behaved. The parish priest of Kilree said 
such a set never came into his parish. And ould Peg Naughton, that 
keeps the shebeen house at the church, declared to myself that, 
though she is there goin' on fifty-two years, 'twas the drunkenest 
little funeral she ever laid her eyes on. Isn't that a nice cha-rac-ter 
ye're aiming for yourselves? But I hope now ye'll remember my 
words. And now I have one request to ask of you. I want ye to 
promise me that ye'll dig the Widow Keating's stubbles for her. 
She hasn't a sowl to do a hand's turn for hem since her boy lost his 
health. Will ye promise me now that as soon as the weather is 
fitting ye'll dig the Widow Keating's stubbles? 'Tis short 'twill take 
ye if ye all join together."
	"We'll do id, sir," "We will, sir, never fear," was answered 
all round.
	"That's might, boys. And now any of ye that's very badly 
off, come to Father M'Mahon or myself and tell your story, and 
don't be ashamed. There's a little money collected for cases of 
distress in the town. And as the Major has subscribed ten pounds, 
and we're writing to Sir Garrett Butler for a subscription  --  and 
'tisn't easy to know where to write to him"  --  glancing towards the 
parlour window -- 'tis only fair that cases of hardship on their own 
property should be looked after. I may as well tell ye, too, the 
Major sent Father M'Mahon a quarter of beef for Christmas. 
There's not a finer quarter of beef in Munster this minute. 'Twould 
do your heart good to look at it."
	And abruptly seizing the brush, he dipped it in the holy 
water, and swung his arm round so vigorously and dextrously in all 
directions that even the gentleman at the parlour window came in 
for a share.
	The people now dispersed, and Mr. Lowe was conducted to 
the breakfast room, and formally introduced to the three 
clergymen.



CHAPTER XII.

MATRIMONY AND "MARRIAGE MONEY."  --  THE 
WIDOW'S LAST WISH.

	IN the matter of breakfast, Mrs. Kearney came out in full 
force on the occasion of a Station. Even Mr. Lowe could not help 
taking notice of the display on the table. The antique silver coffee-
pot was particularly conspicuous, and it was quite affecting to see 
the reverential gentleness with which the good woman handled this 
relic of the O'Carrolls. Her fingers would sometimes play softly on 
the lid in a manner that caused her husband visible anxiety; for the 
coffee-pot had been her grandmother's, and was presented to 
herself at the time of her marriage by her Uncle Dan. A tall urn 
was equally an object of dread to honest Maurice; and when she 
was heard to ask Father M'Mahon did he remember the day long 
ago, when he was a young student, that the urn was upset by Annie 
Cleary's sleeve being caught by the deer's horns on the lid, a full 
and true history of Ballydunmore was looked upon as inevitable. 
But, fortunately, the housekeeper whispered into her ear that a 
certain cream-jug, which, by right, should have attended the 
coffee-pot, was forgotten; and the announcement so startled Mrs. 
Kearney as for the time to put Ballydunmore and the tea-urn 
completely out of her head.
	Father M'Mahon spoke little, and seemed to the stranger 
reserved, and even haughty.
	The reserve of the young curate was of a different sort and 
evidently arose from bashfulness.
	But Father Hannigan had something to say to every one, 
and Mr. Lowe was not long in discovering that, with all his 
peculiarities, Father Hannigan was a scholar and a gentleman.
	On finding that the stranger had taken his degree in one of 
the English universities, Father Hannigan engaged him upon some 
knotty points of classical learning, and the young A.B. soon began 
to feel not quite at his ease with so able an antagonist.
	Grace paid great attention to this learned encounter, and 
looked so exceedingly wise with her elbow on the table and her 
chin resting on the little finger of her left hand, that Mary was in 
doubt whether she did not really understand every word.
	"Really, Grace," said she, speaking so low as not to be 
heard by the gentleman, "one would think you are as familiar with 
Homer and Virgil and the rest of them as you are with Longfellow 
and Sidney Smyth, to say nothing of Robinson Crusoe."
	"Indeed, no," she replied, with a half-displeased look, and 
dropping her hand on the table; "but I was remarking that Mr. 
Lowe pronounces Latin like papa, and Father Hannigan like the 
'Brehon.'
	"He picked up that in Trinity College," said Father 
Hannigan, who sat next her, and heard part of her remark.
	"That's not the way he pronounced it when he and I read 
Virgil together in Larry O'Rourke's mud-wall seminary in 
Glounamuckadhee."
	"Oh, perhaps so," replied Grace, not at all pleased that her 
papa had read Virgil in a mud-wall seminary, and in a place with 
such a name as Glounamuckadhee.
	"Ay, then," continued the priest, with a twinkle in his eye, 
as if he took pleasure in teasing her; "and every one of us brought a 
sod of turf under his arm to school during the winter."
	Grace looked quite offended, and made no reply.
	"I am told," said Mr. Lowe, "that Doctor Kiely is at present 
writing a work on Irish antiquities."
	The eyes of the offended young lady sparkled with pleasure 
as she fixed them with a look of pleased surprise on the speaker.
	"Yes," said she, in a softened tone, "he devotes nearly all 
the time he can spare from his professional duties to it."  "It is a 
very interesting subject," he added. "I have heard Dr. Kiely's 
articles spoken highly of."
	Grace was so delighted, that Larry O'Rourke's mud-wall 
seminary and the sods of turf vanished from her mind and left not a 
trace behind.
	"Will you have many weddings this Shrove?" Maurice 
Kearney asked, turning to the parish priest, who was so absorbed 
in thought that this sudden address made him start.
	"Well," he replied, in his clear, silvery voice, "I fear not. 
All my boys seem bent upon going elsewhere for wives. I have 
already given half-a-dozen certificates while as yet I have heard of 
no one returning the compliment."
	"Ned Brophy is getting a fine fortune," said Mr. Kearney. 
"So I'm told," replied Father M'Mahon; and Mary thought she 
could see a look of displeasure in his face, which she could not 
help connecting with the tear she noticed on Nancy Hogan's pale 
cheek as she was leaving the drawing-room after confession an 
hour or two before.
	"Two hundred gold sovereigns," continued Mr. Kearney 
"out of an ould saucepan."
	This piece of information regarding Ned Brophy's good 
luck caused a general laugh; the more readily perhaps because it 
was given with a look of perfect gravity.
	"And you would not miss it out of it," he continued, 
seeming quite unconscious of their mirth.
	"Out of what, sir?" Richard asked.
	"The saucepan," replied his father; "Ned himself told me 
so."
	"Do you approve of this fortune-hunting, Miss Kearney?" 
Father M'Mahon asked, turning to Mary.
	"No, sir," she replied, blushing deeply, "I don't like it at 
all."
	"And what do you say, Miss Kiely?"
	"I really have not thought much on the subject," Grace 
replied. "But it is by no means unpleasant to be rich. And I'm 
rather inclined to think there is a good deal of truth in the proverb: 
'When poverty enters the door, love flies out at the window.'"
	Father M'Mahon leant back in his arm-chair, and laughed a 
low and somewhat satirical laugh.
	I fear," he said, "there is not much love in some of these 
cases. I am as much opposed as anybody to imprudent marriages. 
But this buying and selling is a bad business."
	"Sure you don't want them to be like the Protestants?" Mrs. 
Kearney observed reproachfully.
	"The Protestants!" Father M'Mahon replied with surprise. 
How is that?"
	"I never knew a Protestant," she replied, "that would not 
live with a husband on a lough of water."
	Father M'Mahon opened his eyes and seemed to want more 
enlightenment.
	"There are the three Miss Armstrongs," continued Mrs. 
Kearney; "the youngest, to be sure, made a very good match  --  
though she hadn't a penny  --  for they were after losing the 
property before her marriage. But the two eldest girls, with their 
fine fortunes, married poor men  --  though they were respectable, I 
know, and sensible, too. One of them, I'm told, is doing well in 
Dublin; and Mr. Armstrong tells me Fanny said in her last letter 
from Australia that they expected to come home and purchase an 
estate in Ireland yet, they are making a fortune so rapidly."
	"Mr. Lowe," said Mary, " you ought to make mamma a 
bow. She has complimented both the ladies and gentlemen of your 
religion at our expense."
	"And look at the Miss O'Dwyers," continued Mrs. Kearney, 
not heeding the interruption; "the fact is, I believe they'll never get 
married, as they can find no suitable matches."
	It might be better for them to be doing well in Dublin, or 
even making a fortune in Australia," said Father M'Mahon.
	"Is it a fact," Mr. Lowe asked, turning to Hugh, "that 
Protestants are less hard to be pleased in the choice of wives and 
husbands than Catholics in Ireland?"
	"It does really seem they take the plunge more 
courageously," replied Hugh. " I have noticed instances of it even 
among the humbler classes."
	"Yes," said his mother, "there is George Hardford, who I 
gave his daughter to Henry Johnson, the pensioner's son, though he 
hadn't a trade or anything. Took him into his house and kept him 
till he got a situation in the jail."
	"Ah, that throws some light upon the matter," said Father 
M'Mahon; "situations of all kinds, high and low, are reserved for 
the professors of the favoured creed; landlords, too, will give farms 
at lower rents to Protestants than to Catholics."
	"And leases," said Mr. Kearney. "I don't know a Protestant 
that hasn't a good lease."
	"Yes," Father M'Mahon rejoined, "and it would seem the 
rule will soon be that Catholics will have no leases. And it is this 
state of dependence, this uncertainty of being able to keep a roof 
over their heads, that has made marriages the mercenary bargains 
they often are among us."
	"It was not always so," Father Hannigan remarked. "I 
remember a time, myself, when the man looked more to the 
woman and less to the fortune than now."
	"That is true," said Father M'Mahon. "Leases were general 
then, and the people were consequently more independent. 
Emancipation has done us harm in this respect, The sacrifice of the 
Forty-shilling Freeholders was a great injury to the country."
	"Maybe," said Maurice Kearney, "the marriage money has 
something to do with keeping people from getting married. Ned 
Brophy tells me the priest will charge twenty pounds for marrying 
him."
	"Well," replied Father M'Mahon with a laugh, "that is not 
so much, bearing in mind that old saucepan you told us of. But 
another parishioner of mine tells me his match is broken off 
altogether on account of the exorbitant demand of the priest. The 
father of the girl had only fifteen acres of land, and the priest 
wanted fifteen pounds for marrying his daughter."
	"I know all about that case," said Father Hannigan. "He 
went against the priest at the election."
	"That makes the matter worse," rejoined Father M'Mahon. 
Such practices will have the effect of making the people look upon 
the priest as a tyrant. But in the parish to which refer, I am assured, 
as a rule, the farmer must pay half-a year's rent to the priest for 
marrying his daughter."
	"What do you think of the old system of public weddings?" 
asked Father Hannigan; "when friends and neighbours were 
invited, and the priest went round with a plate for his collection."
	I liked it," replied Father M'Mahon. "Indeed I was looked 
upon as singular because I did my best to encourage the people to 
keep up the old system. It made them more social and neighbourly. 
The priest, too, felt that what he got was given cheerfully. And 
besides," added Father M'Mahon laughing, "he went home with a 
heavier purse."
	"I remember what you said at the last public wedding we 
had in this parish," said Mr. Kearney. "'Twas at Tom Connelly's. 
The collection was larger than you expected, and when you were 
thanking them, you said no matter how small the sum might be, 
they could say, 'Go home now, sir you are paid'; but that if it was a 
private wedding you could charge what you liked."
	"I dare say some of the bridegroom's friends have often 
thought of my words since. But I fear we are becoming more 
genteel and more selfish every day; so perhaps it is as well to make 
people pay for their gentility."
	"I'm told," Maurice Kearney observed, "Tom Brien got the 
job done in Liverpool for two-and-sixpence. You were in 
Liverpool, Father O'Neill. How do they manage it there? "
	"What you say of Tom Brien is quite true, sir," the young 
priest replied. " It happened it was I myself performed the 
ceremony; for Tom said he'd like to have the knot tied by a 
Tipperary man."
	"Ah, then, Father O'Neill," said Mrs. Kearney, "did you 
ever meet any of the poor Skehans while you were in Liverpool?"
	"I did," he replied. "One of the children knew me in the 
street; and it was I prepared the old woman for death."
	"I knew she would not live long," Mrs. Kearney observed; 
"she was so heart-broken at leaving the 'ould sod,' as she said 
herself."
	"Indeed," Father O'Neill rejoined, "that love of the 'ould 
sod' evinced itself in what some might consider a ludicrous manner 
at her last moment."
	"How was that?" Father Hannigan asked, seeing the young 
priest had relapsed into silence.
	"Well," he replied, "when I had administered the 
Sacraments to her, and remained some time by her bedside, I 
thought I noticed that she wished to say something to me, but 
hesitated to speak. Whenever I moved, as if to go away, I saw her 
eyes were fixed anxiously on me; but still she said nothing. So 
when I was going I asked her was there anything on her mind that 
was troubling her.
	'There is then, sir,' said she; 'but maybe 'tisn't much, an' I 
oughtn't to be bothering you with it.'
	"I assured her it was no trouble, and desired her to tell me 
what it was she wished to say.
	"'Well, sir,' she said, looking anxiously into my face, 'I'd 
like to know will my soul pass through Ireland?'"
	Mr. Lowe looked surprised and amused; and Grace, who 
honoured him with a good deal of her attention, uttered an 
exclamation and laughed. But all the rest were silent.
	Mary stole a look at her brother Hugh, who covered his 
face with his brown hand, and seemed greatly moved. She knew he 
had special reason to be troubled, and regretted that her mother had 
introduced a subject which always pained him.
	The fact was the Skehans had been under-tenants of his 
father's, and, though not exactly ejected, were induced to give up 
their little holding on receiving a trifling sum for the good-will and 
being forgiven the arrears of rent. The mere suspicion that the 
landlord wished to get rid of them has driven many an Irish family 
far away from the "old sod," who loved that old sod even as did the 
widow Skehan whose last earthly wish was that "her soul might 
pass through Ireland" on its way to Heaven.
	"My God! " exclaimed Father M'Mahon, "how they must 
suffer!"
	He stood up and strode across the room to a window. where 
he stood gazing at the white hills, with his hands clasped behind 
his back, for some minutes, and then left the room without taking 
notice of any one.
	"Father M'Mahon," said Mary, "is pondering over some 
serious subject now."
	"How can you tell that?" her brother Richard asked. Is it 
because he has forgotten his politeness? 
	"Oh, we can all tell that," Grace exclaimed; "didn't you see 
the proud walk? That's proof positive that his brains are wool-
gathering."
	But though Father M'Mahon forgot his politeness, he did 
not forget poor Norah Lahy.



CHAPTER XIII.

THE DOCTOR IN A FIX.


	COME," said Richard to Mr. Lowe, "let us prepare for the 
shooting."
	As they passed the lobby window, Mr. Lowe glanced out to 
the yard, and was astonished to see Barney Brodherick in the act of 
rushing at Father M'Mahon's servant, evidently with the intention 
of doing him grievous bodily injury; for Barney was as pugnacious 
as the celebrated tailor who was "blue moulded for the want of a 
batin.'"
	Tom Maher, however, caught the wrathful Barney in his 
arms and held him fast. 
	"Let me at him!" exclaimed Barney imploringly after 
struggling and kicking to free himself. "Let me at him, an', be the 
livin', I'll put his two eyes into wan!"
	The tall servant regarded him with a scowl, in which scorn 
was largely mingled.
	"Tom, for the love uv heaven, take off uv me, an' I'll break 
every tooth in his head."
	Here Phil Lahy appeared with his prayer-book still in his 
left hand; and laying his right on Barney's shoulder, he addressed 
some words to him in a low voice.
	D--n well he knows that," replied Barney, almost tearfully, 
"D--n well the blagard knows I'm in the state of grace to-day. But," 
he continued, through his clenched teeth, and shaking his fist at the 
object of his enmity. "but, please God, I won't be in the state of 
grace always. You Kerry b -- d," he muttered, as he walked away, 
"from the County Limerick."
	That characteristic bull was received with a shout of 
laughter from the bystanders. But Mr. Lowe's acquaintance with 
the geography of Ireland was too limited to enable him to see at 
once anything ludicrous in calling a man a Kerry anything from the 
County Limerick.
	Owing to the frost the snipe were not as plenty in the bog 
as usual, except where there were springs.
	At one of these places half a dozen rose together, but so far 
off that Hugh didn't fire. Richard, however, whose practice was  --  
to use his own words  --  "to blaze away at everything," let fly, and 
down came a snipe. The successful marksman looked from one to 
the other of his companions with a stare of amazement, as if the 
result of his blazing away on this occasion were something 
altogether beyond his comprehension.
	"You really have winged him," said Hugh.
	"Yes, I think so," returned the doctor faintly.
	"But," said Hugh, laughing, "you were just pulling the 
trigger when that one got up ten yards nearer to you that those you 
fired at."
	But the doctor by this time had realized the fact that he had 
shot a snipe, and the trifling drawback alluded to by his brother did 
not abate his elation in the least.
	He rushed forward, bounding over several bog-holes, 
reckless of consequences. But just as he reached the stream from 
which the snipe had risen, the wounded bird sprang several times a 
few feet from the ground; and, finding these efforts to get upon the 
wing vain, it ran quickly, with a look of stealthy cunning, its long 
bill and neck stretched out horizontally, towards a clump of rushes 
some yards from the bank where it had fallen.
	In his eagerness to prevent the prize from escaping, the 
doctor, instead of leaping the stream as he had leaped the bog-
holes, rushed through it, sinking to the hips in the black mud. He 
managed to drag himself through the weeds and cresses to the 
opposite side. But when he attempted to climb up the bank, he 
found one of his legs caught in a bog stump at the bottom of the 
stream. He pulled and pulled, keeping his eves fixed on the snipe 
as it made for the rushes, till he had freed his leg, and then jumped 
upon the firm ground. And now, being sure of his quarry, the 
doctor waltzed several times round the wounded snipe in a very 
graceful manner, brandishing the long duck gun over his head. He 
was rather pleased than otherwise at the loud roar of laughter by 
which his friends, as he thought, meant to applaud his 
performance.
	He took up the bird and carefully examined the broken 
wing, as if he found in it an interesting study from a professional 
point of view. Then throwing off the professional air, and 
assuming that of the sportsman, he knocked the bird's head against 
his gun and put it into his pocket with a look of superhuman 
calmness, as if bagging snipe by dozens of braces were an 
everyday proceeding with him.
	And now it occurred to the doctor that Hugh was rather 
overdoing the laughing. He took out his powder-horn to load gain, 
feeling comfortably sure of "tumbling"  --  it is to feathered bipeds 
we apply the word  --  every bird he pointed his gun at during the 
rest of his life. But, on glancing at his companions, he paused, with 
his thumb on the spring of his powder-horn in real surprise, for he 
saw them still convulsed with laughter.
	"What the devil do they mean?" he thought, putting his 
hand in his pocket to make sure that he had a snipe.
	His stare of inquiry had such an effect on Hugh that he was 
obliged to have recourse to his pocket-handkerchief to wipe the 
tears from his eyes.
	Hang it," exclaimed the doctor, " what are ye laughing at? 
Is there anything wrong?"
	They pointed towards himself; but after looking all around. 
him he could see nothing unusual.
	At last he glanced at his feet; and to his utter bewilderment 
discovered that one of his limbs was as bare as a Highlander's.
	The fact was, when extricating himself from the bog stump, 
he left one of the legs of his trousers behind him.
	"I'd recommend you," Hugh called out, "to find the missing 
article, and draw it on as fast as you can. I see a car coming this 
way."
	"Do you want me to dive for it?" he asked, looking ruefully 
down among the weeds and cresses.
	"'Tis Hanly's phaeton," said Hugh.
	The doctor looked towards the road, well-nigh petrified 
with horror.
	Yes, there was the phaeton coming nearer and nearer. A 
bend in the road would bring it within forty yards of where he 
stood  --  and not as much as a bush to obstruct the view.
	He turned his back to the road; but the thought that the 
view thus presented would be, if possible, more ridiculous than any 
other, made him quickly "about face" again. He tried to hide the 
undraped limb with the single barrel duck gun; but the futility of 
the attempt became instantly apparent. Equally hopeless was the 
idea of wheeling slowly round so as to keep the presentable leg 
towards the carriage as it turned the bend of the road. The sun, too, 
at that moment burst through its covering of clouds, which had the 
effect of bringing him out in bolder relief before the eyes of the 
wondering spectators. He would have sworn he could see the 
bewitching Kathleen's dark orbs open till the white was visible all 
round. And then, what was still worse, the pearly teeth flashed 
from between the rosy lips, and the fair Kathleen's head was 
thrown back in a manner which placed it beyond all doubt that she 
was laughing at him.
	He thought of flinging himself upon his face or his back, 
but the bank on which he stood was just sufficiently elevated to 
render such a proceeding useless. The wild notion of divesting 
himself of what remained of the unlucky garment crossed his 
mind; it would be less excruciatingly ridiculous if his legs were 
matches. But there was no time for even this. There was the 
phaeton, there were the ladies, passing at the nearest point; and that 
mischief-loving Rose  --  "infernal," we regret to say, was the 
epithet he coupled with her name  --  bowing to him with fiendish 
politeness. And there was Doctor Richard Kearney with the nude 
limb stretched backwards as far and raised as high as possible  --  
like a gander with the cramp  --  returning the salute with the grace 
for which he was famous among the young ladies of his 
acquaintance. He actually forgot to drop his hat upon his head, or 
change his position till the phaeton was out of sight.
	And then he cursed his stupidity for never having thought 
of taking a "header" into a bog-hole, and remaining there with only 
his nose above water till they had passed.
	He might have escaped in that way if he had thought of it in 
time.
	He wiped the perspiration from his brow, and, as he 
glanced fiercely at his companions, he formed the dreadful wish 
that his gun were a double instead of a single barrel, that he might 
share the contents between them. They were still laughing at him.
	Becoming more calm, the doctor made his way back to 
them, and Hugh, in the most unfeeling manner, suggested the 
advisability of getting home as fast as he could,
	"Home!" exclaimed the doctor, "and perhaps meet the Lord 
knows who on the way. No, I'll run over to Bob Lloyd's and 
borrow a trousers. Come with me," he continued, turning to Mr. 
Lowe, "and we'll have pleasanter shooting than here."
	Pleasanter shooting," remarked Hugh, drily. "I hope so."
	Will you come? " the doctor asked.
	"No, I'll follow the stream,' said Hugh, who was a keen 
sportsman, and was glad to get rid of them for the rest of the day.



CHAPTER XIV.

MOUNT TEMPE AND ITS MASTER.

	BOB LLOYD'S domicile was close to the bog, and rejoiced 
in the name of Mount Tempe. Why Mount, it would be hard to tell, 
for it was in the middle of a flat, dreary tract of country; and why 
Tempe, was a still greater puzzle. Either taken singly might be 
accounted for on the "lucus a non" principle; but, joined together 
they are too much for us. We must content ourselves with the fact 
that Bob Lloyd's residence was known by the style and title of 
Mount Tempe.
	Bob Lloyd was a bachelor  --  we cannot add, "by no choice 
of his own." For if ever mortal man had the enviable privilege to 
pick and choose among the fair ladies of the neighbourhood, that 
man was Bob Lloyd, of Mount Tempe. Many and ingenious were 
the snares laid to catch him, and many and miraculous were his 
hair-breadth escapes. Mammas manoeuvred for him; papas 
palavered him; daughters exhausted all their arts and their patience 
to capture him. But there he was safe and sound, and free as the 
wind that seemed to recognise in him a congenial spirit, and took a 
peculiar delight in rushing down the chimneys of Mount Tempe 
House, or flinging the slates off the roof into the yard behind, and 
upon the gravel plot, and out on the green lawn in front  --  and 
particularly and especially through the roof of what was once a 
conservatory at the south side, to the terror and misery of an 
unhappy fox that dragged out a life of wretchedness chained 
among the empty flower pots. It was in keeping with the genius of 
incongruity which presided over Bob Lloyd's establishment that 
the fox should be domiciled, of all places in the world, among the 
flower-pots. And the odour that assailed the nostrils on 
approaching the conservatory was, to speak mildly, of a kind for 
which strangers were unprepared, and was usually greeted with an 
exclamation indicative of a surprise the reverse of agreeable.
	Mr. Lowe, on passing this delectable concern, stopped 
short and clapped his hand to his nose, as if he had received a 
violent blow on that feature; but Richard, being prepared for the 
assault, passed on to the hall-door without wincing.
	He knocked loudly, and while waiting for the door to be 
opened, occupied the time in rubbing his leg, which was fast 
becoming numbed. No one answered to his knock; and, knowing 
the ways of the place, instead of knocking a second time, he raised 
one of the windows and put in his head.
	"Morrow, Dick," said the gentleman of the house. "Come 
in."
	Richard laid his hand on the window-sill and vaulted into 
the parlour.
	"I have Mr. Lowe with me," he remarked, as he walked out 
to the hall to admit that gentleman by the door.
	Mr. Lowe looked at the owner of the house and around the 
large room; and then turned to his friend as if seeking instructions 
as to how he ought to act, or what was the custom of the country 
under such circumstances
	Mr. Lloyd was stretched on a sofa playing two jews-harps. 
Richard walked deliberately to a cupboard, and taking a tall, square 
bottle and a couple of glasses from it, laid them on the table  --  
having first swept a shot-belt, a bridle, a pair of horse girths, and 
two pairs of boxing gloves off the table to the floor. Having filled 
the glasses, he tossed off one, and beckoned Mr. Lowe to do 
likewise; which he did.
	The gentleman of the house at length wheeled slowly 
round, let his feet drop to the floor, and, sitting upright, 
contemplated his friend with a look of complacent admiration. 
"'Pon my soul, Dick," he said, very seriously, "you look well."
	He put the jews-harp in his left hand to his mouth, and 
twanged it with the little finger of the same hand. Then putting the 
jews-harp in his right hand to his mouth, he twanged that too. Mr. 
Lloyd then put both jews-harps to his mouth, and played a tune, 
always keeping his eyes fixed on Richard's leg, as if there were 
some extraordinary fascination about the cap of the knee.
	"'Tisn't the latest fashion? The newest style from the city, 
you know? Eh, Dick?"
	"No. I sank in a bog-hole and tore it off with a stump or 
something. I want to borrow one from you. Of course, I can get 
it?"
	"Ay, faith," said Mr. Lloyd.
	"And dry stockings?"
	"Call Jer."
	Richard desired Mr. Lowe to sit near the fire, and went in 
search of the last-named individual.
	The musician on the sofa applied himself to his 
instruments, and the listener began to wonder at the sweetness of 
the melody.
	"Know the name of that tune? " he asked.
	"No; I can't say I ever heard it before," was the reply.
	"Listen again." And he repeated the tune.
	Know it now?"
	"Well, I don't. But it seems a pleasing little air."
	Mr. Lloyd extended one hand, and swinging it gracefully in 
time to the air, sang:

Oh, my breeches full of stitches,
Oh, my breeches buckled on,
Oh, my breeches full of stitches,
Oh, my breeches buckled on."

	"This is a character," thought Mr. Lowe, "I suppose," he 
said aloud. "our friend's mishap has suggested it to you?"
	"Dick is a bloody clever fellow," was the not very relevant 
reply. "He has words at will."
	The subject of this flattering remark here came to the door 
and called to Mr. Lowe to come with him upstairs.
	The first thing that struck Mr. Lowe on entering Bob 
Lloyd's bedroom was, that a faded horse-rug did duty for a 
counterpane on the bed.
	Jer appeared with the dry stockings, with a half-dozen dogs 
of various kinds at his heels. Over the yellow-striped waistcoat 
usually worn by servants, he wore a cast-off green coat of his 
master's, which was sadly out of keeping with his tattered corduroy 
small clothes and heavy brogues. Jer was a person of importance, 
particularly in his own estimation, and looked upon himself as a 
sort of senior partner in the establishment. His influence over his 
master was such that his good word was deemed indispensable 
whenever it was sought to make Bob Lloyd a party to any 
transaction, whether it might be the buying or selling of a horse, 
the granting of a lease, the paying of a bill, or the bringing about of 
a matrimonial alliance between the owner of Mount Tempe and 
any one of the many fair damsels who sighed to make him happy. 
For it was well known  --  this in reference to the fair damsels  --  
that, though Bob Lloyd had a genius for never allowing both ends 
to meet by any chance, his rent-roll showed the receipt of a good 
eight hundred pounds a year; and it was remarked that there 
"wasn't a better lot of tenants in Ireland" than his.
	"Well, Jer," said Richard, "any chance of a wedding this 
time?
	"We're goin' on wud a couple, sir," replied Jer, "but I don't 
say they'll come to anything. Everything was settled wud Miss 
Jane; an', begor, there was no fear at all of the fortune they wor 
givin' her. She was tryin' on her weddin' dress on Saturday, when I 
went to tell her he couldn't marry her; an' she tuck on terrible 
intirely."
	Richard laughed, but evinced no surprise.
	"The ould mistress an' the young ladies is tryin' to bring it 
on again. But," added Jer, solemnly, and as if he himself were the 
principal party concerned, "'twon't do."
	Richard explained to his friend that Mrs. Lloyd and her 
daughters lived in Kilthubber. "Devilish nice girls they are," he 
added; "particularly the second."
	"They're anxious to have him settled," Jer continued with a 
sigh, as if the settling were a great weight on his mind. "An' sure 
God knows so is myself. But 'tis so hard to meet a shootable 
woman. I'm after promisin' Tom Otway," he continued, "that we'll 
run down to the County Carlow in the course of the week to see his 
cousin. Himself is for goin' by the coach; but I'm thinkin' 'twould 
look better to drive tandem. What do you think?" he asked, as if he 
found it hard to decide,
	"Oh, the tandem, by all means," said Richard.
	"That's what I think myself," rejoined Jer, as he left the 
room, followed by his dogs, except two that had got into the bed 
for a nap.
	"Is this all a joke? Mr. Lowe asked.
	"No. Bob's wooings are always carried on in this way, and 
Miss Jane can hardly have been taken by surprise, for she had 
examples enough to warn her."
	"And how does he escape the consequences?
	"Do you mean why is he not called out? The idea of such a 
good-natured fellow as Bob Lloyd shooting anybody or being shot 
at! But he will tell you 'the heaviest cloutin' match'  --  to use his 
own phrase  --  he ever had, was with young Allcock for refusing 
to marry his sister, who declared that he had popped the question 
and been accepted in the most formal manner."
	"But the law," said Mr. Lowe. "Have you no such thing as 
breaches of promise in Ireland?"
	"They are not quite unknown, though very rare, down here. 
But the immunity which Bob enjoys may in some measure be 
accounted for by the fact that the business is all done through Jer. 
Bob never writes letters; and, perhaps, as he would say himself, 
that saves his bacon."
	It must not be inferred that writing was not among Mr. 
Lloyd's accomplishments. He wrote a fair, round hand, and was 
fond of displaying his calligraphic skill whenever pen, ink and 
paper chanced to come in his way  --  particularly, and almost 
exclusively, in the execution of the words: --  

"Command you may your mind from play."

which he was wont to finish off with a flourish, and seemed to 
derive great pleasure from the performance.
	"Can we get a shot without going into that infernal bog 
again?" Richard asked when they had returned to the parlour.
	"Ay, faith," Mr. Lloyd replied. "If I went out to that well 
beyond ten times a day, I'd be sure to meet a snipe there."
	"Get your gun and come with us."
	Mr. Lloyd strapped a shot-belt over his shoulder, and was 
taking up his gun, when the door opened, and a stout, middle-sized 
man, with a round face, unceremoniously walked in.
	"'Morrow, Wat," said Mr. Lloyd.
	"'Morrow, kindly," Wat replied, offering him a slip of 
paper.
	"How much is it?
	"Fifteen pounds eleven and sevenpence."
	I'll see 'about it;" said Mr. Lloyd.
	"That'll never do for me," replied Wat.
	"There's not a penny under the roof of the house," said Mr. 
Lloyd.
	"The devil a foot I'll stir out of this till I get it," Wat 
rejoined.
	"Have a drop of this," Mr. Lloyd remarked, filling a glass 
from the square bottle.
	"No objection," replied Wat, sententiously.
	Mr. Lloyd went to the side-board, and returned, holding a 
large dish in one hand with as much ease as if it were a small plate, 
and grasping a loaf of bread with the other.
	"Come, Dick," said he, placing them on the table, "let's 
have a bite."
	He cut some slices of bread and meat which Richard 
converted into sandwiches for himself and Mr. Lowe.
	"Wat," said Bob Lloyd, with his mouth full, "I'll see about 
that,"
	"Pay me the money, and let me go for the cow; that's the 
seein' about I want."
	"What cow?" Mr. Lloyd asked.
	"A fat cow I'm afther buyin' from your father," said Wat, 
turning to Richard; "and he won't let me' take her wudout the 
money. So, shell out," he added, turning to Mr. Lloyd, with a sort 
of humorous sulkiness of voice and look.
	Mr. Lloyd, appearing to pay no attention to this speech, bit 
a semicircle out of his sandwich, and holding it between him and 
the light, seemed to admire its regularity.
	Wat, drawing an old arm-chair towards the window, 
thereby disturbing the repose of an old setter that had possession of 
it, deliberately sat down, and crossed his legs with the air of a man 
who was bent upon taking his ease, and had nothing on earth to 
trouble him. Mr. Lloyd advanced in silence, and presented a 
carving knife at him with a substantial slice of cold meat on the top 
of it.
	Wat took the meat between his finger and thumb, and 
acknowledged the civility by uncrossing his legs and sitting 
upright.
	Mr. Lloyd then presented a carving fork with the other 
hand, upon which was a chunk of bread. This Wat also accepted, if 
not graciously, at least without any show of reluctance. Having 
emulated his host in the biting line  --  with the difference that, the 
bread and meat being each in a different hand, he had to take two 
bites instead of one  --  Wat remarked oracularly:
	"A pig's head ates very handsome, cowld."
	"Kitty," he called out to a servant girl who was flinging her 
cloak over her shoulders as she passed the window.
	The girl stopped and looked at him. Whereupon Wat raised 
the window and asked was she going to town.
	I am," replied Kitty. " Why so
	"Tell my mother to send me out an ounce of tobaccy," said 
Wat, in the calmest and most self-satisfied manner imaginable.
	"Now, Wat, what are you up to?" Mr. Lloyd asked. "Don't 
you know if the money was in the house there wouldn't be a 
second word about it?"
	"Well, to do you nothin' but justice," Wat replied, "I do 
know that. But you see two quarters of that cow are bespoke, and I 
can't disappoint my customers. Moreover, when wan quarter is for 
a weddin'."
	"Come to-morrow."
	"'Twon't do."
	"Well, what do you want?"
	"D--n well you know what I want," replied Wat. "An order 
on Tom Ryan. That's money any day."
	"There's not a pen or a bit of clean paper in the house," said 
Mr. Lloyd.
	"Ketch me!" was Wat's comment upon this objection. "I'm 
provided against accidents." And he produced an ink bottle with a 
leather strap attached to the neck, and unfolded half a sheet of 
paper which was rolled round a well-worn quill pen.
	Mr. Lloyd, seeing no way of escape, sat down and wrote 
the letters I and C. The latter turned out such a model of a capital 
letter that Mr. Lloyd held it up for the inspection of his friends. He 
then slowly and carefully wrote out the order, which ran thus
	"I Command you to pay Wat Murphy fifteen pounds 
sterling Money, which I will allow you out of your rent.
"ROBERT ORMSBY LLOYD.
 "To Mr. Thomas Ryan."
	"All right," said Wat, as he held the document to the fire to 
dry. After putting it in his pocket, he pointed to the square bottle.
	"Would you have any objection?" he asked.
	Bob Lloyd held up the square bottle, and, laying his hand 
along it, carefully measured the depth of liquor remaining. 
Seeming satisfied that he could afford to act on the very broad hint 
which Wat's question implied, he filled a glass.
	"Healths apiece to ye," said Wat, tossing off the whiskey as 
he passed the table, without stopping. He was immediately heard 
whistling to his bull-dog, who, with his back against the wall 
outside the hall-door, was keeping at bay quite a pack of hounds of 
various descriptions  --  but among which there was not a single 
"mongrel" or "cur of low degree"  --  by the mere glare of his eye.



CHAPTER XV.

A DAY'S SHOOTING LOST.

	THE snipe was at the well, as Bob Lloyd had foretold, and 
the moment it rose, the doctor "blazed away," But greatly to his 
surprise, the snipe did not fall with its wing broken.
	"He's wounded," the doctor exclaimed, on seeing the snipe 
pitch in the next field. "I'll make sure of him the next time."
	All three blazed away the next time; and when the smoke 
cleared off they saw the snipe quietly dropping into its old quarters 
near the well.
	Re-loading their guns they retraced their steps, and another 
volley woke the echoes of Mount Tempe. The snipe  --  as jack-
snipes are wont to do  --  flew a couple of hundred yards, and 
dropped again among the rushes in the next field.
	The affair now became quite exciting, and volley after 
volley made the unhappy fox among the flower pots shiver and 
creep from one corner to the other of its prison for a full hour and 
more.
	"Hugh is doing business," said Bob Lloyd, on hearing the 
report of Hugh's gun from the bog.
	"Ay, faith," he added, on seeing him quietly walk forward 
and pick up his bird.
	"I'll do that fellow's job," exclaimed Richard, through his 
clenched teeth, as he rammed home the charge in the long duck 
gun with a very unnecessary expenditure of force. "Let me alone, if 
I don't polish him off."
	We trust we need not say he did not mean his brother, but 
the jack-snipe.
	But just as the doctor had put his gun on full cock, Bob 
Lloyd laid his hand on his shoulder.
	"Is it a duck? " Richard asked.
	"Ay, faith," replied Bob. "The ice is broken on the pond, 
and he's coming about it."
	The wild duck flew round and round in a circle, and so low 
that the chances of a shot seemed not improbable.
	Bob Lloyd hurried to the corner of the field and stooped 
behind the fence. Richard and Mr. Lowe took up a position at some 
distance, and all three watched the wild duck with breathless 
excitement as it came nearer and nearer in each round of its flight. 
The doctor had his long gun to his shoulder at one time, and would 
have blazed away if Mr. Lowe had not stopped him.
	"Why don't you let me tumble him?" the doctor asked, in a 
whisper "I had him covered just when he was passing the sally-
tree."
	"Don't you see," Mr. Lowe replied, "that that tree is fully 
three hundred yards from us?"
	The duck suddenly changed from its circular course, and 
shot slantwise like an arrow into the pond. This move took the 
sportsmen by surprise; but recovering themselves, all three hurried 
along the fence, with their heads on a level with their knees. On, on 
they crept till they reached the part of the fence nearest to the pond. 
There was the duck quietly swimming among the broken 
fragments of ice, but not within shot.
	"How are we to manage?" said the doctor.
	"We're at the end of our tether, Dick," replied Bob Lloyd.
	"I'll get over the ditch and take him by surprise," said the 
doctor.
	And suiting the action to the word he climbed over the 
fence, and walked quickly towards the pond. The wild duck 
seemed really taken by surprise, for it remained hid behind a 
fragment of ice till the doctor reached the brink of the pond. He 
stood panting for a few seconds, with his gun half raised to his 
shoulder, but the duck never stirred. He advanced a step or two on 
the ice, and was beginning to think that the duck had got off in 
some inexplicable manner, when a tremendous splash and clatter in 
the water made him start. The duck rose so close to him that his 
first impulse was to step back. In doing this his feet slipped from 
under him, and he came down with extraordinary celerity on the 
end of his spine. The shock caused a queer sensation in his throat, 
and, in fact, he was much in the same state as Mrs. Slattery when 
she implored Father Hannigan to inform her whether she was 
killed.
	"Why the blazes didn't he fire? "exclaimed Bob Lloyd.
	"And why doesn't he get up?" Mr. Lowe asked, as he stood 
on his toes and looked over the fence,
	"Faith, he's taking it easy," said Bob Lloyd. "Let us come 
down to him,"
	"What's the matter, Dick? " he asked, on reaching the pond.
	In reply Doctor Richard Kearney informed his friends in 
quiet, matter-of-fact manner, and in the fewest and shortest words, 
that the part of his person upon which he had fallen was "broke,"
	"Misfortunes never come alone, Dick," said Bob Lloyd Get 
up, and let us be at the jack again."
	"Yes, 'tis the pleasantest," replied the doctor. " Help me up. 
For, hang me if I'm quite sure whether I can stand."
	He found, however, that he had the use of his limbs; and 
then returned to the well in pursuit of the jack-snipe.
	But the jack-snipe was not to be found. In vain they 
tramped through the rushes, and along the drains and ditches, and 
everywhere that a snipe would be likely to he found. The 
invulnerable jack had disappeared from the scene altogether.
	"He's dead," said the doctor. "I knew I peppered him the 
last time."
	"But if he was dead," Mr. Lowe remarked, "wouldn't the 
dogs find him?"
	They took one more round through the rushes; and then, as 
if moved by a single impulse, the three sportsmen grounded arms.
	Bob Lloyd rested his elbow on the muzzle of his gun, and 
dropped his chin into the palm of his hand.
	"Bad luck to that duck," said Bob Lloyd solemnly. "We lost 
our day's shooting on account of it."
	"What is Hugh up to?" the doctor asked, pointing to his 
brother, who was standing on a little bridge on the bog road, and 
waving his handkerchief to them.
	"I think it is calling us he is," said Mr. Lowe. "Let's have 
another glass of grog," the doctor suggested. "Ay, faith," replied 
Mr. Lloyd. "Come over." They returned to the house; and after 
another application to the square bottle, retraced their steps to the 
bog road, where Hugh was waiting for them.
	"Ye had good sport it would seem," Hugh remarked, 
"Game must be plenty in Mr. Lloyd's preserves?"
	"Well, we didn't meet much," replied Mr. Lowe.
	"And we lost our day's shooting on account of that duck," 
said Richard, putting his hand under his coat-tails with a look 
suggestive of a disagreeable sensation.
	"If we cross over to the turf-ricks on the high bank," Hugh 
remarked, "we may get a shot or two at the plover coming into the 
bog. They are flying low."
	"I vote for going home," replied the doctor. "I have got 
enough of it for one day."
	"I dare say you will have a good appetite for your dinner."
	"Well, rather; but we had lunch at Bob's."
	"What do you say, Mr. Lowe?" Hugh asked. "Shall we 
cross the bog and try and add a few grey plover to our bag?"
	"Well, I confess, I'm inclined to vote with the doctor for 
home."
	"Home is the word," said the doctor. And on seem some 
country people approaching be managed to let the head and neck 
of his snipe hang out of his pocket, and, with the long gun on his 
shoulder, stepped out at a quick pace, looking as if he had done 
wonders during the day.



CHAPTER XVI.

AN UNINVITED VISITOR.

	GRACE had run to the window a dozen times in as many 
minutes, to see if the sportsmen were returning; and though Mary 
smiled at her impatience, she could not conceal from herself that 
she shared it in no small degree.
	"Here they are at last," Grace exclaimed, gleefully.
	Mary started from her chair, but sat down again quickly. 
She blushed, and was glad that no one had seen her.
	Grace ran to open the door; and there was a little 
affectation in Mary's manner as she said, while passing through the 
hall:
	"Grace, tell them dinner will be on the table in a few 
minutes."
	But, as if ashamed of this "acting," she turned back and met 
the young men on the door-steps.
	"I hope you enjoyed the shooting," she said to Mr. Lowe. 
"Oh, yes," he replied, devoutly hoping that her inquiries would 
extend no further.
	"Well, dinner will be ready immediately," said Mary. "And 
I need not remind you we are to have a few friends in the evening."
	"Who are they? " Richard asked.
	"I thought I told you. But I am glad to have an agreeable 
surprise for you. It is the Miss Hanlys."
	The doctor glanced at Bob Lloyd's unmentionables and 
dashed up the stairs like a man bent upon throwing himself out of a 
window.
	As Maurice Kearney took his place at the head of the table,
his first question, as he looked at the edge of the carving knife, as a 
matter of course, was  --  Did you shoot much?"
	"Only four or five brace, sir," replied Hugh.
	"Oh, only that much," Grace exclaimed, "after all the firing 
we heard, I thought at one time there was a brisk skirmish going 
on, if not a pitched battle."
	"Well, now," said Hugh, who sat next her, "how would you 
feel if there was really a pitched battle going on in the bog?"
	"Oh, I'd be delighted. The excitement must be so pleasant. "
	"And which side would you wish to win?"
	"The Irish of course. How I should like to bind up the 
wounds of some gallant young chief like Robert Emmet or Sir 
William Wallace."
	"That is the Sir William Wallace whose picture you have 
'drawing the fatal sword' in the 'Scottish Chiefs'?
	"Yes; I mean some young chief like that who

"Fought for the land his soul adored,
For happy homes and altars free,
His only talisman  --  the Sword,
His only spellword  --  Liberty."

	"Mr. Lowe says you are a rebel," said Mary.
	"Oh, I don't know that," she replied, looking a little 
frightened. But observing that Mr. Lowe's smile indicated anything 
but displeasure, she added: "But I do admire a hero. And who is so 
great a hero as the patriot who fights and bleeds for the land of his 
birth?"
	"Will ye go to the bull-bait?" Maurice Kearney inquired.
	This question caused considerable surprise and some 
amusement.
	Mary, who knew her father's talent for such surprises, could 
not be sure whether the bull was hauled in after his usual manner 
of introducing subjects that had not the remotest connection with 
that under discussion, or whether Irish patriots, fighting for their 
country, suggested to him the baiting of a bull.
	"A bull-bait, sir?" said Hugh "Why, the practice has been 
entirely done away with for years."
	"'Tis to be before the end of the week; but the place is not 
decided on. Wat Murphy that told me. He was here for a cow I sold 
him last Sunday. I gave her to him too cheap."
	And Mr. Kearney rubbed his bald head, and seemed sorry 
too late for the bad bargain he had made with Wat Murphy.
	"I wonder he told us nothing about it," Richard remarked. 
"We saw him over at Bob Lloyd's."
	"Was that the butcher?" Mr. Lowe asked. "I remarked that 
he had a very well-bred bull-dog."
	"Are you an admirer of those interesting animals?" Hugh 
asked, with a slight shade of sarcasm in his tone.
	"Well, not exactly. But some of my English friends set 
great value on them. That white dog of the butcher's would, I 
fancy, fetch as high a price as the cow you sold him."
	"I gave her to him for thirteen pounds ten," said Mr. 
Kearney. "'Twas too cheap. Wat sold four pups for two pounds 
apiece last year."
	"But what do they want them for," Mary asked, "now that 
there is no bull-baiting? Surely it cannot be for their beauty they 
are kept. A more ill-favoured animal it would be impossible to 
imagine than that dog of Wat Murphy's, with his crooked legs and 
frightful grin. I am always quite uneasy when I see him about the 
place."
	"Don't you see he is always muzzled?" said her father.
	"That only makes him look the more ferocious," she 
replied. "'Tis a shame to have such dogs kept by any one. There 
was a poor beggar woman here the other day, who had her leg torn 
in a frightful manner by Pender's dog."
	"I heard papa say," said Grace, "that such accidents are 
becoming very frequent. He says many farmers keep ferocious 
dogs now. He called to see one poor child that was attacked by a 
dog, and though the dog was muzzled, papa feared the child would 
die."
	"So many robbers," said Mr. Kearney, "are now prowling 
about the country, people don't know what to do. But it isn't 
robbers Pender is afraid of, but bailiffs. He was here to-day 
looking for you," he added, turning to Mr. Lowe.
	"For me! Oh yes," he added, recollecting himself, "he is my 
uncle's agent."
	"His son," Mr. Kearney replied. "And as cantankerous a 
cub as ever the Lord put breath in. He drove up to the door with a 
double-barrel gun at each side of him, and four pistols stuck in his 
belt. You'd be talking of bull-dogs," he added, turning to Mary, 
"But where will you find an uglier bull-dog than Beresford 
Pender?"
	"Beresford!" exclaimed Mr. Lowe. "Is he a connection of 
that family?"
	"His father," replied Mr. Kearney seriously, "was a dog boy 
to the old marquis."
	This curious sort of connection with aristocracy made the 
young gentleman laugh. But Hugh, feeling that it was scarcely 
prudent on his father's part to talk in this way of the agent and his 
son in presence of the landlord's nephew, changed the subject by 
remarking  --  "But you must not suppose from what my father has 
said about robbers prowling through the country, that theft is one 
of our national vices. On the contrary, the honesty of the people, 
under the circumstances, is most extraordinary."
	"I inferred as much," said Mr. Lowe, "from what the 
clergymen said the other day about stealing turf. It seems to me a 
very venial offence for a poor man to take a little turf in that way. 
And Mr. Hannigan alluded to no other acts of dishonesty."
	"He had a right to say something about the turnips," said 
Mr. Kearney. "Only for I got a cabin in every field and had a man 
minding them, they wouldn't leave me a turnip these two last years, 
whatever is coming over 'em. And there are gangs of blackguards 
from the towns, besides, that will take whatever they can lay hands 
on."
	"Unfortunately that is true," said Hugh. "Unprincipled 
characters go about plundering under cover of the general distress. 
But poor, honest people are driven to it, too, by necessity. When 
their houses are pulled down and they are forced to take refuge in 
the lanes of the next town, it is not surprising that many become 
dishonest. The man who would almost lie down and die of hunger 
in his own poor cabin, among his neighbours, rather than bring 
disgrace upon his family by turning thief, can easily be tempted 
when be finds himself in the midst of strangers in some wretched 
hole in the lanes or outskirts of the town."
	"I really believe what you say is true," said his mother. 
"Poor Molly Ryan was out here the other day, and it was heart-
breaking to listen to her. Her two boys, that she 'reared honest,' as 
she said, got into bad company, and were in jail for attempting to 
break into Murphy's store. If they had not been turned out of their 
little place at the Cross roads, the boys, I am sure, would grow up 
honest and industrious, like their poor father, who was a very 
decent man, and very civil and obliging; he used to do many little 
things for us."
	The cloth had been removed during the foregoing 
conversation; and Maurice Kearney had just mixed his second 
tumbler, and pushed the decanter to Hugh as his wife concluded.
	Richard, after waiting impatiently for a minute or two, and 
seeing that his brother had no intention of applying to the decanter, 
reached across the table and quietly filled his own glass.
	Mr. Lowe, we may observe, drank sherry.
 	"My goodness!" Grace exclaimed, in a whisper to Mary, 
"what can be the matter with Adonis? He has not opened his lips, 
except to imbibe whiskey-punch, the whole evening."
	"I really don't know," replied Mary.
	"His silence is positively miraculous," Grace continued. 
"particularly as Father M'Mahon is not present. And he has his 
dress-coat on. And," she added, opening her eyes with surprise as 
the doctor wheeled round his chair and stretched his legs towards 
the fire, "and his patent leather boots. I'm lost in amazement!"
	"Do you forget that the bewitching Kathleen is coming?"
	Grace frowned awfully; and got into a brown study 
immediately.
	"Are you jealous?" asked Mary, laughing. "What a dreadful 
coquette you must be. You had quite forgotten Adonis  --  had only 
ears and eyes for Apollo  --  and yet you are now up in arms 
against Kathleen."
	"Well, now, Mary don't talk so foolishly. Let us go to the 
drawing-room."
	Mr. Lowe opened the door for them, and they passed out, 
Grace looking almost too grand to acknowledge the civility by a 
slight inclination of the head. But before going to the drawing-
room she went upstairs, and returned wearing a necklace and other 
adornments, bent, no doubt, upon shining down Kathleen Hanly. 
	She first took up a book and, fixing herself in a becoming 
attitude, began to read. But her furtive glances towards the door led 
Mary to suspect that the book had not much interest for her.
	"What are you reading, Grace?" she asked; and Mary 
laughed on seeing her turn the book round to read the title on the 
back.
	"I guessed;" continued Mary, "that you were not quite 
absorbed in your studies."
	"You are bent upon teasing to-night. I suppose they will not 
favour us with their society till those ladies arrive."
	"Well, we shall not have long to wait," Mary replied; "for 
here they are."
	The sound of wheels on the gravel was quickly followed by 
a knock  --  an unusually loud and long knock, Mary thought  --  at 
the hall-door.
	The door was opened by Hugh before his sister reached the 
hall, and Miss Rose Hanly was explaining in a hurried and excited 
manner that they had brought Miss Lloyd with them.
	"She came out from town with mamma in the evening," 
said Miss Rose; "and, when she found we were coming to tea, she 
said she would come with us; as her brother, Robert, she said, 
knew you all very well."
	This was evidently a matter of tremendous importance in 
Miss Hanly's eyes; and, though Hugh took it coolly enough, Mary 
seemed considerably surprised. But before anything further could 
he said, the lady in question, accompanied by Kathleen, made her 
appearance.
	Mary welcomed all her visitors, and conducted them to her 
own room.



CHAPTER XVII.

LORY.

	WHEN Hugh was closing the door, he felt some slight 
resistance offered from the outside; but on looking out he could see 
nothing, the night was so intensely dark. On attempting to close the 
door a second time, the same gentle pressure Prevented him.
	"Who's there?" he asked.
	There was no reply: but a rather tall young lad advanced a 
step or two into the hall, and looked wildly about him.
	He was slight and somewhat raw-boned, and being at that 
moment almost blue with the cold, he presented the appearance of 
anything but a handsome youth.
	Hugh waited, expecting him to speak; and he waited, 
expecting Hugh would speak. And so they continued to stare at 
each other for a couple of minutes.
	"I came with my sisters," said the young lad, at last, in a 
voice so unexpectedly deep and loud that it made Hugh start.
	"Oh, Mr. Hanly," said Hugh, "I had quite forgotten you."
	"No wonder for you," was the reply in the same voice, and 
with the same wild opening of the eyes. "I had a petticoat on me 
the last time you saw me. Huh huh!"
	He laughed a deep, hollow laugh, in which Hugh joined  --  
not because the laugh was at all infectious, but because the allusion 
to the petticoat, in which his young neighbour had been kept far 
beyond the usual age, called up the very remarkable figure which a 
year or two before he occasionally saw starting from some grove 
or hedge, or mounted upon a gate pier, or paling, and looking, he 
used to think, like a young Indian in an early stage of the process 
of civilization.
	"Come in. This is young Mr. Hanly," he added, on entering 
the parlour.
	Young Mr. Hanly pulled off his cap, and looked round him 
as if he intended to bolt immediately, if he could only find an 
opening anywhere.
	Everyone looked at young Mr. Hanly except the doctor, 
who was so absorbed in his own reflections, or in the shine of his 
boots, as to seem unconscious of what was passing.
	"Good-night, Richard," said the new arrival. And the deep 
bass of his voice made them all start.
	"Oh, Lory!" Richard exclaimed, extending his hand to him. 
"How on earth did you manage to grow, so fast? "
	"You're a head over me yet," replied Lory.
	"Have a glass of punch?" said Mr. Kearney.
	Lory made no reply; but the expression of his face as he 
drew a chair to the table was more eloquent than words.
	He cast a look towards the door as if apprehending 
opposition from that quarter, and commenced operations in a rather 
hurried manner.
	Mr. Kearney, who had again introduced the bull-bait, was 
proceeding to give them some particulars he had learned from Wat 
Murphy, when Lory produced another sensation by the simple 
remark  --  "I know all about that."
	Lory gulped down a mouthful of his punch, which was so 
hot that it brought the tears to his eyes, and hastily pushed his 
tumbler towards Mr. Lowe, a proceeding which rather astonished 
that gentleman, who seemed to think that Mr. Hanly intended to 
share the beverage with him.
	But after looking towards the door, and finding that his 
sister, whose voice he had just heard in the hall, was not coming 
into the parlour, Lory took possession of his tumbler again, and 
looked at Mr. Lowe as if, on the whole, he rather thought himself 
in clover.
	"How is your father? " Mr. Kearney asked,
	"I couldn't tell you that," replied Lory. "He's in Dublin."
	Mr. Hanly the elder was an attorney; but the nature and 
extent of his professional business, was something of a mystery to 
his neighbours. He made periodical visits to the metropolis, during 
which he was in a manner lost to his family and friends in the 
country. Some inquisitive people attempted from time to time to 
find out his whereabouts in Dublin, but except that he was once 
seen dining at a tavern in the neighbourhood of Ormond Quay, 
these attempts invariably proved unsuccessful. Attorney Hanly 
came and went like the swallows  --  or rather the swifts  --  that 
took periodical possession of the crevices in the old castle near his 
house, and no one was the wiser of where he had been, save in a 
general way; for a letter to him, addressed "General Post Office, 
Dublin," usually reached his hands  --  when it suited him. He 
rented a not very large farm within a mile of Knocknagow, upon 
which he had built a handsome house, where his family always 
lived genteelly, though somewhat economically. Attorney Hanly 
was eccentric, and supposed to be rich  --  probably because he was 
eccentric.
	Come, let us have a few songs from the ladies," said Mr. 
Kearney. "That's Miss Hanly rattling at the piano, I think."
	The gentlemen followed him to the drawing-room, except 
the doctor, who sat with folded arms at the fire, and Lory,  who 
waited to finish his punch.
	"What's that I heard Rose and Kathleen talking about? Lory 
asked. "I couldn't get it out of them, they laughed so much. 
Something about you and the bog?"
	"Shut up, Lory," the doctor exclaimed, starting to his feet 
and filling out a glass of wine, which he swallowed with look of 
distraction.
	"Come," said he, after arranging his shirt-collar at the 
looking-glass, "finish that and let us go to them."
	"Faith, I'd rather stay where I am," said Lory, looking at the 
decanters.
	"On my honour, my dear fellow," replied the doctor, "you 
are not at all singular in that way of thinking. Rose and Kathleen 
are here?"
	"Yes, and Miss Lloyd."
	"Whew!" the doctor whistled and walked up and down the 
room. 	"What the devil brought her?"
	"Faith, I don't know. They were all surprised when she 
came out with my mother on the mail-car, and walked from  the 
cross."
	"I think I understand it," said the doctor. And it was some 
consolation to him to reflect that Miss Lloyd's thoughts were so 
concentrated upon Sir Garrett Butler's nephew, that she probably 
had given no attention to his humble self and the misadventure of 
the morning.
	The doctor stood irresolutely at the drawing-room door, till 
he heard his father say:
	"Come, Grace, give us 'Who Fears to Speak of 'Ninety-
Eight?'"
	And under cover of the song the doctor advanced and 
shook hands in silence with Miss Lloyd and the two Miss Hanlys.
	Grace sang with spirit, and received the compliments of the 
company with becoming dignity. She could not, how ever, conceal 
her delight when Mr. Lowe came to read the words of the song, 
and ask her who was its author.
	"I heard papa say," she replied, "that it was written by one 
of the scholars of Trinity College. All those songs appeared 
originally in the Nation. The airs are nearly all old Irish airs; but 
the music of that song is original."
	Mr. Lowe turned to other songs in the book, and it was with 
no small share of pride she told him that the writers of some of 
them were "friends of her papa's."
	"I should like to hear you sing this one," said he, pointing 
to a song, a stanza of which he had read.
	"Oh, yes; that is one of Davis's. He was a true poet. At first 
I did not admire his poetry so much. But I do now. 'Tis so full of 
heart. He was an irreparable loss to the country," she added 
solemnly. 
	"As a poet?" Mr. Lowe asked.
	"Well, yes; but more as a patriot. You can have no idea of 
how much he was beloved. I saw Mr. D -- , who, papa says, is a 
man of powerful intellect, burst into tears one evening at our 
house, when speaking of Davis. And O'Connell, when alluding to 
him after hearing of his death, said, 'I can write no more  --  my 
tears blind me.'"
	Mr. Lowe looked at her with surprise.
	"Yes," she continued, as if replying to his look; "these are 
O'Connell's words."
	But it was at herself he was wondering; and Hugh and 
Mary, who sat near the piano, exchanged looks and seemed to 
enjoy his astonishment.
	Miss Lloyd, however, was both astonished and chagrined to 
find that Mr. Lowe could feel interest in the prattle of a mere child.
	"I'm ashamed to acknowledge," said Mr. Lowe, still 
addressing himself to the little lady perched upon the stool, "that I 
know almost nothing about Mr. Davis. He was, I understand, a 
young barrister whose name seldom figured in the newspapers. But 
from what you tell me I must believe he was no common man."
	"Papa says," she rejoined, "that his influence on the mind of 
the country will be felt for ever. And, young as he died, his wish 
was granted."
	"What was his wish? "
	"His wish was  -- 

'Be my epitaph writ on my country's mind  -- 
He served his country and loved his kind!'"

	Mr. Lowe again looked at her with surprise. But when 
Mary glanced at her brother this time, her glance was not returned. 
She saw his broad chest heave; and a strange light, half fire, half 
softness, swam in his dark eyes.
	Mary shook her head as she thought to herself how little 
they understood him who thought him cold and unsusceptible. 
Behind that "down look," for which Hugh Kearney got credit, there 
was, she was sure, a heart and a soul of no common tenderness and 
enthusiasm.
	Miss Lloyd looked from one to the other of the group in 
amazement. She really could not understand what it all meant; but 
there were many things which Miss Lloyd could not understand.
	And besides, Miss Lloyd liked nothing half so well as the 
music of her own voice, which we must admit was musical; so 
much so that it took many persons a considerable time to discover 
that what seemed so pleasant had nothing in it. But she had a trick 
of talking to one person and at another; which was very trying to 
the latter  --  as Mr. Henry Lowe was destined to learn to his cost.



CHAPTER XVIII.

MISS LLOYD'S FOIBLES.

	As we have said so much of Miss Lloyd, we shall glance at 
one or two more of her peculiarities.
	The facility with which Miss Lloyd fell in love with every 
eligible young man  --  and occasionally with an eligible old one  --  
that came in her way, was something marvellous, and a source of 
great anxiety to her family and friends. Her being still in the land 
of the living was a matter of daily wonderment to her sympathizing 
sisters  --  " poor Henrietta" was so often on the point of dying of a 
broken heart. The defection of a young ensign of nineteen 
produced such an effect upon her, that she spent twenty-four hours 
"from one fainting fit into another"  --  we quote the words of her 
own mother; and she was known to have taken to her bed for three 
weeks because of the heartlessness of a widower of sixty-five who 
had been particular in his attentions on the occasion of his grand-
daughter's marriage, Miss Lloyd being one of the bridesmaids. But 
Miss Henrietta Lloyd's strong point was curiosity  --  an all-
absorbing inquisitiveness about other people and their affairs. The 
passion  --  for with her it amounted to a passion  --  bore down 
everything before it. All sense of propriety, all fear of 
consequences vanished like dew, in the intense heat of her desire to 
know what her neighbours were about. Listening at windows, 
dropping in uninvited at unseasonable times, stopping servants in 
the streets, and catechising butchers' boys, were everyday 
occurrences with Miss Lloyd. She had been known to rush across 
the street at eleven at night, and knock at Doctor Cusack's door, 
merely because her maid had remarked that a car had stopped there 
from which a man with a travelling bag had alighted. The doctor  --  
thinking it was his assistant, whom he had sent with two bread pills 
to the parson's mother-in-law, who had taken suddenly ill  --  
opened the door; and Miss Lloyd found herself face to face with an 
elderly gentleman in his night shirt, and was greeted at the same 
moment with a cheer from three young gentlemen of the Rev. Mr. 
Labart's academy, who had been making a night of it at the hotel 
before resuming their studies after vacation.
	Miss Lloyd would slip into the kitchen for a confab with 
the cook during the progress of a dinner-party upstairs, her not 
being invited to which was meant as a deliberate slight. And we 
blush to say that even the apartments of single young men had no 
terrors for Miss Lloyd when her inquisitiveness was aroused, and 
could only be gratified by bearding the bachelor in his hall.
	Yet, strange to say, the lady's fair fame never suffered from 
these peccadilloes. Her immunity in this respect, however, was 
partly owing to the fact that she belonged to that class of fair ones 
into whose "lug" the Scottish poet begged leave to whisper  --  

"Ye're aiblins nae temptation,"

and partly because she was a very rhinoceros to those shafts which 
usually wound so deeply, but which are so seldom discharged 
except when they can wound.
	From these glimpses of Miss Lloyd's character the reader 
must have anticipated that two of her foibles combined to bring her 
this evening to Ballinaclash.
	She had been on thorns during the week to get a look at Mr. 
Lowe; and when Mrs. Hanly met her in the main street of 
Kilthubber, and casually remarked that her girls were going to tea 
to Mr. Kearney's in the evening, Miss Lloyd eagerly offered to 
accompany her home: This Mrs. Hanly really looked upon as an 
honour, and thought it a most unfortunate circumstance that she 
had come to town on the public car and was to return by the same 
conveyance.
	The girls," she remarked, "were returning one or two visits 
in the morning, and I thought it would be too late to wait for the 
carriage. So I took a seat on the mail car."
	"Oh, no matter, my dear Mrs. Hanly," returned Miss Lloyd, 
"it will be quite pleasant. I know the driver of the mail car very 
well. That was Mr. Labart's new servant from Dublin that was on 
the car with you. I have not seen her yet; but I'm told she has 
excellent discharges from her two last places. So, my dear Mrs. 
Hanly, come up and I'll be ready in a minute."
	Mrs. Hanly, in the innocence of her heart, thought it would 
be necessary to send an apology to Miss Kearney; as, of course, 
her daughters could not think of leaving so distinguished a visitor 
as Miss Lloyd alone with herself during the evening. But Miss 
Lloyd at once removed that difficulty by announcing her intention 
of going with them.
	"To be sure," said she, "I'm not personally acquainted with 
them, but that makes no difference. I know their brother, the 
doctor, who is a great friend of Robert's: but I believe he is in 
Dublin."
	"Oh, he is at home," replied Rose Hanly. "We passed him a 
few hours ago in the bog. I wish you saw him."
	And Rose glanced at her sister, who, so far from joining in 
the laugh, looked quite huffed that her admirer should be made 
sport of in such a manner.
	"He is an elegant young man," Miss Lloyd observed, 
gravely; "and waltzes admirably. He was at the last race ball. I'll be 
delighted to meet him."
	Miss Lloyd was fastening a bracelet on her wrist in a 
nervous, fidgety manner, and had several pins in her mouth while 
she was speaking.
	"Oh, I am most unfortunate," she exclaimed, tumbling 
various small articles out of her bag on the floor. " I fear I have lost 
my charms."
	"'Pon my word, Miss Lloyd, that is a misfortune; and one 
that few would suspect you in danger of  --  

"'Vacuus cantat coram latrone viator.'"

	The young lady started, and with a terrified look towards 
the door, whence the sound proceeded, ran for protection to 
Kathleen, and grasped her convulsively by the arm.
	"Why do you come up here, sir? What business have you in 
our room?" exclaimed Rose, quite in a shrewish tone.
	"To tell you that the car is at the door, and not to keep the 
pony standing in the cold."
 "Oh!" gasped Miss Lloyd, with her hand pressed against her left 
side, "what a dreadful voice he has!"
	"I'm always at him about it," said Rose, "but I can get no 
good of him. And somehow you never know he's there till he 
speaks. He startles ourselves now as much as anybody else, as he 
has been at school for two years without coming home. But he's 
very clever," she added, evidently proud of the fact. "He took first 
prizes in classics. I believe that's Greek he's after talking now."
	"Oh, I hope he won't talk any more Greek to me," said Miss 
Lloyd, drawing a long breath. "A few more such shocks would 
knock me up completely."
	"You'll get used to it," said Rose. "In fact, it wouldn't be 
half so bad if you were prepared for it. But let us hurry, and not 
leave the poor pony to be frozen to death."
	"I can't get any good of it," said Miss Lloyd despairingly.
	One side of her hair was so obstinately in curl that she 
couldn't brush it out, and the other side was so hopelessly out of 
curl that she couldn't twist it in. With Kathleen's assistance, 
however, she fixed it somehow, and on hearing Lory rushing up 
the stairs again, they hurried out of the room.
	"We're ready," exclaimed Rose, putting her hand on her 
brother's mouth, to save Miss Lloyd's nerves from another shock.
	And now we find the last-mentioned lady with her elbow 
resting upon Mary Kearney's piano, and feeling her hair with the 
tips of her fingers, for the double purpose of displaying her 
bracelet to the best advantage, and satisfying herself as to how the 
refractory curl was behaving itself.
	She was losing all patience at seeing Mr. Lowe throwing 
away so much of his time talking to "that pert little thing," while 
she, Henrietta Lloyd, was there for the express purpose of talking 
to him.
	But when Rose Hanly was asked to sing, and Grace made 
way for her, Miss Lloyd could no longer conceal her ineffable 
disgust.
	"Oh, really," she exclaimed, "ye are all musically mad." To 
her great relief, however, the tea-tray appeared just as the song had 
concluded. And her good humour was quite restored when she saw 
they were to have tea sitting sociably round the table. Miss Lloyd 
shone with peculiar brilliancy at the tea table; and she now 
hastened to take up a position from which she could direct her fire 
on Mr. Lowe through Mrs. Kearney.
	"Where do you get your tea, Mrs. Kearney? " she began. 
"We get ours at Phelin's," she continued, without waiting for a 
reply. "Mr. Hemphill recommended us to get it there."
	Poor Mr. Lowe was already beginning to feel quite 
uncomfortable, for the lady never turned her eyes from his face for 
a moment.
	"What strange things people will say, Mrs. Kearney?"
	 Mr. Lowe looked at her inquiringly, for, from the direct 
stare with which she regarded him, he expected she was about 
accusing him of saying strange things. To his great relief, however, 
she continued:
	"It was said in Phelin's shop that we had no fortunes."
	Mr. Lowe sought relief in the bottom of his tea-cup, but 
failed to find it, for he felt the eyes were upon him.
	"But, Mrs. Kearney, you may tell any one that asks that we 
have fortunes. I have two thousand, and my sisters a thousand 
each."
	Mr. Lowe tried balancing his spoon on his finger, but the 
relief it afforded was only partial and temporary.
	"Mr. Hemphill's son is after coming home. I have not seen 
him yet; but I'm told he is an elegant young man."
	Look sharp, Mr. Lowe! Make your hay while the sun 
shines!
	He meditated bolting from the room, but felt as if be 
couldn't  --  as if she "held him with her glittering eye," like the 
Ancient Mariner.
	 "And Robert tells me," continued Miss Lloyd, "that Mr. 
Hemphill is extremely intellectual."
	The idea that Bob Lloyd had ever used such a phrase as 
"extremely intellectual" was so good a joke that both Hugh and 
Richard found it difficult to refrain from laughing.
	But it must not be suspected that Miss Lloyd was drawing 
upon her imagination. She merely had recourse to a euphemism, 
which was her practice when quoting her brother's observations. In 
this instance Bob did say, in reply to a question of hers, that young 
Hemphill was a "bloody clever fellow," and this expression Miss 
Lloyd merely translated into "extremely intellectual."
	"I know his brother," said Lory, from the opposite end of 
the table.
	Miss Lloyd was in the act of putting her cup to her lips, and 
staring at Mr. Lowe over the brim, when Lory's remark, innocent 
as it may seem in print, knocked the cup out of her hand as 
effectually as if he had flung a projectile at it with unerring aim.
	The shock was felt more or less by all present; but when 
they saw Miss Lloyd with her hand in the same position as when 
the cup flew from it, apparently unable to move, and staring at 
Lory as if he had knocked the wits out of her too, a laugh that 
could not be suppressed went round the table. And when the 
nervous lady at length leant back in her chair and said faintly, 
"That boy is dreadful," Mr. Lowe blessed Lory in his heart for 
drawing her eyes upon himself.
	Mrs. Kearney took the broken tea-cup in her hand; and the 
good woman was inconsolable. She had not even the melancholy 
consolation of telling how her uncle Dan admired the pattern of 
this particular set; for Richard suggested a dance at the moment, 
which caused a general movement among the company, and Mrs. 
Kearney gently laid the broken cup on the tray with a sigh.



CHAPTER XIX.

WILL SIR GARRETT RENEW THE LEASE?

	GRACE was taking her place at the piano, when Mary 
whispered to her that she herself would play for the dancers  --  an 
arrangement which Grace liked very well. But she looked quite 
offended when she saw that Mr. Lowe and the doctor had already 
engaged the two Miss Hanlys; and Hugh was compelled by the 
exigencies of the case to offer his arm to the formidable Miss 
Lloyd. 
	"Stand up, sir," said Rose Hanly to her brother. And Lory 
and Grace completed the set.
	"Are you long here?" Lory asked.
	"Some weeks," she replied, after involuntarily moving half-
a-yard away from him.
	"Will you stay much longer?
	"I can't say."
	"Come with me," said Lory confidentially, "and I'll show 
you places you never saw before."
	She stared at him with unfeigned astonishment.
	"I'll show you a cave," he continued, "that very few know 
about."
	"Oh!" was her only reply. And the idea of a cave, taken in 
connection with her partner's voice, gave her a vague sort of 
impression that he lived under ground, and only visited his friends 
during the holidays. She looked at him more curiously than she had 
yet done, and thought his costume rather strengthened this notion. 
His coat, for instance, was evidently made for him when he was 
about half his present size. It was much too narrow in the 
shoulders; the sleeves did not reach far below the elbows; the 
buttons behind were half-way up his back; and the skirts fell 
considerably short of the extremity of the spine. On the other hand, 
his trousers, of grey cotton tweed, was distressingly new and shiny, 
and very much too large; the tailor, warned no doubt by the 
example of the coat, seeming to have left him "ample room and 
verge enough" to expand into a colossus, if he were so minded  -- 
particularly about that portion of his person which the coat-skirts 
seemed to be straining every thread to cover, but only partially 
succeeded. So that Grace fancied she saw in her partner the upper 
half of a small boy joined to the lower half of a stout man.
	She was soon struck by another peculiarity, which both 
surprised and distressed her. When it came near their turn to begin 
the figure, Lory's legs began bending and straightening at the 
knees. With his neck stretched forward, and staring wildly at the 
opposite wall, he worked up and down spasmodically to the time 
of the music.
	Grace thought at first that the soles of his boots had, by 
some unaccountable means, been glued to the floor, and that he 
was exciting all his strength to get them free. In fact, it seemed 
absolutely necessary that Lory should pump himself for a minute 
or two before he could set off. And this getting up of steam was 
more frequent than usual in consequence of Hugh's ignorance of 
quadrilles  --  and Miss Lloyd was not the sort of partner to set him 
right.
	The doctor, who was opposite to his brother and Miss 
Lloyd, was greatly annoyed by these blunders; and as he seldom 
thought of consulting other people's wishes when his own were to 
be gratified, he coolly took Grace by the hand and transferred her 
to Hugh, handing back Miss Lloyd to Lory, who, by merely asking 
"did she like quadrilles?" almost precipitated her into Maurice 
Kearney's lap.
	This exchange of partners so bewildered Miss Lloyd, that 
the dance was over before she could fully realize her position.
	Grace hung upon Hugh's arm, glad to escape from her late 
partner; and her quick eye did not fail to observe that the exchange 
was very welcome to Hugh too. He drew her out about Davis and 
other kindred subjects; but she never lost sight of the business in 
hand, and piloted him SO deftly that there were no more mistakes 
till the dance was concluded.
	"Wonders will never cease," said she to Mary, as she 
fanned herself with her handkerchief. "Fionn Macool can make 
himself agreeable."
	"It would be strange if he could not," Mary replied, with a 
thoughtful smile.
	The evening passed very pleasantly. Everyone who could 
sing, did sing  --  including Maurice Kearney himself, who gave 
them the "Cruiskeen Lawn," in excellent style. Other dances 
followed the first; and a polka with Sir Garrett Butler's nephew 
made even Miss Lloyd supremely happy.
	When they reached home, the Miss Hanlys and their visitor  
--  according to universal custom  --  discussed the merits of the 
people with whom they had spent the evening.
	Kathleen was outspoken in praise of the doctor; and Miss 
Lloyd agreed in all she said in his praise. And Kathleen as fully 
shared Miss Lloyd's ecstasies on the subject of Mr. Lowe.
	"Even if you separate his features," said Miss Lloyd, "he is 
a singularly handsome man. And what lovely hair he has!"
	"Yes," replied Kathleen, "his hair is very nice."
	"And," exclaimed Miss Lloyd, clasping her hands together 
and turning up her eyes fervently, "did you ever see such feet with 
mortal?"
	"Ye may talk," said Rose, who leant on the table with her 
hand pressed against her forehead, as if she were suffering from 
headache  --  "ye may talk, but I'd rather have one honest smile 
from Hugh Kearney than all the blandishments of your elegant 
young man."
	'Pon my word," replied Kathleen, opening her eyes very 
wide, "whatever may be thought of your taste, I cannot help 
admiring your candour."
	"Yes, I am candid," Rose rejoined, rather crossly; "and 
that's more than other people are." 
	The bewitching Kathleen got very red, and an angry look 
flashed from her eyes; but she only stooped down, and, snatching 
up her lap-dog from the hearth-rug, began to fondle it assiduously.
	"It really surprises me," said Miss Lloyd, "how some ladies 
will openly express their preferences for young men."
	"I always do," retorted Rose. "Don't you?"
	"Well, Miss Hanly, I never forget that I am a 
gentlewoman." And Miss Lloyd laid great stress on the word 
gentlewoman; which was not very ladylike, however 
gentlewomanly, seeing that she meant to remind her friends that 
their claims to gentility  --  in her sense of the word  --  were not 
quite as strong as her own.
	"Well," rejoined Rose, who did not want pluck. "I can't 
boast of much of your acquaintance. But from all I have heard of 
you, I am under the impression that you are in the habit of coming 
out pretty strong with regard to your preferences for young men  --  
and old ones too," added Rose  --  we fear in allusion to the 
widower. 
	Miss Lloyd turned away in disdain, and resumed her 
conversation with Kathleen, who became quite tender and 
sentimental about "Poor Richard," as she affectionately called the 
doctor.
	And Miss Lloyd certainly did not practise what she 
preached , for she did come out very strong indeed in praise of Mr. 
Lowe.
	The next day, when her sisters inquired how she liked her 
new acquaintance, Miss Lloyd put her handkerchief to her eyes, 
and bursting into a flood of tears, declared that she was "as fond of 
him as she was of her life."
	Before going to bed, Maurice Kearney insisted upon having 
a comfortable glass by the fire with his guest.
	"Pender is to come again to see you to-morrow," said he. 
"He had a letter from your uncle."
	"Indeed! "exclaimed the young gentleman, looking rather 
blank. It flashed upon him that he had already spent  --  he could 
not, at the moment, remember how many days  --  on his uncle's 
Tipperary estate, and knew as much about it as the man in the 
moon.
	"I wonder," continued Maurice Kearney, "did he say 
anything about the lease?"
	"I really cannot imagine," replied his guest, absently. And, 
at that moment, Mr. Lowe could imagine nothing except that Mary 
Kearney was the most angelic being in creation.
	"Times are changed," added the host, thoughtfully. "I 
expect he will allow me for the drainage. I wish he'd come to see 
the place himself. I could show him forty acres of nice land where 
I found him the day he sprained his knee, with his horse sunk up to 
the girths in a shaky bog. I lost a hatful of money by it."
	"You lost more than the fee-simple is worth," said Hugh.
	"I don't know how much I lost by it," replied his father, 
rubbing his head uneasily; "but when I began, I didn't like to stop 
and throw the men out of employment."
	"I can tell you what you lost by it," said Hugh.
	"Poor Mr. Butler," Mrs. Kearney observed, "suffered a 
great deal from that accident. We had him here for six weeks. But 
he was as gentle as a child, and when he began to get ease from the 
pain he desired me to write for my Uncle Dan; and sure so I did, 
and he brought his violin, and Mr. Butler sent for his flute; and 
'twas beautiful to listen to them. 'Twas the year after he was 
shipwrecked coming from abroad. And when the poor dear 
gentleman went away, the house was quite lonesome after him. 
Richard was born in the month of March after. And sure, I 
suppose," added Mrs. Kearney, contemplatively, "that's the reason 
he has such a taste for music."
	Hugh had left the room unobserved, and now appeared with 
his ledger, and, laying it on the table, he began turning over the 
leaves.
	"For God's sake shut that book  --  I hate the sight of it," 
exclaimed his father, with a gesture of impatience.
	"I thought you wanted to know what the drainage cost," 
said Hugh.
	"I don't want to know it. What good would it do me to 
know it? And sure a man couldn't do anything if he was to keep an 
account of every penny that way."
	Hugh smiled, and put the obnoxious book out of sight. 
"Good night, Mr. Lowe!" exclaimed Maurice Kearney, jumping 
suddenly from his chair in quite a lively manner. "I'm going to the 
fair to-morrow, and must be half-way to C --  before daybreak."
	"Ah, then," said his wife, "will you try and get a match for 
that cup Miss Lloyd broke? And I'm afraid you can't. I wouldn't 
wish it for anything."
	I will  --  I will," he replied. "Tell Norry to give it to Tom 
Maher, and let him remind me of it."
	"I'm surprised she should be so awkward," continued Mrs. 
Kearney, returning to her grievance. "But it was all that young 
Hanly's fault. I declare he frightened the life out of me."
	Mrs. Kearney remained buried in thought for a minute, and 
then added, solemnly:
	"Don't be talking; but he has a terrible throat!" This allusion 
to Lory elicited so loud a laugh from Hugh, that the doctor, who 
had been asleep in an arm-chair, started up and rubbed his eyes.
	"There's eleven striking, Richard," said his mother, "and 
you are tired, and ought to go to bed."
	"It is time for us all to go," Hugh remarked.
	And he and Mr. Lowe and the doctor retired each to his 
own room.
	But Hugh hurried on before the doctor, and thrust the 
second-hand clarionet under the bed, lest the idea of the fair 
Kathleen operating upon that taste for music which his mother had 
so satisfactorily accounted for, should interfere with the slumbers 
of the household.
'And the clarionet not being in the doctor's way, every soul under 
Maurice Kearney's roof was resting in peace and quietness when 
the clock struck twelve. 



CHAPTER XX.

MR. LOWE GETS A LETTER OF WARNING.

	NEXT day, as the doctor was proposing another walk to the 
Castle, Barney Brodherick was seen cantering from the avenue 
gate, mounted upon the little black donkey, Bobby, which he 
regarded as his own peculiar property.
	"Let us wait," said Hugh, "he may have some letters."
	Barney rode up to the window, and handed in the letters 
and newspapers he had brought from the crossroads, where, as 
usual, he had met the mail-car.
	There was a letter for Mr. Lowe.
	"I think," Hugh suggested, as he tore off the cover of a 
newspaper, "you had better read your letter before going out. You 
may want to reply to it."
	The letter was from Mr. Lowe's mother, and as the contents 
may help us on with our story, we give a few extracts:
	"I am very uneasy, my dearest Henry," the lady began, 
"since I have received a letter from young Mr. Pender, in which he 
speaks of the dreadful state of the country in that locality. He has 
been fired at three times during the last fortnight, and would have 
captured one of the assassins on the last occasion only that his 
horse took fright and ran away with him. The horse, unfortunately, 
was a borrowed one, and not accustomed to stand fire. But if he 
had had his own horse, there can scarcely be a doubt but that he 
would have made prisoners of at least two of the gang. He could 
not use his pistols, they set upon him so suddenly, but he felled one 
of the miscreants to the earth, and the other two took to flight after 
discharging their blunderbusses at him, but fortunately without 
effect, except that a slug from one of them lodged in his nose. It 
has been extracted, and the doctors do not think the wound 
dangerous. But why do I go on telling you those things when, of 
course, you know all the particulars of the dreadful affair. He is a 
very brave young man, but generous to a fault. He begs me not to 
tell Sir Garrett, lest he should eject all the tenants from the 
townland where this shocking outrage occurred. For the same 
reason he has only given a very guarded account of it to the local 
papers. But of course the whole truth must come out at the trial, 
when the assassins are arrested, which I think they will be, as Mr. 
Pender has described them minutely to the police. He thinks it a 
duty he owes to society to prosecute them to conviction . . . .
	Oh, my dear Henry, I have quite changed my mind about 
the agency. Bad as India is, it is not so bad as a place where such 
dreadful occurrences could take place in the middle of the noon-
day  --  or what is all the same, for it was not long after sunset in 
the evening. I will never consent to your exposing your life in such 
a manner . . . 
	"Mr. P. speaks of other things which I do not like to allude 
to in this letter. What sort of people are the Kearneys? I mean the 
younger members of the family. The old man seems good-natured 
and harmless, and your uncle thinks highly of his wife, at whose 
hands he says he experienced much kindness long ago; but then he 
was always so unsuspicious and unworldly, he is apt to view things 
in the most favourable light. Have you noticed anything peculiar 
about his eldest son? My dearest Henry, be careful . . . .  I 
understand his daughter is good-looking and has got some 
education. Well, I know something of the world, and, take my 
word for it, girls of this kind, particularly when they are educated 
above their rank, are the most designing creatures in existence. 
Your poor uncle should be a warning to you. But I ought to beg 
your pardon for supposing you so simple as to require any warning             
Your cousin has not yet returned  --  I trust you have written to her 
from the country. I have discovered that there is nothing she 
admires so much as daring. So, if you want to interest her, give her 
an account of the perils by which you are surrounded. She is most 
anxious that her father should settle in that part of the country; and 
as he humours her in everything, it will not surprise me if he gets 
possession of Woodlands again, after old Mr. Somerfield's death, 
as his is the last life in the lease.
	You ought to call and see if the place is in good repair. It 
was a lovely place when I was a girl, and it was there that I spent 
the happiest days of my life. And if those outrages could be put 
down  --  a Coercion Act is talked of  --  it would be a great 
pleasure to me to revisit the scenes of my youth. Let me know if 
Mrs. Lloyd, of Mount Tempe, be alive."
	The young gentleman was considerably bewildered by this 
production. He did not know what to think of it. He seldom gave 
himself the trouble of thinking about anything. But the allusion to 
his host's daughter made his cheek flush; and between Mr. 
Beresford Pender's nose and Mary Kearney's eyes, things were 
becoming mixed in the mind of Mr. Henry Lowe.
	"Unpleasant news," said Grace in a whisper to Mary.
	"What is it?" Mary asked, looking at her anxiously.
	"I'm sure I can't tell you; but look at him."
	"Oh, is it Mr. Lowe you mean? Well, I can see nothing 
unusual in his look."
	"Well," Hugh asked, "does your letter require an immediate 
answer?
	"No, no," he replied with affected carelessness. "'Tis from 
my mother; and she wants to know," he added, glancing through 
the letter to hide his embarrassment, "if Mrs.  --  Mrs. Lloyd, of 
Mount Temple, is alive."
	"It is Mount Tempe," said Mary, "She is mother of the lady 
you saw here last night."
	"I ought to have remembered; we were at Mount Tempe 
yesterday."
	"And did you meet Mr. Lloyd?"
	"Yes, we spent some time with him, and he joined us at the 
snipe shooting."
	"Oh, I said you must have been reinforced," said Grace, the 
volleys increased so much towards evening."
	He was a little afraid of Grace's ridicule, and thought it 
wise to turn the conversation from the shooting as quickly as 
possible.
	"My mother also wants to know," he observed, again 
glancing at the letter, "whether Woodlands is kept in good repair, 
and she says something about old Mr. Somerfield."
	"The old fellow is alive," said Hugh, "and wonderfully 
strong and active for his age. He cannot be far short of ninety, and 
yet he is never missed from the hunt."
	"And how does he keep the place? I mean the house and 
grounds."
	"Oh! in excellent order -- nothing could be better. In fact, 
he has expended a large sum of money on improvements."
	"Does he not pay a considerable rent for it?"
	"Well, my father could tell you all about it. Your late uncle 
was, I think, in want of money, and set the place to Somerfield. I 
suspect the rent cannot be very high, as I heard my father say there 
was a large fine given."
	"By the way," said Mr. Lowe, somewhat hesitatingly, "have 
there been any outrages of a remarkable character lately in this 
neighbourhood? I find some allusion to some thing of the kind in 
this letter."
	"No," replied Hugh, "there has been nothing of the kind 
about here. But I find a paragraph in this paper referring to a 
threatening notice which was found nailed to a door seven or eight 
miles from here."
	"No one has been fired at?"
	"Not that I know of. There is an unusually large number of 
ejectments served this year; and when that is the case, rumours of 
outrages are always flying about."
	"Are any of my uncle's tenants served with ejectments?"
	"Yes," Hugh replied, gravely, "two very honest and 
industrious men. I believe they owe some arrears. There is a good 
deal of anxiety among the other tenants. But," he added, as if he 
wished to change the subject, "I don't know all the particulars. 
Perhaps it would be well if you inquired into them. Indeed, I think, 
the landlord ought to come and see for himself how things are 
going on here."
	"I believe he places great confidence in the agent," said Mr. 
Lowe.
	"It would appear so," Hugh replied. "But as he has come to 
Ireland, it might be no harm for him to see personally how his 
estate is managed. Things have gone on smoothly enough up to 
this; but since the leases given by Sir Thomas have begun to drop, 
there is considerable uneasiness. My father will tell you that before 
now leases were renewed as a matter of course: but latterly there is 
a remarkable reluctance on the part of landlords to give leases, and 
your uncle's tenants are uneasy lest he should follow the example 
set by others in this respect."
	"I don't know much about the matter," said Mr. Lowe; "but 
I should think it very unlikely that my uncle would act unjustly 
towards any one."
	"That's just what I say," replied Hugh; "and that is why I'd 
like to see him using his own eyes."
	"I should say this is Mr. Pender," said Mr. Lowe, who sat 
near the window. "At least he answers in some respects to Mr. 
Kearney's description of him last night. He has a gun on each side 
of him. Yes," he added, as the person in question alighted from his 
gig, "and pistols in his belt."
	"It is he," replied Hugh, coming to the window.
	Mr. Beresford Pender, observing that the gentleman he 
wanted to see had a full view of him from the window, took off his 
belt and handed it, with the pistols in it, to his servant. Then 
walking to the hall door, he knocked loudly.
	"Is Mr. Lowe within?" Mr. Pender asked in a mighty voice 
that seemed to come up from his chest.
	"I'll see, sir," said the servant.
	Mr. Pender faced round, and with folded arms glared up at 
the tall trees on either side of the cottage, and then looked 
scowlingly at the top of the mountain in front.
	"This is a nice place Kearney has here," muttered Mr. 
Beresford Pender to himself. "A nice thing it is to see fellows of 
this kind in a place like this, and gentlemen in thatched houses 
without as much as a tree to shelter them. He has a good deal of 
planting done here. Nice work for farmers. By  -- ," exclaimed Mr. 
Pender, swearing almost loud enough to be heard within, "if I had 
to deal with them they'd have something else to mind besides 
plantations."
	"Yes, sir," said the servant girl, opening the drawing-room 
door; and Mr. Pender strode in, glancing round him with a look in 
which sheepishness and something like timidity were curiously 
blended.
	In fact, Mr. Pender looked as if he thought it possible that 
he might be kicked out. But finding there was no one in the room, 
he got up his fierce look, and brought it to bear on the mountain-
top again.
	Mr. Lowe came in, and, as he closed the door behind him, 
the runaway look came back into Mr. Pender's eyes. Reassured, 
however, by the polite bow of the gentleman, Mr. Pender said:
	"I called to see you because I wanted to spake to you."
	"Yes," replied Mr. Lowe. "I was told you called yesterday."
	"I suppose you know my father is agent over the property 
for the last thirty years?" said Mr. Pender.
	"I'm aware he is the agent, and I intended calling on him, 
but have put it off from day to day."
	Mr. Beresford Pender commenced patting the bridge of his 
nose with his fingers, and Mr. Lowe observed that there was a bit 
of sticking-plaster adhering to the organ, which, we may remark, 
was of the flexible order, as if nature in tended it to be tweaked; or 
it may be that it was tweaking made it flexible.
	"Do you think," he asked, dropping his big voice to a 
sepulchral whisper, "that you are safe here?"
	"Why? What danger do you suppose I have, to apprehend?"
	"I don't like to say much," said Mr. Beresford Pender. "But, 
as a friend, I came to see you."
	There was something so mysterious in his look, that, 
between it and the sepulchral whisper, Mr. Lowe began to feel 
impressed with the notion that Mr. Beresford Pender was a person 
of consequence.
	"You'll see my father," continued Mr. Pender, resuming his 
big voice, which still further impressed Mr. Lowe with the idea 
that he was talking to a great man, "and spend a few days with 
him."
	"It is my intention to see him."
	"There's to be a meeting one of those days," said Mr. 
Pender.
	"What sort of meeting?
	Mr. Beresford Pender hesitated, as if in doubt whether Mr. 
Lowe was a proper person to communicate with on the subject of 
the meeting.
	"I'll tell you about it another time; I'll be speaking to some 
of the gentlemen at the road-sessions to-day."
	Mr. Lowe looked at him and really began to feel uneasy.
	"They're quare times," said Mr. Beresford Pender. "Good 
morning. I'll tell my father you'll call to see him."
	Mr. Beresford Pender walked out; and it was not till he had 
watched him for some time as he carefully examined his pistols 
and buckled the belt around him, that Mr. Lowe discovered that 
Mr. Beresford Pender was not a very large, stout man. In fact, he 
was under the middle height, and rather lank than otherwise. But, 
between the big voice and the big look, he really often impressed 
people with the idea that he was a big man.
	"Good gracious, Mary! " exclaimed Grace, who was 
observing Mr. Pender's movements from behind the window 
curtain, "he is like an alderman in front. But look at him behind, 
and he's like a pump. He'd want to wear a bustle."
	"Oh, fie," said Mary, "what would Mr. Lowe say if he 
heard you make such a remark?"
	"I suppose it would be quite unpardonable if I remarked 
also that the servant's coat, with the distressingly large and bright 
livery buttons, is an old frock-coat of his master's."
	"Nothing can escape you," said Mary, laughing; "I'd never 
have noticed it if you had not pointed it out."
	It occurred to Mr. Lowe that Mr. Pender had made no 
allusion to the several attempts upon his life; and he stepped 
outside the door to satisfy his curiosity before Mr. Pender had got 
into his gig.
	"You wrote to my mother lately," observed Mr. Lowe.
	"Yes," replied Mr. Pender. "You know she has a rent-
charge on Cahirdeheen, and I see to it myself. 'Tisn't aisy to 
manage them fellows."
	"But you spoke of being attacked by five men?"
	"They were hired," replied Mr. Beresford Pender. "But I 
don't like to transport him." And as he spoke he looked at the 
parlour window, from which Mary quickly retreated, a little vexed 
at being seen by him.
	I'll tell you all about it another time," he added, "but keep 
what I'm after telling you to yourself."
	Mr. Lowe did not know what to think, and was about 
shaking hands with his new acquaintance, when the latter said  --  
"Nice girl!"
	Very inoffensive and harmless words in themselves; but 
there was something in Mr. Beresford Pender's manner of uttering 
them, as he glanced at the parlour window, that made Mr. Henry 
Lowe feel an almost uncontrollable impulse to kick Mr. Beresford 
Pender then and there.
	"Good morning," said he, turning upon his heel and 
drawing back his hand before Mr. Beresford Pender had touched it.



CHAPTER XXI.

FIVE SHILLINGS WORTH OF DANCE.

	"WELL, what a contrast!" Grace exclaimed. "Do come 
here, Mary, and look on this picture and on this. Apollo is really a 
divinity near that satyr."
	Mary could see Mr. Lowe and Mr. Beresford Pender from 
where she sat at the table writing.
	"You are right," said she, with an emphasis that made 
Grace open her eyes.
	"'Pon my honour, Mary, you can be energetic 
occasionally."
	Mary was so absorbed in her own reflections, she took no 
notice of this observation. She thought to herself that Mr. Lowe 
was a person to be liked; and the more she saw of him, the better 
she liked him. The thought even occurred to her that, if there was 
no difference of rank or religion between them, she could like him 
sufficiently well to be happy with him as his wife. There was not 
one among the young men who honoured her with their attentions 
whose character she could admire so much  --  that is, assuming 
her estimate of Mr. Lowe's character to be correct.
	But Mary Kearney felt her heart sinking within her at the 
thought that there was a hard struggle before her  --  that a victory 
should be gained over herself before she could think of any one as 
a husband.
	She took the note Barney had thrown up to Grace in the 
window, and read it over.
	"I fear," she murmured  --  and the tears welled into her 
eyes  --  "I fear he thinks I refused to see him."
	She moved away the letter she had been writing, and placed 
a clean sheet of notepaper in its stead. She wrote the date at the top 
of the sheet, and then stopped irresolutely.
	There was a careworn look in her face as she leant back in 
her chair, pressing her left hand against her bosom.
	"May God direct me what to do!" she murmured.
	"Did you speak?" Grace asked.
	"No," she replied, recovering herself, "or if I did it was to 
myself."
	"To whom are you writing?"
	"To Anna."
	"Oh, really that young lady's head is very full of romance. 
'Tis to be hoped she'll find the beau monde all her fancy painted it. 
How long is she in Belgium now? I can't remember."
	"Nearly two years," Mary replied.
	"And all that time in the convent! 'Tis dreadful," returned 
Grace, shuddering.
	"Do you feel it so dreadful yourself? " Mary asked. "Oh, I 
have a visit from my friends sometimes, and can come home at 
vacation. But even that is hard enough," she added, with a sigh.
	"I thought you always liked being at school. At least you 
told me so when I went to see you."
	Grace shrugged her shoulders, but made no reply.
	"Am I to suppose that you only said it to please Mrs. Clare? 
Is that your sincerity?"
	"No; I really was sincere," replied Grace. "I did like being 
at school then. But, my dear Mary," she added, with a pensive 
shake of the head, "'tis quite different since I got notions."
	Though Mary was just then in anything but a laughing 
mood, she could not help laughing at this; and the laugh, she felt, 
did her good.
	"If you got your choice," she asked, "would you remain at 
home and never go back to school again?"
	Grace remained silent for a moment, and then said, in a 
low, firm voice:
	"I would go back."
	"And why would you go back if you think it so dreadful?"
	"Because it would be right."
	"Yes," said Mary, looking at her with surprise, "we ought 
all to do what is right. Duty before all things."
	"When I am sure it is right to do anything," said Grace "I 
try to do it, no matter how hard it is."
	"You are a little heroine," rejoined Mary. "But, she added 
to herself, glancing at the sheet of paper before her, "it is not 
always easy to know what is right."
	"I think," said Grace, coming to the table, "I'll write a few 
lines to Anna."
	"Oh, do; she will be delighted; she was very fond of you."
	"Why do people say that you will be a nun?" Grace asked. 
"I suspect it is Anna will be the nun, in spite of her fine talk about 
the beau monde. But why do they say that you will be a nun? Mrs. 
Xavier is quite sure that you will."
	"I really don't know," replied Mary, blushing.
	"Oh, 'tis because you are such a mild Madonna, I suppose," 
said Grace, dipping her pen in the ink. "But on second thoughts," 
she added, "I won't write till to morrow. I must turn it in my head, 
as I want to let her see that one can do something in the way of 
rounded periods without going to Belgium. And, besides, I must 
have a few French phrases. So finish your letter, and I'll just run 
out to see what Apollo is going to do with himself."
	"I think you ought to go to Ellie  --  she is all alone."
	"Ellie! She doesn't want me. Her whole soul is wrapped in 
her goldfinch."
	"Oh, that reminds me," said Mary, "that we must go to see 
poor Norah Lahy to-day."
	"I would like to go," said Grace, thoughtfully. "That is," 
she added, correcting herself, "I know I ought to like to go. But oh! 
'tis saddening to look at her. It so reminds one of dying young. 
And, besides, I fear I hurt her mother's feelings the other day."
	"You did not do it intentionally."
	"Oh, indeed, no. But you know  -- 

'Evil is wrought by want of thought,
As well as by want of heart.'"

	"You do not want either heart or thought, Grace, The 
remark you made was natural enough under the circumstances; and 
you did not know Mrs. Lahy was listening to you. Now, would you 
not do almost anything for that poor sick girl?"
	"I would," Grace replied; "but I'm ashamed to confess I feel 
a strong wish to keep away from her, and not even think of her."
	"But if it be right?"
	"I will go," said Grace in the same tone as when she said 
she would go back to school.
	Grace went to a cupboard, and, getting upon a chair, took 
something from the upper shelf, and was leaving the room hastily.
	"And where are you going now?" Mary asked, with some 
surprise.
	"To Ellie," she replied, "I have some sugar for her 
goldfinch."
	Mary smiled approvingly, and then, resting her forehead 
upon the back of her open hand, with which she covered the few 
words she had written on the sheet of notepaper, as if she wished to 
hide them from herself, she fell into deep thought.
	"Oh, yes," she said, raising her head, "if we could be sure 
what is right to be done! But how can there be any thing wrong in 
it? I think it is because I so much wish to write that I am afraid to 
do it. But, though my heart says 'Yes,' the 'still small voice'  says 
'No.' I would consult Hugh only it would add to his trouble. I 
wonder might Anna meet him before she comes home. But that is a 
foolish idea; she is as far out of his way as I am myself."
	The idea, however, reminded her of the letter she had been 
writing to her sister, and she took up the pen and resolved to finish 
it.
	"Is Mr. Pender gone?" Hugh asked, as he came round to the 
front of the house, from the yard, where he had been giving some 
directions to his workmen; "I thought his visit would not be so 
short."
	"Yes, he is gone," replied Mr. Lowe, who was trying to 
open the gate of the little garden under Mary's window, and 
thinking of those mysterious tracks in the snow; which somehow 
he found himself often thinking of, though the tracks were no 
longer there, for the snow itself had disappeared.
	"There is already," he remarked, "a look of spring in the 
sky."
	"Yes," Hugh replied, "and the snow is nearly gone from the 
hills."
	"I am always glad," said Richard, who had joined them, 
"when winter is past. The bright summer-time for me!"
	"Why, every one is glad at the approach of spring," replied 
Mr. Lowe.
	"I never see the snow fading from those hills," said Hugh, 
without a feeling of sadness."
	"That's an odd feeling," returned the doctor, "particularly 
for a farmer."
	"Oh, of course, I see reason to rejoice at the coming of 
spring. But what I speak of is an involuntary feeling of sadness. 
'Tis like parting with an old friend. In fact, I believe there is 
sadness in all partings. I can fancy a prisoner looking round his 
dungeon for the last time with a sigh."
	"Who is this coming down the hill?" the doctor asked, 
pointing to a horseman on the road.
	"I think it is your friend, Mr. Lloyd," replied Hugh.
	"'Tis his horse, at all events."
	"Yes, 'tis Bob  --  I know him now." And Richard vaulted 
over the little gate and got out on the road by the stile in the corner 
of the garden with the intention of intercepting Mr. Lloyd, and 
having a talk with him.
	"The harriers are to meet at Somerfield's," said the doctor, 
after vaulting back again over the gate. "We ought to go."
	"By-the-by, 'twill be a good opportunity for you to see the 
place," said Hugh. "You can have my horse; and I think you will 
like him."
	"And yourself?" said Mr. Lowe.
	"Well, I find I have some business to attend to, which I 
cannot put off. You can ride the old mare," he added, turning to his 
brother. "And you need not fear but she'll be able to carry you  --  
but give her head and let her have her own way."
	"All right," said the doctor, "let us go fit ourselves out."
	Mr. Lowe readily assented, glad of the opportunity to 
display his horsemanship and his new breeches and boots.
	The horses were led round by Barney, and while Hugh was 
examining the girths and stirrup-leathers, the two young men 
appeared booted and spurred, and were in the saddles before 
Barney had time to render them any assistance.
	"O Mary!" Grace exclaimed, bursting into the parlour, "do 
come and see Apollo. He looks splendid."
	Mary came to the window and said, with a quiet smile:
	"He really does."
	The horse was a fine one, and the rider seemed to linger 
longer than was necessary arranging his bridle rein.
	"Do come out," said Grace; "he expects it." Mary followed 
her out, and dropping her arm round Grace's shoulder, she said 
gaily:
	"She says, Mr. Lowe, that you look splendid."
	He raised his hat and smiled, as he rode slowly after the 
doctor, who had set off at a gallop, and was impatiently waiting for 
him at the gate.
	"Mr. Hugh," said Barney, "how much do you think is 
comin' to me?"
	"Why so?" Hugh asked, as he watched the paces of his 
horse up the hill.
	"Begob, I want five shillings," replied Barney.
	"For what?
	"I'm afther gettin' two an' sixpence worth of dance from 
Mr. Callaghan," returned Barney, looking as if, on the whole, he 
was not pleased with his bargain.
	"Two-and-sixpence worth of dance," Grace exclaimed, 
laughing. "How is it sold, Barney?"
	"Tuppence-ha'penny a lesson for plain dance, Miss," 
replied Barney, seriously, "and thruppence for figures."
	"Well, and you want five shillings' worth?" said Hugh. 
"Well, you see, sir," rejoined Barney, scratching his head, 'I was 
purty good at the plain dance; but Callaghan had such fine steps, I 
said to myself I'd get a few new wans. An' then they persuaded me 
to learn the figures; but begob I couldn't keep 'em in my head. And 
now, you know, I don't like to see my money goin' for nothin'," 
Barney added with the air of a man of business.
	"Will you let us see one of Callaghan's steps, Barney? said 
Grace.
	"An' welcome, Miss," replied Barney, throwing care to the 
winds  --  for the idea of his money going for nothing seemed to 
have quite a crushing effect upon his spirits  --  "I'll do a step or 
two in a double for you."
	And Barney, after going round gracefully in a circle to his 
own music, commenced battering the gravel with those remarkable 
feet which procured for him the soubriquet of "Wattletoes," in a 
style which we are not mad enough to attempt a description of.
	"O Hugh," said Grace, who could hardly speak for 
laughing, "you must give him the five shillings."
	"Would I doubt you, Miss Grace?" exclaimed Barney, 
twisting his features in a most extraordinary manner, but ultimately 
allowing them to settle into a grin of delight.
	"Sound man, Mr. Hugh," he added, as Hugh presented him 
with two half-crowns. "An' now give me lave to run over to the 
Cross."
	"What do you want there?" Hugh asked. "Callaghan is goin' 
away to-day," replied Barney. "Then he gave you credit, and you 
want to pay your debts?
	"Oh, the devil a credit," returned Barney. "What a fool he 
is!"
	"I can't make out what he means," said Hugh.
	"Is not that Callaghan himself passing the gate? " said 
Mary, pointing to a little man with a bundle in his hand walking at 
a brisk pace from the direction of the hamlet.
	"Oh, the rascal," cried Barney, "an' all my dance in his 
pocket!"
	He set off in pursuit of the dancing-master as if his very life 
depended upon catching him.
	"Can you solve this mystery, Grace?" said Mary.
	"Really, no," she replied, shaking her head. " 'Tis too much 
for me. We must wait till he comes back."
	But the dancing-master was too far off to hear Barney 
shouting after him, and Barney was soon too much out of breath to 
continue the shouting, so that both were lost to view at the turn of 
the road.
	"He was gaining upon him," said Grace, "I think he will 
catch him before they reach the fort. But what does he mean?"
	About an hour later, as they were setting out to visit Norah 
Lahy, Grace said:
	"Wait a moment till I ask Barney what he wanted with the 
dancing-master. I can't make head or tail of it."
	"I'm glad to hear it," returned Mary. "I was beginning to 
fear you had some connection with the 'good people.'"
	"I must repress my curiosity," said Grace, after inquiring 
for Barney. "He is gone to drive home the cows."
	The cows referred to were at a farm some two miles from 
the house, and it was near sunset when Barney returned After 
"bailing" them in, he hastened to the barn, where Mat Donovan 
and Tom Maher had been at work. Their day's work was over, and 
Tom was just hanging the door on its hinges. Barney began at once 
to practise his steps on the well-swept floor.
	"Blood-an-ounkers, Mat," he exclaimed, stopping 
suddenly, as if a happy thought had struck him, "I believe you are 
able to read writin'."
	"Well, I believe I could," Mat replied, as he shook the chaff 
from his coat before putting it on. "Why so?"
	Barney pulled off his caubeen, and pulled a large crumpled 
document from the crown.
	"Read that," said he.
	Mat went to the door, and unfolding the paper, held it to the 
light, which was beginning to fade.
	Barney watched him as if he entertained doubts of Mat's 
ability to read writing. After a little delay, however, Mat read the 
words "Haste to the Wedding," which had the effect of sending 
Barney with a bound to the middle of the floor.
	"Go on," he shouted excitedly, crushing his hat tight upon 
his head. And with his arms extended, as if he were going to fly, 
Barney commenced whistling "Haste to the Wedding."
	"What the divil do you mane?" Mat asked in astonishment.
 "Read on; read, read," said Barney, breathlessly, trying to whistle 
and talk at the same time.
	"Oh, I see what you're at now," said Mat the Thrasher, as if 
a new light had dawned upon him. "I see what you're up to," he 
repeated seriously. "But faith I don't know that I could read print in 
'double' time, let alone writin'."
	"Oh, if you couldn't!" And Barney took the paper and 
replaced it in the crown of his hat, with a look of a man who had 
been made a disgustingly inadequate offer for some article he 
wanted to sell.



CHAPTER XXII.

THE BLUE BODY-COAT WITH GILT BUTTONS -- ABSENCE 
OF MIND. "AULD LANG SYNE."

	MAT," exclaimed Barney, brightening up suddenly, "ye'll 
have a great night uv id at Ned Brophy's weddin'. Is id at the young 
woman's house the weddin' is to be?"
	"No," Mat replied, putting on his coat; "they're on'y going 
to be married there. The weddin' is to be at Ned's."
	"'Twas said there was to be no weddin'," observed Tom 
Maher; "how was that?"
	"Well, the girl's father is hard," replied Mat, "an' the priest 
is chargin' a show of money for marryin' 'em, and so the ould 
fellow wouldn't agree to the weddin'."
	"Some people do be very cute," said Tom Maher. "And," 
Mat continued, "Ned's mother stood out agin him till I brought her 
round, and she gev into id at last." 
	"She'd skin a flint," returned Tom Maher. 
	"The divil a lie in that," replied Mat, shaking his head. 
	"Sure the divil a bone in her body I don't know," continued 
Tom; "an' good raison I had, livin' in one house wud her for two 
years an' three months."
	"I won't contradict you," said Mat, "though she's my own 
fust and second cousin."
	"Do you remember what you tould her about the 
stirabout?" Tom asked, eyeing the Thrasher with a smile.
	"What was that?" said Mat.
	"You told her to bring out the pot an' empty it on the top of 
Corrigeen Hill, an' the divil a greyhound in the barony would be 
able to ketch id afore id got to the bottom. We got betther stirabout 
ever afther."
	"Well, to give her her due," returned Mat, "she always 
minded anything I'd say. Ned himself could get no good uv her 
about the weddin' till I persuaded her. Not that I cared about it 
myself, only I didn't like to have Ned get the name of bein' a 
screw."
	"A bad right any wan would have to call Ned a screw," said 
Tom Maher. "There's not a dacenter man from this to himself for 
his manes."
	"He is that," replied Mat.
	"No sign of anything here this turn," Tom observed, with a 
motion of his thumb towards the house. "Though they say there's 
many an eye after her. Faith, Kitty tells me," he added, dropping 
his voice, "that she has the heart across in this young fellow from 
England. An', begor, a nice fellow he is, although he has no 
property, on'y what'll buy a commission for him."
	"I don't say Miss Mary 'd think uv him," replied Mat, "no 
matther what he had."
	"I don't know that," returned Tom with a wink. "She's 
mighty sweet on him. But Kitty tells me," he added, "she'll never 
think of any man but the wan."
	"Who is that?"
	"Begor, that's what I can't make out. What are you delayin' 
for?"
	"I "was thinkin' of waitin' till the master 'd be home to 
know how is pigs. If there was a stir I'd sell them two I have, male 
is so dear."
	"I'd' like to see you in a farm of your own," said Tom, like 
every wan belongin' to you."
"	I don't know that, Tom," Mat rejoined. "A man ought to be 
continted; an', thanks be to God, I was never in the want uv a 
shillin'. An' maybe if I had what you say, I wouldn't lie down to-
night wud as aisy a mind as I have now." 
	"Here is the masther," exclaimed Barney, running out to 
take the horse.
	Mat followed, to inquire about the price of pigs; and after 
being satisfied on that head, he turned to Tom Maher, who was 
locking the barn-door, and asked him to "take a walk over."
	"I can't stir till Mr. Richard and Mr. Lowe comes home," 
Tom replied. "I must put up the horses. An' a d--d hard job I'll have 
uv id, for I must have 'em like a new pin."
	Mat Donovan went on his way alone. There was a feeling 
of melancholy upon him which he could not shake off; and instead 
of "shortening the road" with snatches of old songs he fell into 
deep thought.
	For the first time in his life he began to feel discontented 
with his lot. It was quite true, as he had just said to Tom Maher, 
that he never wanted for a shilling. He had constant employment, 
and as he was never a "spender," he found his earnings sufficient 
for his wants. His mother and sister were "good managers," and 
their poultry and eggs went far to keep them decently clothed  --  
with the addition of even a little inexpensive finery for Nelly, who 
was a belle in her way  --  and a couple of fat pigs paid the rent. 
The little "garden" he held  --  by which we do not mean the 
"haggart" where Tommy Lahy had his crib set among the "curly"  -
-  gave him potatoes every second year, and a crop of wheat or 
barley in the intervals. The year he had the wheat or barley on his 
own "little spot," the potatoes were supplied by a half-acre of 
"dairy ground" or "dung ground." The dung ground, we may 
inform the uninitiated reader, is ground upon which the peasant 
puts his own manure, in return for which he has the potato crop  --  
the farmer being repaid for the use of his land for one season by 
the corn crop of the next, for which the land, owing to the peasant's 
manure, is in proper condition. For the dairy ground the peasant 
pays a rent  --  and often an unconscionably high rent  --  the land 
in this case either being manured by the farmer, or capable of 
yielding potatoes without manure  --  generally a "bawn" or newly-
ploughed pasture field.
	Mat Donovan laboured cheerfully during the six days of the 
week, returning generally at night to his own house, where he sat 
by the bright little hearth as happy as a king. But this evening we 
find him returning to that happy fire side with something very like 
a heavy heart. Let us listen to him, and we may be able to divine 
the cause of this:
	"I know," said Mat Donovan, looking towards a hill on the 
left-hand side of the road  --  "I know she has a respect for me, an' 
always had; an' she was never a-shy or ashamed to show id either, 
She kem and sot next to me the night at Mrs. Murphy's, an' her 
grandfather an' a lot uv farmers and dacent people there." And here 
Mat raised his head with a decidedly consequential look; for he 
remembered when the reckoning was called after "the night at Mrs. 
Murphy's," he, Mat Donovan, flung down a half-crown, while 
many of the farmers gave only a shilling, and it required some 
screwing to get an additional sixpence out of them when it was 
found the collection fell short of the sum required. "She did then," 
continued Mat, "an' didn't mind 'em wan taste; but talked to myself 
so pleasant and friendly; and reminded me uv the time, long ago, 
when she was a little thing goin' to school, when I used to throw 
the churries over the hedge to her. An' faith," he added, "I b'lieve 
'tis lookin' at her copy paper, when I'd meet her on the road in the 
evenin', that made me able to read writin', as Barney said I was  --  
for 'tis little I minded id whin I was goin' to school myself. My 
heart warmed to her when she kem up to me at Mrs. Murphy's, 
wud such a smile, and shook hands wud me, after not seem' a sight 
uv her for goin' an two years, while she was at her aunt's, in 
Dublin. But, sure, I know a poor man like me have no right to 
think uv her. An' for all, her smile is before me every hour uv the 
day; an' bad cess to me but I think, this blessed minit, 'tis her hand 
I have a hoult uv instead uv this flail that I am bringin' home to put 
a new gad on id. 'Tis droll," he continued, shaking his head. "I, that 
had my fling among 'em all, an' never lost a wink uv sleep on 
account uv any girl that ever was born, to be this way! Sally 
Mockler called me a rag on every bush, no later than last night. 
Faith, I wish it was thrue for her  --  but for all that," he added, 
with another shake of the head and a sorrowful smile, "I b'lieve if I 
could dhrive her from my mind in the mornin' I wouldn't thry."
	"God save you, Mat!" exclaimed two or three young men 
who came up with him. "Faith, you're takin' your time."
	"God save you kindly, b'ys. I am takin' the world aisy."
	"Any strange news?"
	"No, then," Mat replied; "nothin' worth relatin'." 
	"Is Ned Brophy's match settled for certain?"
	"Well, I b'lieve so."
	"Sure, you ought to know. But there was talks uv id bein' 
broke."
	"Well, no; 'tis all settled. They're to be married next 
Wednesday."
	"People wor sayin' he was thinkin' uv Nancy Hogan  --  but 
she hadn't the shiners."
	"People say many things," replied Mat, as if he wished to 
dismiss the subject.
	"Begor, Nancy 'd be good enough for him; she's the purtiest 
girl in the parish. Was he long afther this wan he's gettin'?"
 	"I don't say there was much coortship between 'em," said 
Mat. "But as you're afther remindin' me uv id I'll run into Phil 
Lahy's to see have he my coat made  --  as I'm to be Ned's 
sidesman."
	"Wisha, now!" exclaimed one of the young men, looking at 
Mat with evident surprise; for it was somewhat unusual for a snug 
farmer, like Ned Brophy, to pay such a compliment to a "labouring 
man."
	"Good night, b'ys," said Mat, on coming to the beech-tree 
opposite Phil Lahy's door.
	"Good night, Mat  --  good night," they responded, cheerily, 
as they quickened their pace and passed on through the hamlet 
without stopping.
	"Now, I wondher what are they up to?" said Mat to himself. 
"I thought 'twas goin' to play for the pig's head they wor, but there 
they're off be the bog road. A wondher they never said where they 
wor goin'. Might id be for the lend uv long John's greyhound?"
	Guessing was no use, however; so putting his arm over 
Honor Lahy's half-door, and pushing back the bolt, he passed  
through the shop into the kitchen, which was also the tailor's 
workshop.
	Mat was gratified to find Phil Lahy sitting cross-legged on 
his shop-board. But his smile gave way to a rather blank look of 
inquiry when he saw that Phil, instead of plying his needle, was 
poring over a soiled and dog-eared volume which rested on his 
knee.
	"God save all here!" said Mat, looking around him as if he 
didn't know well what to think,
	"God save you kindly, Mat," replied Honor Lahy, placing a 
chair for him near the well-swept hearth. "Sit down an' rest." 
	But Phil was too deeply absorbed in his book to take any 
notice whatever of the visitor.
	"Phil," said Mat, after a moment's silence, "are you goin' to 
disappoint me?"
	"Is that iron hot?" Phil asked, without raising his eyes from 
his book.
	Tommy, who was reading too  --  crouching upon his 
elbows and knees on the shop-board  --  jumped down, and seizing 
the padding of an old coat-collar, which served the purpose of 
"holder," snatched the iron from the fire. Testing whether it was 
heated in a manner which we do not deem it necessary to describe  
--  though we grieve to say we have seen the same test applied 
when the smoothing-iron was of smaller dimensions than the 
tailor's goose, and when the hand that held it was very much fairer 
than Tommy Lahy's  --  he brought it to his father, who attempted 
to take hold of the handle with its woollen cover without raising 
his eyes from the dog-eared volume. But his finger coming in 
contact with the hot iron, Phil Lahy said "hop," and commenced 
slapping his thigh in a rather frantic fashion. After rubbing the 
burned finger in the hair of his head, Phil reached to the further end 
of the shop-board, and to Mat Donovan's great relief and comfort 
pulled from under some other articles, by which it had been 
accidentally concealed from view, a new blue body-coat with gilt 
buttons. Seizing his lap-board he commenced "pressing" the coat 
with great energy and briskness of action.
	Mat Donovan left his chair and stood close to the shop-
board, trying to look unconcerned and perfectly indifferent.
	We'd like to see the individual who ever was indifferent 
under such circumstances.
	Mat took up the dog-eared book and made believe to be 
reading it  --  while not a twinkle of the gilt buttons escaped him, 
as Phil turned the blue coat over and over, smoothing every seam, 
and plucking out the basting threads with his teeth.
	Mat at last did read a line or two of the book, and 
remarked:
	"This is the Prophecies."
	"Yes, Mat," replied Phil  --  and the words seemed to have 
been jerked out of him, as the iron came down with a thump upon 
the sleeve of the blue body-coat. "But," he continued  --  leaning 
his whole weight upon the iron and working with his wrist as if he 
were grinding something  --  "but 'tisn't the genuine wan afther all. 
I got id from Andrew Dwyer, an' as id belonged to his grandfather 
I thought id might be genuine. But," added Phil Lahy as he drew 
the lap-board out of the sleeve, "I was disappointed."
	"Do you think there's any truth in 'em?" Mat asked.
	"Mat," replied Phil, solemnly, "there's a great dale,"  --  
here he snapped viciously at a basting thread which held its ground 
so tenaciously that when one end was plucked from the sleeve of 
the blue coat, the other was stuck fast between Phil Lahy's front 
teeth  --  "there's a great dale in 'em comin' to pass; Mat."
	"Now, what sinse could you pick out uv this?" And Mat 
read a sentence which it would, indeed, be hard to pick sense out 
of.
	"That's James the Second's time," replied Phil, as if it were 
all as plain as that two and two make four. "Come," he added, 
pushing away his goose and lap-board, and blowing away the 
yellow basting threads from the coat, which he held up by the 
collar as high as his hand could reach  --  "Come, throw off that 
ould coat."
	Mat Donovan proceeded to divest himself of his old frieze  
-- making desperate efforts to look grave and even sorrowful.
	He got himself into the blue body-coat, and Phil Lahy, 
standing behind him, wrapped his arms round the Thrasher, as if he 
were trying to span the "big tree " at Gloonavon, and buttoned the 
coat in front.
	Then feeling him all over, and rubbing him down the arms 
and back, Phil Lahy, slapping the Thrasher on the shoulder, said  -- 
	"Well wear!"
	"'Tis a grand fit," exclaimed Honor, moving the candle all 
round Mat to the imminent danger of the new coat.
	Norah, turned round her head and said, too, while there was 
something almost like humour in the sad, black eyes:
	"Well wear, Mat."
	"Thank'ee, Norah, thank'ee," replied Mat, as he unbuttoned 
the new coat.
	"What way is she comin' on?" he asked, turning to her 
mother.
	"Elegant," was her reply, as she looked into Norah's face. 
And what a look that was!
	"The divil a dacenter man'll be there," said Billy Heffernan, 
who sat, silently as usual, in the corner, with his flute across his 
knees.
	"'Tis thrue for you," replied Honor Lahy; "an' if some 
farmer's daughter takes a fancy to him, 'twould be no wondher in 
life."
	After putting on his old frieze again, Mat pulled a purse 
from the breast pocket of his waistcoat, and commenced 
unwinding the long string with which it was tied.
	Phil Lahy began carefully folding the new coat, seemingly 
unconscious of the unwinding of the string.
	Mat Donovan counted some pieces of silver and dropped 
them into Phil Lahy's hand. His wife fixed her eyes upon him, but 
Phil was so pre-occupied putting his spectacles in his waistcoat 
pocket, that in a moment of absence of mind he put the silver in 
with them.
	"Mat," said Phil Lahy, "I'll want you to do a little job for 
me."
	"What is id?" Mat asked.
	Phil looked straight in his face, but remained so long silent 
that Mat's face indicated considerable surprise.
	"We'll talk about id another time," said Phil, at length. "Did 
you hear the news?"
	"No," replied Mat, bluntly. "What is id?" 
	"I'm tould"  --  and here Phil looked so hard at his 
questioner that Mat began to feel alarmed, and somehow the image 
of "somebody" flashed across his mind, though there was no 
earthly reason why it should  --  "I'm tould," said Phil, "that  --  
there's likely to be a change in the Ministry."
	"Oh, is that all!" returned Mat with a sigh of relief. "There's 
talk uv that in the papers these three weeks."
	Now, the fact was, that Phil Lahy having  --  in a fit of 
absence of mind  --  put the money in his pocket, wanted to turn 
away his wife's attention from it, by saying something; and so he 
began with the "little job" that he wanted Mat to do for him. But 
being abruptly asked what the little job was, Phil's invention failed 
him; and not being able to name any job, big or little, be put the 
subject off to "another time," and took refuge in the "news." And 
being abruptly asked for particulars again, Phil grasped at "the 
Ministry" as a drowning man will grasp at a straw. But scarcely 
were the words out of his mouth, when he reproached himself for 
his stupidity for never once having thought of the bull-bait, which 
was comparatively a fresh subject. However, the Ministry did very 
well, and Phil felt greatly relieved when he heard his wife say, 
without having alluded in any way to his forgetfulness in reference 
to the silver:
	"What hurry are you in, Mat? Can't you rest a start?"
	"I must be goin'," Mat replied; "I on'y called in on my way 
over from Mr. Kearney's."
	"Miss Mary was here to-day, and stopped a whole hour 
wud Norah."
	"I partly guessed," he replied, "'twas to see Norah they wor 
goin' when I see 'em comin' in this way instead of turnin' up to the 
forth."
	Mat Donovan said, "Good night to ye," and walked out 
with his new blue body-coat under his arm. And Phil Lahy 
suddenly became very busy folding and putting away the things on 
his shop-board.
	"Come, Billy," said he, as he drew a chair to the fire, "can't 
you give us a tune to put a stir in us these dull times?"
	He spoke in an unusually cheerful tone, and holding his 
hands over the fire, seemed disposed to be sociable, and, in fact, 
mildly jolly.
	Billy Heffernan immediately struck up "The Priest in his 
Boots."
	"A mighty purty tune that is, Billy; but I think it goes better 
on the pipes."
	Taking the tongs in his hand, he built up the fire very
carefully, and seemed anxious to make himself both agreeable and 
generally useful. But some thought struck him, and putting his 
hand to his forehead, he said:
	"See how I should forget telling Mat that message!"
	"What message?" his wife asked.
	"About goin' to throw the sledge wud the captain," replied 
Phil.
	"There wasn't anything said about a message," returned his 
wife.
	"Didn't he say that out of eight hundred men in the 
regiment he couldn't get one he wasn't able to bate; an' that 'd like 
to have a throw wud Mat the Thrasher?"
	"He did," rejoined Honor; "but not be way uv a message.
	You don't understand these things. I'll take a walk up and 
tell him about id. Maybe he's out uv practice; and 'twould be a bad 
job if he was called on too sudden."
	Honor Lahy shook her head as if there were no help for it. " 
Wisha, Billy," said she, after plying her knitting needles in silence 
for five minutes, "why don't you talk?"
	Billy looked into the fire, and blew C natural by way of 
reply. He might have said, with the poet:

"Why should feeling ever speak,
When thou canst breathe her soul so well?"

	Norah raised her eyes and smiled.
	She looked much less sickly by the firelight than on the 
cold, frosty day, when her pale face so shocked Mr. Lowe and 
Grace Kiely.
	"Play 'Auld Lang Syne,' Billy!"
Billy snatches up his old flute to comply; but something had got 
into his throat which he was obliged to gulp down before he could 
get out a single note.
	Was it the melancholy music of her voice or her look?
	Or did he know the words of the Scotch song, and 
remember that they had

 -- "paidled i' the burn
Frae morning's dawn till dine?"

	Whatever the cause was, Billy Heffernan had a struggle 
with the knob in his throat before he could play "Auld Lang Syne" 
for Norah Lahy.
	Scotch tunes were very popular at Knocknagow, but we 
have heard none played and sung so often as "Auld Lang Syne," 
not the words, but the air; for the words usually sung to the tune 
were something about

The river Suir that runs so pure
Through charming, rare Clonmel."

	Billy Heffernan played on with his eyes shut, for a few 
minutes: and then, affecting to think there was something wrong 
with his flute, screwed off one of the joints and converted it into a 
telescope, through which he endeavoured to make out some object 
in the fire.
	"How do you like the book Miss Grace lent you, Tommy?" 
Norah asked, while Billy prosecuted his researches in the fire.
	"'Tis grand," was Tommy's reply.
	"I think she's nicer than you said she was," continued 
Norah.
	"Well, she is," he replied reluctantly, as if unwilling to give 
up his first impression. "An' a dale handsomer," he added, as if a 
sense of justice extorted the admission from him.
	"I think she's very nice," returned Norah.
	She is, then, nice," said her mother, "an' a darlin' little 
thing."
	"She wants me to write down the 'Frolic' for her," Billy 
observed, meaning, of course, "Heffernan's Frolic," that he 
composed in a dream. "But I don't know how to write music, 
though I could tell her the names uv the notes wan by wan."
	"Wisha, Billy," said Mrs. Lahy, on seeing him about to 
leave, "would you take a walk up as far as Mat's, an' see is Phil 
there, an' be home wud him?  --  An' sure I know 'tisn't there Phil 
is," she thought to herself.
	Billy promised to do as she required; and, after leaving his 
flute at his own house, he walked up the hill to Mat Donovan's.



CHAPTER XXIII.

MAT DONOVAN AT HOME.

	GOD save all here," said Billy Heffernan, as he closed the 
door behind him.
	"God save you kindly," replied Mrs. Donovan, raising her 
spectacles to look at him. She was about adding the usual "sit 
down an' rest," but Billy had already taken possession of the bench 
against the partition by the fireside. So Mrs. Donovan pulled down 
her spectacles over her eyes and went on with her darning.
	"What news?" she asked as she opened the wick of the 
candle with the darning needle, to give herself more light.
	"Nothing strange," replied Billy, looking round the house, 
"I thought Phil Lahy was here."
	"He wasn't here since I was below," replied Mat, who was 
cutting a strip from a piece of horse-skin to make a gad for his 
flail.
	"Faith, Billy," said Mat's sister, Nelly, " 'tis a cure for sore 
eyes to see you in this direction. Here, card a few rowls uv this for 
me."
	She laid a handful of wool on the end of the bench upon 
which Billy sat, and then presented him with a pair of cards.
	"'Twould be time for you to stop," said her mother. "Where 
is the use of killing yourself that way?"
	"As soon as I have this cuppeen filled I'll stop," she replied.
	And Nelly returned to her wheel  --  to the hum of which 
the grating of the wire-toothed cards was added, as Billy Heffernan 
went on converting the wool into rolls so soft and light that the 
sudden opening of the door blew some of them from the bench 
down upon the hearth.
	The door was opened by a slatternly woman, smelling of 
soap-suds and snuff. After thrusting her dishevelled hair under a 
very dirty cap with borders that flapped backwards and forwards 
without any visible cause, and pulling up the heel of a man's 
brogue, which she wore as a slipper upon her stockingless foot, she 
announced the object of her visit to be "a squeeze of the blue bag."
	"'Tis there in the drawer of the dresser," said Mrs. 
Donovan, coldly.
	She got the article she wanted, which was a small piece of 
flannel tied with a string into something like a rude purse.
	"'Tis button blue," she remarked, feeling what was tied up 
in the piece of flannel.
	"No, 'tis slate blue," rejoined Mrs. Donovan, in no civil 
tone.
	The slatternly woman took a black bottle from her pocket, 
and, after holding it between her and the light, and turning it in 
various directions, extracted the cork with her teeth. Then throwing 
back her head, she held the bottle, bottom-upwards, over her open 
mouth for several seconds.
	"The divil a duge," she exclaimed, replacing the cork, and 
striking it with the palm of her hand. "This is the second three half-
pints I'm goin' for for 'em," she added; "though they never as much 
as axed me had I a mouth on me."
	"Who are they?" Mrs. Donovan asked.
	"Dick and Paddy Casey, Andy Dooley, and Phil Lahy," she 
replied. "Single-hand. Wheel out for a half-pint."
	"Faith, if I'm to wait for Phil," thought Billy Heffernan, as 
he presented the last roll of the wool on the back of the card to 
Nelly, "'tis a long wait I'll have, I'm afraid. An' if I don't wait, 
Honor'll think I didn't mind what she said to me. An' maybe 
Norah'd think it bad uv me." This last reflection decided Billy 
Heffernan to wait for Phil Lahy; and he knew his man sufficiently 
well to be pretty sure that he would call to Mat Donovan's on his 
way home, and try to make his wife believe that it was at Mat 
Donovan's he had been all the time.
	"Look at them"  --  here a difficulty presents itself: we are 
not sure whether it be possible to convey by means of the English 
alphabet the only name ever given to potatoes in Knocknagow.  
"Praties" would be laughed at as a vulgarism - only worthy of a 
spalpeen from Kerry, while "potatoes" was considered too genteel 
except for ladies and gentlemen and schoolmasters. The nearest 
approach we can make to the word we were about writing is 
"puetas" or "p'yehtes.
	"See if them puetas is goin' to bile," said Mat Donovan; 
"'twould be time for 'em."
	Billy Heffernan anticipated Nelly before she could stop her 
wheel, and raised the wooden lid from the pot.
	"The white horse is on 'em," said he.
	Nelly now having "filled the cuppeen"  --  that is, spun as 
much thread as the spindle could carry  --  placed her wheel against 
the wall, and drew a very white deal table to the middle of the 
floor. Upon the table she spread a cloth as clean, but scarcely so 
white as itself  --  for it was of homespun unbleached canvas  --  
and upon the cloth she laid a single white plate with a blue rim, 
and three very old black-handled knives, with the blades worn to a 
point and very short. Taking a small saucepan or porringer from a 
nail in the wall, she half filled it with spring water and put it down 
to boil on a red sod of turf which she took from the centre of the 
fire with the tongs, and broke upon the hearthstone. Thrusting the 
tongs into the pot, she took a potato and felt it in her left hand, 
which was covered with the corner of her apron, and then laid it 
smoking on the table-cloth. The pressure of her hand did not break 
the potato, but she knew by the feel it was boiled to the "heart." 
Whipping the pot from the fire she emptied its contents into a boat-
shaped basket placed over a tub, to drain off the water. Nelly 
Donovan then "threw out" the potatoes on the table, adroitly 
catching one or two that were rolling away and placing them on the 
top of the pile.
	Her mother now took off her spectacles, making many wry 
faces as she did so, for they had got entangled in her white hair, or 
she imagined they had  --  which came to the same thing  --  and 
placed them on the upper shelf of the dresser. The dresser was of 
deal like the table, and scoured, if possible, into a more snowy 
whiteness. It was pretty well furnished with plates with blue rims, 
and some cups and saucers in which red and green predominated, a 
sturdy little black earthenware teapot, half-a-dozen iron spoons 
fixed in slits in the edge of the top shelf, which top shelf was 
crowned with a row of shining pewter-plates, and two large 
circular dishes of the same metal  --  relics of the good old times 
when "a pig's head and a bolster of cabbage" used to be no rarity to 
them.
	Having placed her spectacles upon the upper shelf, and her 
darning needle and the half-mended stocking in one of the two 
drawers under the lower shelf of this imposing article of furniture, 
Mrs. Donovan smoothed down her apron, and took her accustomed 
place at the table. She was a quiet, decent-looking woman, with a 
sad, careworn face, but tranquil and contented at the same time. 
Her well-starched cap was scrupulously clean, and her grey hair 
carefully smoothed over her temples. She wore a small, yellowish 
shawl pinned over her dark brown stuff gown, and a white cotton 
kerchief under it, which was visible at the throat and round her 
neck. Her hand, as she rested it on the table, appeared bony and 
shrivelled, and it could be seen that the gold wedding ring was now 
too large for the finger it once fitted tightly enough  --  which made 
it necessary for her to wear a smaller ring of brass, as a guard.
	"Put up that flail, Mat," she said, somewhat reproach fully, 
"and sit down to your supper."
	Mat tucked up his cuffs; and, after washing his hands in a 
wooden basin  --  always called a "cup"  --  and drying then on a 
strip of canvas that hung from a peg in the wall, he, too, sat at the 
table, exclaiming, as he pushed some of the potatoes out of the 
way, and laid the small iron candlestick on the middle of the table:
	"Put the priest in the middle of the parish."
	Then seizing a good-sized potato, he looked admiringly 
first at one side and then at the other. It was white and floury, and 
altogether a tempting object for a hungry man to look at. There 
was even something appetising in the steam that curled up from it. 
In fact, the potatoes were remarkably good potatoes, 
notwithstanding the bad name Mat had given them to Miss Mary 
Kearney when he pronounced them "desavers."
	During this time Nelly Donovan was engaged in cooking a 
salt herring on a small gridiron, which was constructed by simply 
bending a piece of thin rod iron, zig-zag, into something like the 
outline of a hand with the fingers extended, traced with a burnt 
stick upon the wall, and bringing the ends of the iron together and 
twisting them into a handle, which might represent a very 
attenuated arm to the hand aforesaid. When the herring was done, 
she tossed it on the plate, and poured some of the boiling water out 
of the porringer upon it for sauce.
	And now the repast being prepared, Nelly sat down to 
partake of her share.
	"Won't you come an' ate, Billy," she said, turning to their 
silent visitor.
	"No, thankee," he replied, "I'm afther my supper."
	"Oh, wisha! wisha!" Nelly exclaimed, discontentedly, as 
she glanced at the table, "how well I should forget." She stood up 
and opened the door; but seeing that the night was dark and the 
wind rising, she turned to Billy Heffernan and said, "Come out 
wud me, Billy."
	He left his bench in the chimney corner, and followed her 
out. They returned in a minute or two, and after washing 
something in a black, glazed earthenware pan, and drying her 
hands, Nelly laid two small leeks on the table near her mother.
	The meal then commenced, but Nelly started up again, 
exclaiming:
	"Bad cess to me, but there's somethin' comin' over me."
	She selected half-a-dozen of the best potatoes and laid them 
in a semi-circle round the fire to roast, and again took her place at 
the table.
	The worn knives were used to peel the potatoes  --  though 
towards the conclusion of the meal, Nelly sometimes fell into a 
contemplative mood and did the peeling with the nail of her thumb  
--  but all three helped themselves with their fingers to the herring, 
which they took in minute pinches, as if they were merely trying 
how it tasted.
	Billy Heffernan left his bench and sat upon a straw-bottom 
chair in front of the fire, so that his back was towards the table  --  
the Irish peasant always considering it rude to flare at people while 
eating. And as he was turning the "roasters" with the tongs, a laugh 
from Nelly, clear and musical as ever rang through festal hall, 
made him look round. Mat, it appeared, was making great inroads 
upon the herring, the backbone of which was well nigh laid bare 
from the head to the tail, He had his hand stretched out to help 
himself to a second pinch, by way of supplement to an 
unconscionably large pinch he had just taken, when his sister 
snatched away the plate. Mat, finding his finger and thumb close 
upon vacancy, opened his mouth, not to add the supplemental 
pinch to its contents, but in blank amazement; and as he stared at 
his sister, she laughed till she was obliged to wipe the tears from 
her eyes with the corner of her apron. Even her mother's sad face 
relaxed into a smile; which, however, was followed by a forced 
look of reproach, as she requested Nelly to "behave herself." Mat 
now rested the handle of his knife on the table with the air of a 
man who had made a good meal, and was pretty well satisfied. All 
three, in fact, paused as if the work in hand were completed. But 
Nelly, going to the fire, took up the "roasters," which served the 
purpose of a second course, and placed three of them before Mat 
and two before her mother, reserving one for herself. These being 
disposed of after the manner of tarts or some such delicacies, Mat 
Donovan leant back luxuriously in his straw-bottom chair for a 
minute or two. Then hastily making the Sign of the Cross, he stood 
up, and, dipping a cup in a pail of spring water which rested on a 
stone slab under the little window, Mat Donovan took a draught 
with a relish that drinkers of champagne dream not of. He then 
placed the little iron candlestick on the window, while his sister set 
about clearing away the table, and joined Billy Heffernan at the 
fire.
	Mat Donovan's house was on the top of a hill where two 
roads met; and the candle in the little window was a beacon-light 
to many a splashed and weary wayfarer during the dark winter 
nights. In fact, his latch was often raised not only by the 
neighbours who came in for a "shanahus" of an evening, but 
travellers who were accustomed to pass the way made it a point to 
light their pipes at the bright turf fire, or in the hot summer days to 
take a draught from the pail under the little window, which was 
sure to be found at all hours and seasons as fresh as in the well 
under the whitethorn in the "rushy field" near the bridge.
	Have you the flute, Billy?" Mat asked, as he sat in the chair 
which Billy had again left for the bench in the corner.
	"No," was the reply; "I left id at home."
	"I'll engage he hasn't," said Nelly. "'Tis seldom he has a 
tune for us."
	"Begor, you cant say that, Nelly. Whin did I ever 
disappoint ye whin ye wanted a tune?"
	"Well, that's thrue enough, Billy," returned Nelly.
	You're a good warrant to play for us whenever we ax you. 
'Tis jokin' I was."
	"That's what you're always doin'," said her mother, shaking 
her head.
	"'Tis better be merry than sad," she replied, with a laugh.
	The latch was here raised and the door pushed open; but as 
no one came in, Mat leant backwards and peered out into the 
darkness. By shading his eyes from the fire-light he was able to see 
that some one was fastening a horse to the back-stick iron in the 
door-post; and after a little delay  --  more perhaps than a perfectly 
sober man would require  --  a tall, broad-shouldered man turned 
round and advanced a step or two into the house.
	"Is that Ned?" Mat asked.
	"'Tis," was the reply, as he took off his hat and swung it 
downwards to shake off the wet with which the fur  --  for it was a 
beaver or "Caroline"  --  was dabbled.
	"Is it rainin' it is?" Mat inquired, in some surprise.
	"No, but the wind whipped id off uv my head as I was 
passin' the quarry."
	At this Mrs. Donovan made the Sign of the Cross on her 
forehead; for it was generally believed that the " Good People" 
were wont to take their nightly journeys through the air to and 
from Maurice Kearney's fort over the quarry.
	Nelly took the hat, and, bringing it close to the candle, gave 
it as her opinion that it was "spiled"; and immediately set to work 
to dry the inside.
	"A fine, new Car'line," said she, as she gave it back to the 
owner; "take care an' don't rub the outside till 'tis dhry."
	"Faith, Ned," she added, taking up the candle and viewing 
him all over, "I'm thinkin' I could make a good guess where you're 
comin' from."
	Ned smiled and looked rather sheepish, as she held the 
candle down almost to his shoes, and then slowly raised it till she 
came to the "fine new Car'line," and then dropping the light on a 
level with his waistcoat, moved her hand as if she were describing 
a circle in the air, till the little glass buttons on the waistcoat 
twinkled like so many little bright black eyes winking at her. 
	Ned's riding-coat was that which he usually wore, but 
everything else about him was brand new, even to the black silk 
cravat with a scarlet border, the bow knot of which happened to be 
under his left ear, till Nelly pulled it back to its proper position.
	"Tell us something about her, Ned," she began, laughingly. 
"What sourt is she? Shawn-na-match says you're bringin' a 
patthern to the parish. But far away cows wear long horns, you 
know."
	"Go about your business, and thry an' have a little sense," 
said her mother, rising from her place in the chimney-corner. "Sit 
down, Ned, an' never mind her."
	"No, Nell, no; 'tis too late, and I'm in a hurry. Take a walk 
down as far as the bridge," he added, turning to Mat, "I want to 
spake to you."
	There was something in his voice and manner that made 
Mat apprehend that he had unpleasant news to communicate, so he 
at once stood up, and taking the bridle from the jamb of the door, 
set back the horse and desired the owner to mount.
	"No, I'd rather walk," said he, taking hold of the bridle and 
leading the horse out upon the road.
	They walked on in silence for some time, and at last Ned 
Brophy  --  for it was the same Ned Brophy of whom mention has 
been made more than once  --  said:
	"I believe this business is settled,"
	"Is the day appointed an' all?"
	"All is settled," was the reply.
	"Well, you're gettin' a fine fortune any way," said Mat 
Donovan.
	Ned Brophy made no reply, but walked on in silence till 
they came to the bridge; and then he stooped and looked down at 
the little stream as it rushed under the ivy-covered arch.
	"Mat," said he, covering his face with his hands. "my heart 
is broke."
	"I don't see the use of talkin' that way now," Mat replied, a 
little angrily. "I tould you to look before you. An', begor, Ned, 
'tisn't for you I have the compassion."
	"Don't be too hard on me, Mat. You don't know the way 
they wor at me. Judy said she'd dhrag the red head off uv her."
	"More shame for Judy to talk that way uv as dacent a girl as 
ever she was. But, like that, you know, she had no great harm in id. 
An' sure 'tis no wondher she'd be agin a match that'd lave herself 
wudout a fortune. But as I often said to you, you had a right to 
think uv all this long ago, an' not to be the manes uv setting any 
girl astray. But 'tis too late to talk about id now; so dhrop id in the 
name o' God."
	"You don't know the way I do be," said Ned Brophy, 
"whinever I pass over this bridge. Two hundred pounds is a fine 
fortune, moreover, whin a man'd want id. But that bush beyand an' 
the bridge here that kills me."
	Mat took up a stone from the road and jerked it into the 
stream, but made no reply.
	"There now," continued Ned Brophy, with a groan, "I think 
I'm lookin' at her peltin' the little pebbles into the wather. Och! I do 
be all right till I stand on this bridge."
	"Well, don't stand on id," rejoined Mat. "But you're not fit 
to talk to now; and if you wor itself, there's no use in talkin'."
	Mat turned his back and then his shoulder to the wind, 
which was blowing in strong, fitful gusts over the unsheltered 
bridge.
	"Come, come," he continued, pulling up his coat collar over 
his ears, "there's no use in perishin' here."
	He held the horse while Ned put his foot in the stirrup and 
mounted; and after saying "safe home," was starting off up the hill, 
when Ned Brophy suddenly wheeled round his horse and laid his 
hand on Mat's shoulder,
	"Mat, what way is she?" he asked.
	"I didn't see her since the day uv the Station," he replied. 
"She wasn't at the dance o' Sunday."
	"Wasn't she, Mat?" he asked in a tone of such real feeling 
that Mat was moved, and added:
	"Nelly goes in to see her now an' then; an' she says she is 
purty well, on'y she can't stir herself to go among the b'ys an' girls 
like she used."
	"I'm tould," Ned continued, "the mother is very bitther agin 
me. But Tom or herse'f says nothin'."
	"Nancy Hogan couldn't say a hard word uv any wan," 
returned Mat Donovan. "But I'd rather you wouldn't meet Jemmy 
till his passion cools. Good night, an' safe home. An' mind your hat 
goin' through the bog, if you don't want to have id swep' where 
'twon't be as aisy for you to find it as in the quarry."
	Ned Brophy rode away at a brisk trot, and Mat the Thrasher 
turned toward home, remarking, as he did so, that the light had 
disappeared from the little window.



CHAPTER XXIV.

"GOD BE WITH YE!"

THE disappearance of the light was accounted for when, after 
shutting the door behind him, he saw Phil Lahy sitting at the fire 
reading a newspaper, and Billy Heffernan holding the candle for 
him.
	"What's the news, Phil?" he asked.
	"'Tis an American paper I'm afther gettin' the lend of," 
replied Phil Lahy. "But I can't see much in id that we hadn't before, 
except that speech of Bishop Hughes's. That's a great man," said 
Phil, solemnly. "But I won't mind readin' the spee -- spee -- 
speech," he added, pronouncing the word with considerable 
difficulty, "till to-morrow."
	"Wouldn't id be time to be goin' home?" Billy Heffernan 
ventured to suggest.
	"Yes, Billy. 'Home sweet home, there's no place like home.' 
I have a poor wife," continued Phil Lahy, turning round and 
looking straight in Mat Donovan's face, "that wouldn't say a word 
to me -- no matter what I'd do."
	"She is a good wife, sure enough," replied Mat, as he gently 
touched Phil's shin with the tongs, with the view of inducing him 
to draw his foot out of the fire, into which he had just thrust it.
	"Billy," said Phil, after staring at him for a minute,
"you're lookin' very bad."
	This was said with a solemnity that quite frightened Billy 
Heffernan.
	"You ought," Phil Lahy continued in a fatherly way, "you 
ought to take a little nourishment. You'd want it."
	"The divil cut the hand uv me," returned Billy Heffernan, 
recovering from his fright, "if ever I take a dhrop uv any thing 
stronger than wather. 'Tis little good id ever done me while I was 
takin' id."
	"That is, Billy, because you didn't take it in raison. I'm not 
takin' anything myself now in a public-house, on account uv a little 
promise I made. You'd say now," he added, turning suddenly to 
Mat, "that I was fond uv the dhrop?"
	He waited for a reply, but Mat only looked into the fire.
	"No; I wouldn't give you that for a pun-puncheon of it." 
And Phil laid the top of his finger on his tongue, and after looking 
at it steadily as if there were a thorn in it, performed the action 
known as snapping the finger. "Not that would I give for it," he 
repeated, "on'y for the company."
	"An' why couldn't you have the company wudout the 
whiskey?" Nelly asked. "Many's the pleasant company I see where 
there wasn't either a pint or a glass."
	"Nelly," said Phil, looking very seriously at her, but 
answering her rather wide of the mark, "I forgot thankin' you for 
the fresh eggs you sent to my poor sick daughter; an' our own hens 
stopped layin' this I don't know how long."
	"Faix an' 'tis the same story we'd have ourselves," replied 
Nelly, "if Mat could have his own way, an' keep the hens out on 
the roost he made for 'em in the pig-house. We're gettin' --." Here 
Nelly stopped short. She was about telling him she was getting 
three-halfpence a couple for her eggs, when it occurred to her it 
would look as if she wished to let him see the extent of the favour 
he was thanking her for.
	"Nelly," said Phil Lahy, with a politeness that was quite 
affecting, "I'll thank you for wan of them knittin'-needles to ready 
this pipe."
	She plied her needles with increased nimbleness for a few 
seconds, and then handed him one of them.
	Phil thrust the knitting-needle into the wooden stem of his 
pipe, but forgot to draw it out, till it came in contact with his nose, 
as he was putting the pipe to his mouth, which made him start and 
look very much astonished.
	"It never could be said of me, Mrs. Donovan," he 
proceeded  -- as he drew out the knitting-needle, which slipped 
through his fingers several times --  "it never could be said that I" -
-  here he paused and looked into her face as if something had 
struck him in the outline of her nose that he had never noticed 
before -- " that I," he repeated, "ever went to bed wudout sprinklin' 
the holy wather on myself. An', as long as a man has that to say, he 
can't be called a drunkard at any rate, Mrs. Donovan."
	"Let us be goin'," Billy Heffernan suggested. But before the 
hint could be acted upon --  supposing that Phil Lahy was disposed 
to act upon it --  the latch was again raised.
	"I ran in to take my lave of ye, for fear I mightn't see ye 
again," said a young girl, who stepped lightly into the kitchen, 
forgetting to close the door behind her.
	A gust of wind rushed in after her, and was met by another 
gust that rushed down the chimney; and both gusts joining 
together, whirled round and round Mat Donovan's kitchen, 
extinguishing the candle which Billy Heffernan had laid on the end 
of the bench upon which he sat, and blowing the ashes and some 
sparks of fire into Mrs. Donovan's lap, causing the good woman to 
start to her feet and beat her apron as if it were in a blaze about her; 
and, not content with this mischief, the two gusts of wind whirled 
up to the thatched roof, and so jostled Nelly Donovan's hens about, 
on the roost over the door, that their querulous screams at being 
thus rudely and unseasonably awakened from their repose were 
piteous to listen to; and then, by way of finishing their frolic, the 
intruders swept the old red cock himself from the collar-beam, 
where he re posed in solitary dignity, bringing him down straight 
upon Phil Lahy's head, who had just risen to his feet and was 
making an ineffectual effort to comprehend the state of affairs, and 
upon whom the sudden assault had such an effect that he staggered 
backward and was coming down in a sitting posture upon the fire, 
when Billy Heffernan caught him in his arms in time to prevent the 
unpleasant catastrophe. And the two gusts of wind, having fulfilled 
their mission, went out of existence as suddenly as they came into 
Mat the Thrasher's kitchen by the door and by the chimney.
	Mrs. Donovan blessed herself several times. She had her 
own private opinion as to the nature of the two gusts of wind; and 
had not a doubt that the denizens of Maurice Kearney's fort were 
unusually frolicsome that night --  witness Ned Brophy's hat and 
the old red cock, who stood upon the hearth-stone looking quite 
dazed and foolish, as if he were just after receiving a box on the 
ear, which bothered him to that degree that he was deliberately 
walking into the fire till Nelly snatched him up in her arms.
	"Faith, you wor never in Dublin, whoever you are," said 
Billy Heffernan, as with a vigorous swing he placed Phil Lahy in 
his chair.
	"Oh, wisha!" exclaimed the innocent cause of the 
commotion, "see how I should forget to shut the door."
	"Light the candle, Billy," said Nelly Donovan, "I wondher 
who have we at all? Maybe 'tis Judy Connell,"
	"'Tis, Nelly," was the reply. "I'm comin' out from town, an' 
I didn't like to pass by wudout comin' in to see ye, as I don't know 
the minute or hour the captain's letter might 'come, an' maybe I 
mightn't have time to take my lave uv ye."
	"Sit down, Judy," said Mrs. Donovan sadly.
	"No, ma'am, thank you," she replied: "Mary is wud me, an' 
we're in a hurry home, as there's a few friends comin' to see me."
	"An' is id walkin' ye are?"
	"No, Nelly; Joe Burke came wud us, an' brought his horse 
an' car."
	As she spoke she ran to Nelly, and, flinging her arms round 
her neck, kissed her, we might say, passionately.
	She also kissed the old woman, but more calmly. They 
were all now standing around her, and as she gave her hand to Mat 
she tried to smile.
	"God be wud you, Mat," said she, "'tis many's the time we 
danced together at the Bush."
	The recollection of those happy times was too much for 
her, and the tears gushed from her eyes.
	"God Almighty be wud ye all," she exclaimed in a choking 
voice, as she hurriedly shook hands with Billy Heffernan and Phil 
Lahy.
	And as she turned towards the door, which Nelly ran to 
open for her, she pressed one hand on her bosom and the other 
over her eyes, and a cry so full of sorrow burst front her that the 
tears came rolling down Mat Donovan's cheeks before he could 
turn away to hide them under the pretext of placing the candle in 
its usual place on the little window. And a presentiment seized 
upon him at that moment that his own heart would one day feel the 
pang that wrung that cry from the heart of Judy Connell.
	"I never thought," Nelly remarked, when the emigrant girl 
had left, "that herself an' Joe'd ever be parted."
	'Tisn't Joe's fault," Mat returned; " his lase is out, an' he's 
expectin' the notice every day like the rest of the tinants on the 
property. As fast as their lases dhrop, out they must go."
	"An' she tould me last Sunday," continued Nelly, "that on'y 
for her sisters sendin' for her, she'd never go. She has a sore heart 
to-night any way," added Nelly with a sigh.
	"Short she'll think uv Joe, once the say is betune 'em," Billy 
Heffernan observed, somewhat cynically.
	"'Tis more likely 'tis short Joe'll think uv her," retorted 
Nelly, apparently nettled by the insinuation of female inconstancy 
which Billy's remark implied.
	"Maybe 'twould be out uv sight out uv mind wud the two 
uv 'em," Mrs. Donovan observed. "An' may be not," she added 
more seriously, after a pause.
	"That," said Mat, who was gazing thoughtfully into the fire, 
"that depends on the soart they are. The round uv the world 
wouldn't put some people out uv wan another's mind. But there's 
more uv 'em," he added, with a shake of the head, "an' the cross uv 
a stubble garden would do id."
	"Wisha, would I doubt you for sayin' a quare thing," Nelly 
replied, with a mixture of surprise and contempt in her tone; "I 
wondher what put a stubble garden into your head? An' 'tis you're 
the lad that'd forget a girl before you'd be the cross uv a bosheen, 
not to say a stubble garden."
	"The world is only a blue rag, Billy. Have your squeeze out 
of id," said Mat, shaking off the gloom that seemed to oppress him 
during the evening, and resuming his usual cheerful look.
	"There's more of id," returned Nelly. "Whoever called the 
world a blue rag before? I suppose 'tis because Kit Cummins came 
in for a squeeze of id a while ago, that put the blue rag into your 
head. I'd rather a man like yourself, Billy, that wouldn't mind any 
wan, than a fellow that'd be goin' about palaverin' every girl he'd 
meet."
	"I don't know," retorted Mat, with a shrug of his shoulders, 
"I had my fling among 'em, sure enough; but where's the wan uv 
'em that ever had to say a bad word uv me?"
	Mat gazed into the fire again, with that look of his which 
had in it such a strange blending of humour and sadness, like the 
music of his country. The smile was on his lip, and the smile was 
in his eye. But for all that there was a melting something in big 
Mat Donovan's face, as he gazed into the turf fire, that made Billy 
Heffernan expect every moment to see the humourful eye swim in 
tears and the smiling lips give passage to a sigh. The sigh did 
come; but not the tears. And Mat Donovan, leaning back in his 
chair, and with a sidelong glance up at the collar-beams, relieved 
his feelings, as was his wont on such occasions, by chanting one of 
his favourite songs.
	Now, if we were drawing upon our imagination we would 
give Mat the Thrasher a more suitable song titan he chose to sing 
on this not eventful night -- so far as our (perhaps) not eventful 
history is concerned -- even if we were obliged to compose one 
specially for him. But being simply the faithful chronicler of the 
sayings and doings, joys and sorrows of Knocknagow, a regard for 
truth compels us to record that Mat the Thrasher's song was no 
other than that sentimentalest of sentimental lyrics, "Oh, no, we 
never mention her."
	And furthermore, we feel bound to state that this song was 
second to none in popularity among the music-loving people of 
Knocknagow. How is this fact to be accounted for? Is there some 
innate good hid under the lackadaisical in this renowned effort of 
Mr. Haynes Bailey's muse? Or might it be that "the hawthorn tree" 
brought the bush near Maurice Kearney's back gate, with its host 
of tender associations, to the minds of the singers and listeners? 
Or, to make another, and, probably, the best guess, perhaps the 
words --

"Were I in a foreign land
They'd find no change in me."

came home to many a loving heart in Knocknagow? For some or 
all of these reasons, or for some reason unknown to us, this song, 
as we have said, was popular in a high degree, from the cross-roads 
at the foot of the hill to the cross-roads at the top of the hill; and 
indeed we might say as far as the eye of a spectator standing on 
Maurice Kearney's fort could reach all around.

"'Tis true that I behold no more
The valley where we met,
I do not see the hawthorn tree,
But how can I forget?"

So sang Mat the Thrasher. And Nelly, who at first seemed 
disposed to be scornful, when he came to these words began to 
accompany him unconsciously, but in an almost inaudible voice. 
Billy Heffernan bent down with his elbows on his knees and his 
hands covering his face. Mrs. Donovan's arms dropped by her side, 
and a dreamy look came into her sad face, as if her thoughts went 
back to the far past. Yes! there was "a valley where we met" in her 
memory, and as she smoothed her grey hair over her temples, Mrs. 
Donovan stealthily wiped a tear from her cheek with the back of 
her hand.
	And Mat the Thrasher's song reminds us that at the very 
last wedding we had the honour of being invited to in the 
neighbourhood of Knocknagow, the two musicians, standing in the 
corner appropriated to them, commenced to play a "slow tune" 
during the interval between two dances; which slow tune so 
fascinated our good friend, Father Hannigan, who was a bigoted 
admirer of Irish music, that he left his place behind the mahogany 
table at the opposite side of the room, and, after pushing his way 
through the dancers, stood with folded arms close to the musicians, 
who, flattered by the compliment, put their whole souls into their 
fiddles. And when we, at the suggestion of the bride's father, went 
to escort Father Hannigan back to his place at the mahogany table, 
and to the little comforts "smiling" thereon --  we borrow the 
expression from a well-known song beginning --  

"Let the farmer praise his grounds,
Let the huntsman praise his hounds," etc.

-- he laid his hand impressively on our shoulder and said in a 
whisper:
	"That's a fine thing!"
	"Why, that," we replied, "is the English sentimental song -- 
'Oh, no, we never mention her.'" To which Father Hannigan 
frowned a scornful contradiction.
	But we having reiterated the assertion, Father Hannigan 
listened again, and, suddenly turning to us a with a look of 
profound amazement, said:
	"Begor, you're right!"
	And then Father Hannigan made his way back to the 
mahogany table, rubbing the side of his head, and evincing all the 
symptoms of a man conscious of having been "sold."
	So the music as well as the words of this much-abused lyric 
has been a puzzle to us.
	And before dismissing Mr. Haynes Bailey, we must further 
record that another song of his, though "caviare to the general," 
was a decided favourite with Mat the Thrasher. He was wont to 
chant with great feeling how "She wore a wreath of roses the time 
when first we met," and a "wreath of orange blossoms" on the 
second occasion. And when once again they met, the widow's cap 
had taken the place of roses and blossoms. Mat's rendering of this 
last stanza was quite heart-breaking. But the great triumph was a 
new reading of the last line but one. In the original it is, we 
believe,

"And there is no one near
To press her hand within his own,
And wipe away the tear."

which Mat altered, whether intentionally or not we never could 
discover, to

"But there was no one near
To roll her in his arms,
And wipe away a tear."

	Mat Donovan sang on, with his eyes fixed on the collar-
beams, and with a continuous wavy motion of the head, which had 
a softness in it in harmony with the humorously pathetic look 
which was peculiar to him when the theme of his song, or his 
discourse, or his thoughts happened to be that which we are 
assured rules the court, the camp, the grove, and even "makes the 
world go round."
	"As long as the fox runs, he's caught at last," said Mrs. 
Donovan, looking at Mat, as if she suspected he was in the toils, as 
long as he seemed to have kept clear of danger.
	Phil Lahy had been taking a comfortable nap, with his head 
hanging over the back of his chair, unnoticed by every body except 
Billy Heffernan, who gave him an occasional push when he 
showed symptoms of tumbling off.
	"We must stir him up," said Billy. "Give him a shake, Mat, 
and tell him to come home."
	Come, Phil," said Mat, shaking him, "get up and pay for 
your bed."
	Phil opened his eyes and stared about him as if the whole 
place were quite strange to him. But, on recognising Mat, who was 
shaking him by the collar, Phil Lahy commenced to laugh, as if he 
thought the proceeding the funniest and most side-splitting of 
practical jokes.
	"Mat," said he, "you wor always a play-boy."
	"The divil a much of a play-boy in id," returned Mat I'm 
on'y tellin' you to keep your eyes open."
	No doubt, no doubt," Phil replied, with the look of a man 
that couldn't laugh if it were to save his life. "No doubt, Mat"; and 
he nodded so far forward that Billy Heffernan stretched out his 
hands with a start, imagining that he had taken a sudden fancy to 
dive head foremost into the fire.
	Let us be movin', Phil," said Billy Heffernan. " 'Tis gettin' 
late an' I must be off, an' we may as well go home together."
	You know, Billy, I have a poor wife that wouldn't say a 
word to me, no matter what I'd do."
	I know that," Billy replied, as if 'twas the most sorrowful 
thing he ever heard in his life.
	Poor Norah is comin' on finely," Nelly observed. " 'Tis long 
since I see her lookin' so well as she did to-day.
	The mention of Norah's name had an instantaneous effect 
upon her father, who seemed to become almost sober in a moment.
	Billy Heffernan expected this result, and yet he could not 
mention Norah's name himself.
	Billy," said Phil Lahy, looking at him as if it were he and 
not Nelly who had spoken, or rather as if no one had spoken at all -
- "Billy, I have a daughter an' the like uv her is not in the world." 
He said this confidentially, leaning forward as if he were imparting 
a secret to him.
	That affection of the throat which had prevented Billy 
Heffernan from at once complying with Norah's request that he 
would play "Auld Lang Syne," was now observed by Nelly 
Donovan, who was watching him very closely.
	 Perhaps Nelly Donovan had her own reasons for watching 
Billy Heffernan; and possibly his presence had something to do 
with her forgetfulness a while ago, in reference to the leeks and 
"roasters" And when she said that she'd rather a man like him that 
"wouldn't mind anyone" than a "rag on every bush" like Mat, she 
had certain misgivings that her words did not exactly apply to 
Billy's case; and now as she looked at him she felt sure that they 
did not. But though her first feeling, on making this discovery, was 
one of disappointment, if not of pain, it soon gave place to 
admiration and sympathy at the recollection of Norah's pale face. 
And Nelly Donovan never cared so much for Billy Heffernan as 
now that she believed he cared for another.
	"Billy," said Phil Lahy rising from his chair, "you ought to 
be in your own house. A young man ought to keep regular hours."
	"Well, I b'lieve so,' replied Billy, getting up from the bench 
in the corner and stretching his arms. "Good-night to ye."
	Mat, I have somethin' to be talkin' to you about," Phil 
observed before he reached the door, "but it will do another time. 
Good-night, Mrs. Donovan."
	"Good-night, Phil. Nelly, hold the candle for 'em till they 
get a-past the turn; I b'lieve the night is very dark."
	"There's great fear of 'em," returned Nelly in her good 
humoured way. " Here, take this in your hand," she continued, 
presenting a blackthorn stick to Billy Heffernan; "maybe you 
might meet the night-walkers. And 'tis the stick you ought to get," 
she added, giving him a blow of her open hand as he stepped over 
the threshold.
	"'Tis a shame for you," said her mother. "You'll never have 
a stim uv sinse." At which Nelly Donovan laughed her ringing 
laugh as she closed the door and fastened it with the back-stick.
	"Heigho! heart -- wan here an' another in Cork," she 
exclaimed, as she took the broom from behind the door and tucked 
up her apron, putting the corner under the string behind her back.
	Wisha, Mat," she continued, "how long you're about makin' 
thim couple uv brooms. These sally brooms don't hold a minute. 
Wan birch broom'd be worth a dozen uv em.
	"I'll desire Barney to cut the makin's uv 'em," replied Mat, 
"the next time he's goin' over to Ardboher. I haven't time myself, if 
you don't want me to go in the night --  or lose a Sunday for 'em."
	Mat Donovan, we are bound to confess, would not have 
thought it a mortal sin to cut the makings of a broom on the 
Sabbath, and by "losing a Sunday" he meant losing a dance, or the 
hurling, or the hunt, which he could only enjoy on the day of rest. 
As he spoke to his sister, he unfolded a crumpled ballad, and was 
just beginning to hum the chorus, when his mother reminded him 
that it was time to go to bed.
	Well, I b'lieve so," he replied, rolling the ballad between his 
hands, like a ball, and replacing it in his waistcoat pocket.
	"What raison do you rowl id up that way instead of foldin' 
id right?" Nelly asked, "I thought 'twas goin' to play scut wud id 
you wor."
	"You know nothin'," returned Mat; "if I folded Id right, as 
you say, 'twould cut in my pocket; an' now id won't."
	He was on his knees by his bedside without requiring 
another hint. And by the time his mother and Nelly had their 
prayers said, and the house swept, and the fire raked, Mat the 
Thrasher was sound asleep.
	And so, for the present, we wish good-night to the 
occupants of this humble little Tipperary home.



CHAPTER XXV.

PHIL LAHY IN THE BOSOM OF HIS FAMILY.

	BILLY Heffernan, on reaching his own door, was about 
bidding his companion good-night, when it occurred to him that 
Phil might take it into his head to pay a visit to Jack Delaney's 
forge, from the door of which, late as it was, a gleam of light shone 
out at intervals, indicating that the blacksmith had some work in 
hand which it was necessary to finish before morning.
	Billy Heffernan's suspicion proved well founded; for, after 
reflecting for a minute or two, Phil said:
	"Billy, I'll wish you good-night. I'll take a walk down to the 
forge. I want to talk to Jack Delaney about -- about a little 
business."
	"Sure you can see him to-morrow, or any time," replied 
Billy.
	Phil put his finger and thumb into his waistcoat-pocket, and 
taking out the last shilling of what Mat the Thrasher had given 
him, he fell into a deep reverie.
	Faith, I b'lieve 'tis burnin' you," said Billy Heffernan to 
himself. "'Tis gettin' late," he observed aloud; "an' maybe if you 
stopped out any longer Norah might be frettin'."
	This decided Phil, who walked off so quickly that Billy 
found himself standing alone in the middle of the road.
	He was about turning towards his own door -- a little 
disappointed, perhaps -- when Phil was at his side again as 
suddenly as he had left it.
	"Billy," said he, "you may as well come in for a minute."
	This invitation was not prompted by politeness on Phil 
Lahy's part. Perhaps if it were, Billy Heffernan would have 
declined it. But he knew Phil shrank from meeting his wife alone -- 
which may appear strange, for it was quite true that she "wouldn't 
say a word to him no matter what he'd do," as he said at Mat 
Donovan's But perhaps this forbearance was the secret of her 
influence.
	"Norah, you ought to be in bed," said Phil Lahy in a mild, 
parental tone, as he laid his hat on the top of the press near his 
shop-board, with the air of a man who had been labouring hard 
since daybreak to maintain his family respectably.
	For Phil Lahy really seemed to be quite satisfied that he 
was the prop of the household. And when he did happen to do 
anything useful -- such, for instance, as transferring a customer's 
account from his wife's board, where it was chalked in the shape of 
"strokes and O's," to the account book, or buying a couple of 
"slips" at the fair -- Phi Lahy had the look of a martyr who was 
slaving from year's end to year's end to keep a roof over the heads 
of his wife and children. He was apt to get those "weaknesses," 
too, to which he was subject on these occasions, and his hints as to 
the necessity of a little" nourishment" were both strong and 
frequent.
	At certain seasons, too, he was wont to take sudden fits of 
industry, which usually lasted half-an-hour at a time, and evinced 
themselves in "digging the haggart"; and 'twas wonderful how 
often the handle of his spade would get loose, and how every one 
would be in his way while he searched for the hammer, or 
sharpened a knife, to make a wedge, on the brown flag at the shop 
door. In reference to this peculiarity Mat the Thrasher was heard to 
declare that if Phil Lahy "on'y turned a dog up from the fire you'd 
think the whole house was dependin' on him."
	"You know, Norah," he continued, in a tone of mild 
reproach, "it doesn't answer you to be up late."
	"An' sure you know," replied his wife, "that she wouldn't 
go to bed till you'd come home; and if she did itself she couldn't 
sleep."
	"I was readin' an American paper over at Mat's," said he. 
"Billy Heffernan and myself happened to be there, an' we didn't 
feel the time passin'. I told Nelly how much obliged to her you 
were for the fresh eggs."
	This was a deep stroke of Phil's; and he began to feel that 
he had been discharging an important duty during the evening 
which placed them all under an obligation to him.
	"I think," he continued, as if he thought he might law fully 
allow himself a little relaxation at last, " I think I'll look over the 
bishop's speech."
	He sat down by the end of the table next the fire, and 
snuffed the candle with his fingers.
	There were cups and saucers and a loaf of bread cut into 
substantial slices on the table; and as soon as Billy Heffernan 
observed them he was moving silently towards the door. No one 
noticed him but Norah, who turned round in her chair and followed 
him with her eyes. Such an effort was so unusual with her, that her 
mother looked up in surprise to see what had happened. But 
observing nothing but Billy Heffernan's retreating figure, she 
turned to Norah for, an explanation; and her look of inquiry was 
met by one of mild reproach from Norah's dark eyes.
	Mrs. Lahy was for a moment quite at a loss to understand 
what had gone wrong; but the real state of affairs suddenly flashed 
upon her, and starting up she seized Billy Heffernan by the 
shoulder before he had reached the door.
	"Wisha, Billy," said she, "what did we do to you?"
"Nothin'," he replied," quite taken by surprise. "Who said ye did 
anything to me?"
	Here, go over there to the corner and sit down, an' have cup 
uv tay wud us."
	Billy hesitated; but Mrs. Lahy pushed him by main force to 
the seat in the corner; and a glance from Norah decided him.
	"I'll first run up," said Billy, "to throw a sop uv hay to he 
mule, and I'll be back in a minute."
	"How bad she is!" returned Honor Lahy. "She can wait till 
you go home."
	"Well," said Billy Heffernan, scratching his head uneasily, 
I haven't the flute.'
	This remark made Norah smile; and she gave him one of 
those looks -- those melancholy, grateful looks -- that always 
brought something into Billy Heffernan's throat.
	"You're sure you'll come back now?" said Honor Lahy, 
keeping her position between him and the door.
	"Well, I will," he replied. And she let him pass, and 
returned to her stool to finish the toasting and buttering of a thin 
piece of bread which she had left on a plate on the hearth when she 
started up to prevent Billy Heffernan's exit. Billy was soon back 
with his flute; but before he had time to screw the joints together, 
Mrs. Lahy snatched them from him, and laid them aside with Phil's 
American paper. And taking the sturdy little black tea-pot from the 
hearth, having first placed the table in front of the fire, she poured 
out the tea.
	Billy Heffernan reached for his cup without leaving his seat 
in the chimney-corner. Norah's was laid with her toast on a chair 
near her, and Honor and Phil sat at the table, having the full benefit 
of the turf fire. Altogether it was a pleasant little party.
	Phil Lahy was not insensible to the comforts by which he 
as surrounded and their influence lost nothing by the reflection that 
he himself was the source and creator of them all. He was more 
than half sober by the time the first cup of tea was discussed, and 
talked so wisely, and learnedly, and feelingly upon various 
subjects that his wife's admiration actually shone in her face till it 
rivalled the turf fire in brightness; and poor Norah, as she looked at 
him with a kind of wondering fondness, said to herself:
	"Ah! if he never came home any worse than he is now, how 
happy we'd all be!"
	Supper over, Mrs. Lahy handed Phil his newspaper, and 
Billy Heffernan his flute; but just as Phil had adjusted his 
spectacles on his nose, and as Billy was in the act of blowing the 
first note of the" Humours of Glyn," the half-door opened and Mr. 
Beresford Pender's servant came in with one of the lamps of his 
master's tax-cart in his hand.
	"The wind is afther quenchin' the lamp on us," said he, "as 
we wor passin' the quarry, and I came in for a light."
	Honor Lahy made 'the Sign of the Cross on her forehead. 
She and Mrs. Donovan had more than once compared notes in 
reference to that same quarry, and the conclusion arrived at was 
that certain folk who need not be mentioned had "a passage" 
through it.
	Honor Lahy handed the candle to the man, but as he found 
some difficulty in lighting the lamp, Mr. Beresford Pender himself 
made his appearance.
	"What's delaying you?" he asked in his tremendous voice.
	The delay was not much; but minutes seemed hours to Mr. 
Beresford Pender when he happened to be left alone at night, 
particularly in the neighbourhood of those properties with which 
his father had any connection as agent or assist ant agent. He began 
at once to bluster as he examined his pistols, and muttered of 
murderers, and robbers, and Papists and rebels, till poor Norah 
became quite frightened. But the oaths with which he interlarded 
his blustering were so shocking that the poor girl shuddered to 
listen to them. One was so horribly impious that she put her hands 
to her ears with a low cry, which she was unable to suppress.
	He turned round and glared at her, but swore no more till 
the servant came in to say the lamps were lighted.
	After looking again at Norah, Mr. Beresford Pender said, 
almost in a kind voice:
	"Good-night, Mrs: Lahy, I'm obliged to you. I hope I didn't 
disturb your daughter."
	"Oh, no, sir," Honor replied in a low tone, not at all like her 
usual hearty good-natured way of addressing people.
	And Norah looked up in surprise, as if she could scarcely 
believe he was the same man whose language had so shocked her.
	Perhaps he was not the same man. Who knows? Be sure, 
however, that Norah Lahys are not sent into this busy world for 
nothing.
	This unlooked-for intrusion cast a gloom over the little 
party.
	Honor Lahy could not shake off the feeling that Mr. 
Beresford Pender's appearance was a "sign of bad luck." But, 
notwithstanding, Billy Heffernan played the "Humours of Glyn," 
with variations, and several other melodies, grave and gay, before 
he bade them good-night.
	"Oh, wisha!" exclaimed Honor Lahy, "he put Tommy's cup 
out uv my head. And now," she added, after tasting it, "'tis cowld."
	But, though not as hot as might be wished, Tommy relished 
the cup of tea very much, and smacked his lips as he despatched it, 
with the heel of the loaf, sitting up in bed; for Tommy had been 
sound asleep for a couple of hours, when he opened his eyes and 
commenced whistling the "Humours of Glyn" in excellent accord 
with Billy Heffernan's flute -- till Billy came to the variations, 
which so aggravated Tommy Lahy that he pulled the blankets over 
his head, and turned round with his face against the bolster, in 
order to shut out the tantalizing vagaries of the musician 
altogether. And in this position his mother found him when she 
brought him his share of the feast.
	I'm afeard you'll be tired after stayin' up so late."
	"Oh, no, mother, I was never so happy."
	"Well, come, alanna."
	She took Norah in her arms and carried her to her bedroom.
	"Put up that newspaper now, Phil. You know 'tis all hours."
	"Five minutes," returned Phil. "I have the speech finished 
all but a quarter of a column."
	"What's that?" Honor exclaimed in a whisper, with a 
frightened look.
	Don't mind," replied Phil as he read on. "'Tis on'y a slate 
that's after bein' blown off the house.'!
	'Tis a terribly stormy night," said Honor. "Listen." 
	"I hear it," said Phil, as he folded his newspaper. "The 
almanac mentioned that we were likely to have either storms or 
heavy rain this month, or frost and snow, unless the wind happened 
to be from the south, or east, or north-west, and then tolerably fine 
weather was to be expected, with occasional showers."
	"Wisha, now," said Honor, as if her fears were quite 
dissipated by this explanation. "Go to bed now, Phil, an' let me 
ready-up the place."
	"I'll kneel down here," replied Phil, "and read my penance. 
Hand me the prayer-book."
	"Remind me to-morrow," said he, as he closed the door 
behind him, "of Tom Donnelly's breeches."
	"I will," replied Honor; "an' I hope you'll finish id at wance. 
His wife was complainin' to-day that he hadn't a stitch uv 
dacency."
	"Well, he won't have that to say much longer," replied Phil, 
"so far as the breeches goes." And Phil sprinkled himself with the 
holy water, and lay down to sleep with a mind at peace with 
himself and the world.
	"I tell you what," he muttered to himself, as he wrapped the 
blanket tightly over his shoulders, "Phil Lahy is -- is -- is -- a fine 
fellow!" With which comfortable reflection Phil Lahy began to 
snore.



CHAPTER XXVI.

A BRIDEGROOM WHO COULDN'T DESCRIBE HIS BRIDE.

	"I HOPE you enjoyed the hunt yesterday, Mr. Lowe," said 
Mary.
	"Oh, very much," he replied. "The harriers are an excellent 
little pack. But I must confess I thought the country rather stiff; 
particularly beyond the hill."
	"But how did you get through the bog? Grace and I could 
see you all in a cluster in the wood; and Grace said she could see 
the hounds going through the heath over the high part of the bog; 
but I could not see them."
	"Did they not go through the place where the heath is?" 
Grace asked, turning to Richard.
	"Yes; and into the wood at the other side; and we don't 
know what became of them after that;"
	"I knew I could not be mistaken," said Grace. "Though 
Mary wanted to persuade me it was a flock of geese I mistook for 
the hounds."
	"We thought ye'd be back to dinner," said Mrs. Kearney. 
"We were an hour later than usual. But Hugh said if ye had not 
gone somewhere ye'd be home before then, and there was no use 
waiting."
	Mr. Lowe apologised; and justly threw all the blame on the 
doctor.
	"The fact is," said the doctor, "Bob Lloyd insisted that we 
should dine with him. He had young Hemphill and a few more 
friends."
	"Mr. Beresford Pender among the number I suppose," said 
Mary.
	"No, he didn't ask him; though he was with us at the time. 
Lloyd doesn't care about him. I think he told me his father 
overreached him in some money transaction."
	"Depend your life on old Isaac for that," said Mr. Kearney.
	"By-the-by," said Mr. Lowe, turning to Grace, "your friend 
young Mr. Hanly was there -- I mean at the hunt. And he is really 
one of the boldest riders I ever saw. He had an unbroken colt with 
his tail down to the ground and all covered over with mud -- as 
indeed was the rider, for they both rolled over in a muddy ditch."
	Grace laughed at this description of her admirer. It was 
agreed on all hands that she had made a conquest during the short 
time she had been Lory's partner in the dance.
	He had come back several times to shake hands with her 
and bid her good-night; renewing his offer to show her the cave 
each time; besides telling her he could lend her Pope's Homer, or 
the Rambler, or Thomson's Seasons, or Goldsmith's Poetical 
Works. 
	"I'll bring them all to you," said Lory.
	But Grace assured him all those books were in her papa's 
library; and Lory, shaking hands with her for the fifth time, 
mounted to his place in the phaeton; but tumbled out again 
immediately, and thrusting his long neck inside the drawing-room 
door, startled Mrs. Kearney with the announcement that he had 
"The Devil on Two Sticks."
	"And four volumes of the 'Spectator,'" added Lory, "and the 
second volume of 'Tom Jones.'"
	So that it was agreed on all hands that she had made a 
conquest. And the moment Lory was mentioned, Mary looked at 
her, but Grace frowned scornfully -- till the picture called up by 
Mr. Lowe of Lory mounted upon an untrained colt with a long tail 
and covered with mud, forced her to laugh whether she would or 
not.
	"He certainly has pluck," said Mr. Lowe; "and rides 
remarkably well."
	An almost imperceptible motion of the head -- something 
between a nod and a toss -- and a certain thoughtfulness in her 
look, led Mary to suspect that Miss Grace was just saying to 
herself that a young gentleman who had pluck was not to be 
despised.
	And in fact Grace resolved that her reception of him the 
next time should be more gracious than it had been on previous 
occasions when he came to pay his respects. She remembered his 
love of books, and that some of his remarks were very striking. She 
even began to think that there was something manly in what Mrs. 
Kearney called his "terrible throat." So that it was quite lucky for 
Lory that Mr. Lowe gave him credit for pluck.
	To be sure it could be wished, Grace thought, that his coat 
were wider in the shoulders and longer in the skirts, and the other 
garment less suggestive of carrying several stones of potatoes in 
the rear. It was to be regretted, too, that his hair stuck out straight 
from his head, and that there were so many pimples on his face. 
But that one virtue of pluck covered a multitude of defects, and 
Lory was gaining ground rapidly. She recalled, too -- what she did 
not before consider worth attending to -- that Lory had insinuated 
that he would exert all his eloquence to induce his sister to give 
him her jay, which was both a pretty and an intelligent bird, and in 
case of success that he, Lory, would be most happy to present the 
jay to Miss Kiely. Grace remembered all this now, and hoped Lory 
would keep his word; and if he appeared mounted upon the long-
tailed colt, so much the better. Her cogitations were broken in upon 
by Mr. Kearney asking Mr. Lowe abruptly, how did he like the 
Hall.
	"'Tis a very fine place," Mr. Lowe replied. " I wonder how 
my grandfather parted with it."
	"He could not help it," returned Mr. Kearney bluntly, " the 
property was going to be put into Chancery at that time, and 
Somerfield gave him a large fine. We all made money for him. I 
lent him eight hundred pounds myself."
	Mrs. Kearney started as if from a reverie, and was on the 
point of announcing that the eight hundred pounds were given to 
her by her Uncle Dan; but Mary suggested at the moment that Mr. 
Lowe would have another cup of tea, which caused Mrs. Kearney 
to start again. The cup of tea knocked the eight hundred pounds out 
of her head, and her Uncle Dan was left to rest in peace for the 
present.
	"Has Mr. Somerfield any landed property of his own?" 
Lowe asked.
	"Yes, he has a nice little property near the old church you 
were looking at the other day. And his son has two or three farms 
very cheap."
	"How can he afford to keep a pack of hounds?"
	Oh, that's not much; they're billeted among the tenants, and 
the son is a good judge of horses, and makes money by them. He 
has several agencies, too, and a d--n bad agent he is. There is not a 
lease on any of the properties he is over.
	He pretends 'tis the landlords refuse to give leases; but 'tis 
ell known 'tis himself puts 'em up to it. He's a magistrate now. The 
father was a good sort of an old fellow, nothing troubling him but 
hunting. But the son is a rogue. He's after turning more people out 
than any man in the county, and giving the land to Scotch and 
English tenants at a lower rent, and leases."
	"I thought you said there were no leases?"
	I mean to the old tenants. But the Englishmen and 
Scotchmen are sure of leases."
	"I had no idea such a system was being carried out."
	'You'll probably learn more about it when you see Mr. 
Pender," said Hugh.
	"Sir Garrett said nothing about it," replied Mr. Lowe.
	"I suspect," said Hugh, "he knows nothing about it."
	This was all very uninteresting to Grace and the doctor, and 
they were both leaving the room, after yawning several times, 
when the door opened, and a servant informed Mr. Kearney that 
Ned Brophy wanted to speak to him.
	"Tell him to come in," said Mr. Kearney. "I suppose he is 
coming to remind us of the wedding."
	Ned Brophy soon appeared with his "clothes spic-and-span 
new," as the song says; but we cannot add, "without e'er a speck," 
for Ned's clothes were pretty well speckled with mud -- and not his 
clothes only, for a pellet of the mud had hardened and dried on his 
right cheek under the eye, and two or three smaller spots were 
visible about his temples.
	Ned was accompanied by his "best man," Mat Donovan.
	"Sit down, Ned; come, Mat, sit down here," said Maurice 
Kearney, placing two chairs near the window.
	"Well, Ned, what's the news?"
	"A fine wet day, sir," replied Ned, who felt and looked 
somewhat embarrassed as he glanced at Mat to help him on.
	"Ned that's afther comin' over, sir, for the lend uv the ould 
mare to carry home the wife," said Mat Donovan.
	This request seemed to surprise Mr. Kearney, who looked 
at Ned as if he expected some explanation of it.
	"I have Tom Bolen's side-car," said Ned, rousing himself, 
"an' this coult uv mine is in the habit of runnin' away, an' I don't 
like to venture to drive him in harness, as if he made off on the 
way home, 'twouldn't look well."
	"An' he says I can ride the coult," Mat added, "an' as the 
mare was idle 'tis I put id into his head to ax the lend uv her. He 
was goin' to hire a car, but I tould him he needn't, an' 'twould be 
dacenter not, as people'd say he hadn't a horse uv his own to bring 
home the wife."
	Mat Donovan was quite sincere in recommending this 
arrangement to Ned Brophy. But he might not have been so 
positive in urging it if the opportunity of figuring in the blue body-
coat on the colt were out of the question. Yet Mat Donovan had no 
thought of captivating some farmer's daughter with a good fortune, 
as Honor Lahy prophesied he would be sure to do.
	"Oh! very well," said Mr. Kearney, "you can get the mare, 
Ned." 
	"Thank'ee, sir. You needn't fear but I'll be careful uv her."
	"Don't stir," continued Mr. Kearney, as they were rising to 
go. "Wait till the mare is ready. -- Go out to Wattletoes," he added, 
turning to his youngest son, "and tell him to get the mare for Ned 
Brophy."
	"And will you tell him to show me my thrush's nest?"
	"You were a fool," replied his father, "to give him the cake 
till he showed you the nest. That was buying a pig in a bag."
	"He says now," returned Willie, "that the old one was in the 
ivy and was listening when be promised to show me the nest, and 
that she took the young ones all off to Ballydaheen wood; but that 
he'll go after them the next day he has time; and if he can't find 
them he says he'll pull a grand stick for me -- a holly oak stick with 
blackthorn knobs on it, he says."
	"A holly oak stick with blackthorn knobs on it!" repeated 
his father. "Would I doubt Wattletoes?"
	There was a silence of some minutes after Willie had gone 
to order the mare, which Mat the Thrasher felt a little 
embarrassing, particularly as he saw Grace pulling Mary by the 
sleeve and calling her attention to himself.
	"I never see this girl yet, Ned is gettin', sir," said Mat.
	"Well, maybe Ned would describe her for us now."
	"Wisha, begor I couldn't, sir," replied Ned, scratching his. 
poll and looking puzzled. "I never see her but twice, an' I was 
dhrunk the two turns."
	All eyes were turned with laughing surprise on the speaker, 
who, at the moment, was anything but a picture of happiness.
	"I'm tould, sir," said Mat indignantly, "she's wan uv the 
finest girls in the parish. How d--n well you wor able to see the 
two hundhred sovereigns."
	"And the old saucepan," said Mr. Kearney. "Did you get 
the money, Ned?"
	"No, sir," he replied solemnly, "but it was counted out on 
the table the first day I was at the house, an' put back again."
	"An' you wouldn't miss it out of it?" said Mr. Kearney, who 
seemed to enjoy the matter immensely.
	"Hardly," replied Ned. "I never see such a show uv money 
together before. It reminded me uv California or the Bank uv 
Ireland."
	"You'd betther not lose any more time," Mat observed. " 
'Tis gettin' late."
	"That's a fine new coat you have, Mat," said Mr. Kearney, 
looking at him admiringly as the Thrasher drew himself up to his 
full height.
	"'Tis in compliment to Ned I got it, sir," returned Mat. 
"You ought to do something for yourself. Make your harvest at the 
wedding -- maybe you could get a haul at the old saucepan."
	"Thim times is gone, sir," replied Mat. "No chance now of 
farmers' daughters an' 'five hundred pounds in goold,' as the song 
says." And Mat glanced at Miss Kearney in a manner that quite 
annoyed Mr. Lowe.
	"He's an impertinent fellow, after all," he thought. But so 
far from being offended, Mary returned Mat's smile in a manner 
that made the young gentleman quite angry.
	"I don't know that," returned Mr. Kearney. "Try your luck 
with one of the other sisters, an' Ned will put in a good word for 
you."
	"Well, I b'lieve he would, sir," replied Mat, "if there was 
any use."
	"I hope you'll be over wud us to-night, sir," said Ned, as he 
was going. "And if Miss Kearney or Miss Kiely would like to have 
a dance they'd be heartily welcome."
	"I'm getting old now, Ned," Maurice Kearney replied. "But 
Hugh will go. I must take care of myself or this woman might be 
on the look-out one of those days."
	"Indeed," said Mrs. Kearney, indignantly, taking the matter 
in downright earnest, "that's what one of the name never did. No 
one could ever say that one of the Ballydunmore family ever 
married a second time."
	"Maybe 'twasn't their fault," exclaimed her husband, who 
was evidently enjoying the fun.
	"You're quite mistaken," returned Mrs. Kearney. "My Aunt 
Judith had more proposals than all the young girls of the county, 
and she never accepted one of them -- though my Uncle Dan said 
she ought to marry. But she never did." 
	And Mrs. Kearney left the room quite offended.
	"Mat looks much more like the happy man than Ned," 
Grace observed, when they had left. "And, indeed, it would not 
surprise me if it was he got the two hundred pounds out of the old 
saucepan, and not Ned."
	"If poverty enters the door," said Mary; "you know what 
you said to Father M'Mahon." 
	"Well, that's true," replied Grace, with a shake of the head. 
"'Twould be all very well if that view of the case could be kept out 
of sight."
	"I fear, Mr. Lowe," said Mary as she took up her work at a 
little table near one of the windows, "I fear this will be a wet day."
	"Yes, I fear it will continue wet," he replied, after walking 
to the window, and looking up to the drifting clouds. Mr. Lowe 
said "feared," but he meant "hoped."
	"A wet day in the country is an awful bore," said the 
doctor, who was just then thinking how certain chums of his in 
Dublin would spend the day, and wondering why Keating didn't 
answer his last letter.
	Mr. Lowe, on the contrary, thought a wet day in the country 
anything but a bore under certain circumstances, though he did not 
say so.
	To the surprise of all present the door opened, and Mat 
Donovan advanced a step or two into the room, and stood rubbing 
his chin as if he had something to say, but did not know how to 
begin.
	Mary looked round the room, supposing that he had 
forgotten something, and seeing a walking-stick standing in one of 
the corners, she took it in her hand, and said: "Perhaps this is your 
stick, Mat."
	"No, Miss," replied Mat, whose eyes were fixed on Grace. 
"But I'm comin' to ax a favour of Miss Grace, if she'd have no' 
objection."
	"Oh, what is it?" Grace asked with quite a coquettish air. 
	"Well, Miss, there's a little delay about the harness, an' I 
said to myself I'd run in an' ax you to play that tune for me you 
were playin' th' other evening for the masther. 'Tisn't but that I 
know it uv ould," Mat added, "but someway I'm running into 
another tune in the middle uv the succond part, an' I have a raison 
for wishin' to hear id agin."
	"What's the name of it?" she asked.
	"It goes by the name uv 'Nach m-baineaun sin do,' Miss," 
replied Mat, "but 'tis many's the name id is called."
	"It must be one of the Melodies," Grace observed, turning 
to Mary. " But the question is, which of them is it?"
	I can't remember," Mary replied, "but I suppose it must be 
one of those you always play for my father."
	Grace pressed her finger on her lip, and seemed to be 
seeking the solution of a mystery.
	"Is the tune you want," she asked, "ever called 'Langolee'?"
	"No, Miss, I know that; an' you played it beautiful, too. But 
'twas in the same book -- the large wan wud the goold harp on the 
cover."
	"Come and we'll look for it," exclaimed Grace, jumping 
from her seat, and running out of the room.



CHAPTER XXVII.

THE JAY.

	MARY stood up and asked Mat to come to the drawing-
room, where they found Grace already sitting at the piano.
	"Oh, my goodness!" she exclaimed, looking round, "what 
sort of gentlemen are those?"
	But before she could proceed further with her censure, Mr. 
Lowe was at his post and placed the music before her.
	"Well, now, let me think of all Mr. Kearney's tunes," said 
she, turning over the leaves. "Listen to this one, Mat."
	"No, Miss," replied Mat, shaking his head, "that's 'Moll 
Row in the Morning.'"
	"Well, this,", and she played a few bars of another.
	Mat shook his head again.
	"Oh, I think I know it now," she exclaimed,, as she turned 
rapidly over the leaves. "Why, here it is, with the very same name 
he has mentioned. Mr. Kearney has some words to it about --  

"I'll go to the fair, and I'll sell my old cow,
For twenty-five shillings, one pound and one 
crown,
I'll drink what I earn, and pay what I owe,
And what's that to any man whether or no?"

	"That's id, Miss!" Mat exclaimed, in quite an excited way.
	"'Tis 'They may Rail at this Life,'" said Grace, turning to 
Mary. "Sit down, Mat."
	Mat's spirit was attentive as she played; and after a little 
while he began to move his head from side to side and turned his 
eyes to the ceiling.
	Mary watched him with a smile; for it seemed quite evident 
he was mentally going through his song with all possible care. Her 
suspicion in this respect was confirmed beyond all doubt when Mat 
thrust his hand into his pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper 
which he hastily unfolded, and, after glancing at it for a moment, 
turned his eyes again to the ceiling and commenced what he would 
himself call "humouring" the tune.
	"Good luck to you, Miss," he exclaimed, when she had 
stopped playing. "I think I have id purty well now."
	"I think, Mat," said Mary, "you ought to sing the song for 
us."
	"Begor, I couldn't, Miss," he replied, after some hesitation. 
"I'll thry an' sing id to-night for 'em. 'Tis a new song I got from the 
young schoolmaster over at Loughneen; an' I said I'd get id be 
heart an' sing id at the fust weddin' I'd be at; an' Ned's happens to 
be the fust. Though, faith, Miss Mary, I was thinkin' I might be 
singin' id at your own this turn."
	Though the look which accompanied this last observation 
was precisely the same as that which so annoyed Mr. Lowe in the 
parlour, he now laughed and saw nothing at all impertinent in it.
	"Mat is surely a deluder," said Grace, when he had left. 
	I'm quite vexed that he never favours me with any of his 
admiring glances."
	"You like to be admired, Miss Grace," said Mr. Lowe.
	"Who does not, I'd like to know? Though some people may 
pretend not to care about it." And she glanced at Mary.
	"Take care," said Mary, "or I'll tell Mr. Lowe what you said 
about him the other day."
	"And will you tell him that somebody else said I was 
right?"
	Mary got a little frightened; and, lest she should have the 
worst of it in such an encounter, she hurried back to the parlour 
and took up her work.
	Hugh was sitting at the little table near the window, he had 
gone out with the intention of walking over the farm, but turned 
back on finding the rain was heavier than he expected.
	Mr. Lowe and Grace immediately followed Mary, and there 
was much lively chat on the subject of the manners and customs of 
the peasantry, suggested by Mat Donovan's visit. Grace had quite a 
fund of anecdotes, picked up at those "literary dinners" she alluded 
to when trying to find the "solution of the mystery" connected with 
the tracks in the snow.
	Hugh was silent; but to the watchful eye of his sister, it was 
plain he was enjoying Grace's lively sallies and merry laughter. He 
leant over the back of his chair and during a lull in the 
conversation seemed to have fallen asleep. Mary called Grace's 
attention to him, in order that she might do something to rouse 
him. His long black hair hung over the table, and Grace happened 
to have the scissors in her hand, clipped off a lock.
	Hugh started up, and seeing what she had done, snatched 
the scissors from her; and twisting a tress of her hair round and 
round his finger, cut it off, to her consternation.
	"Oh, you wretch!" she exclaimed, pulling down her hair to 
see what amount of damage he had done. But finding the tress 
would not be missed, she resumed her good humour.
	"Could you invent anything for us to do?" the doctor asked 
piteously, from the sofa.
	"'Tis too wet to go out," replied Hugh.
	"It is too bad," said Mary, "that Mr. Lowe must remain a 
prisoner."
	"I assure you," he replied, "I can be resigned to my fate."
	"Will you go to the wedding?" she asked, turning to Hugh.
	"I suppose I must. There is no getting out of it, as my father 
won't go."
	"He is a great stay-at-home, Mr. Lowe. He will not go 
anywhere but when he can't help it. And you saw he does not even 
dance quadrilles."
	"Except when he has someone to lead him like a bear," said 
Grace.
	"Was it not customary," Hugh asked with solemnity, "when 
dancing bears used to be exhibited, to have the bear led by a 
monkey? I think I read about such a thing somewhere."
	"I see what you mean, sir," said Grace. "Perhaps it is all 
fair."
	"A hit," said the doctor, "a palpable hit. But I'd sooner have 
expected it from Lory. He's devilish clever at that sort of thing."
	"Is he, indeed? Then I was peculiarly fortunate in getting 
two such clever partners."
	"You are a match for them," said Mary laughing.
	"A match -- you are certainly complimentary."
	"I mean you are able for them all -- to give them tit for tat."
	"Quid pro quo," replied Grace. "I should hope so." It would 
be diamond cut diamond," said Mary.
	"Diamond!" repeated Grace. "Do you call him a diamond?" 
And she nodded her head towards Hugh, in a way that made the 
doctor break into a horse-laugh, and kick up his heels on the sofa.
	"Or," she continued, opening her eyes, in which there vas a 
curious blending of astonishment and fun, "is that the gem?"
	She pointed out into the lawn; and there was Mr. Lory 
Hanly doing his best to shelter himself from the rain with the collar 
of his scanty coat, running towards the house with his head down -
- the wind being in his face -- as if he intended making a battering 
ram of himself to drive in the hall-door. He was covered with mud 
from head to foot, and it was astonishing how high up and far 
behind him be managed to fling his heels.
	Grace hurried out to open the door. She stood back behind 
it, as if she expected to see Lory shoot past her, and involuntarily 
held her breath in anticipation of a frightful crash among Mrs. 
Kearney's crockery; for a vague notion crossed her mind that Lory 
would be picked up insensible in the pantry at the end of the hall 
after splitting the door of that sanctum in two with his skull.
	Lory, however, had stopped himself on the door-step, and 
Grace stared at him in speechless amazement.
	The rain was running down in little rivers all over him -- 
particularly over his eyes; which made it necessary for him to cut 
off the streams at the eyebrows with the knuckles of his thumbs 
before he could see distinctly. Lory, too, looked surprised when he 
found who had opened the door for him. But recovering himself 
before she could ask him in, he fumbled with one hand under his 
coat, and then thrust out both arms at full length towards her.
	"Here he's for you now," said Lory, breathlessly.
	Grace took what he presented to her mechanically, without 
having the least notion what it was, and Lory instantly wheeled 
round -- his hob-nailed boots making as much noise as if a horse 
had stumbled on the door-step-- and set off for home, forgetting 
that the wind would be now in his back; the consequence of which 
was that Lory was precipitated head-foremost, and had to run on 
all-fours for good ten yards before he could recover himself. Once 
in an upright position, however, he was blown back to the avenue 
gate without further exertion from himself than lifting his feet and 
keeping one hand clapped against his poll to prevent his cap from 
being swept across the bog, and, peradventure, stuck into a crevice 
of the old castle, like the piece of an old petticoat --  to which it 
bore a striking resemblance -- in the broken window of Jack 
Delaney's sleeping apartment behind the forge. It was observed, 
too, that the wind kept Lory's diminutive skirts stuck against his 
back, as if they had been pinned up under the shoulder-blades. He 
had actually reached the gate before Grace recovered from her 
surprise, even so far as to think of shutting the door. But then she 
could not use her hands for that purpose, and as she was collecting 
her senses to think what was to be done, Hugh came out to know 
what had happened to make Lory beat so precipitate a retreat.
	"What is it all about, Grace?" he asked, as he closed the 
hall-door. "What have you done, to frighten Lory? Has he popped 
the question and been rejected? The effect was dreadful. I very 
much fear the young gentleman's body may be found, nine days 
hence, floating in the Poulnamuck."
	But Grace returned to the parlour without noticing his 
banter, and was holding out Lory's gift to satisfy her own and her 
friends' curiosity, when a sharp pinch on the wrist made her let it 
go with a scream. And "with many a flirt and flutter," like the 
celebrated raven, Lory's jay perched upon Miss Kearney's work-
box. He looked about him with the utmost nonchalance and then 
winked his eyes several times and moved his neck as if he had 
been sleeping in an uneasy position; and then the jay opened his 
beak and yawned, as if he were very drowsy, and meant to go to 
sleep again: But just as he was burying his head cosily between his 
shoulders, he caught a glimpse of himself in the lid of the work-
box, and the sight so far awakened his curiosity that he pecked at 
the rosewood, and in doing so his feet began to slip upon its 
polished surface: whereupon the jay extended his wings' a little, 
and jerked up his tail. What followed we shall not venture to 
describe; but Mary jumped from her place near the table with a 
scream almost as loud as Grace's when she got the pinch on the 
wrist. The doctor turned round to see what had happened; and 
seeing it, flung himself on his back, and commenced cutting capers 
with his feet in the air.
	"That Lory is a genius," said the doctor. "He has cured me 
of a severe fit of the blues. I'm eternally indebted to him."
	Grace got into good humour, too, and after carefully 
pulling down her cuffs, she ventured to take the jay between her 
hands again. "I'll go and make Ellie happy," she said, running 
away, holding the jay at arm's-length above her head.
	The sky began to brighten over the hills, and Hugh 
predicted that the remainder of the day would be fine. The wind 
continued to blow; but before evening the sun flashed through the 
broken clouds, and it was agreed on all hands, that Ned Brophy's 
"hauling home" would be more propitious than could have been 
anticipated a few hours earlier.
	"I wonder," said Mrs. Kearney, who came into the parlour 
in an evidently distressed state of mind -- "I wonder what can be 
delaying Barney? And he has things we want for the dinner."
	"I suppose it was the heavy rain," Mary replied. "No one 
would face out in such a storm; and I daresay Barney waited till it 
cleared up."
	"Even if he did, he might be here now."
	"Well, you know," said Mary, "Mr. Lowe has decided on 
going to the wedding with Hugh, so you need not be particular 
about our dinner to-day."
	"Why so?" Mrs. Kearney asked, as if she could not see the 
force of the reasoning.
	"Why, of course, if they go at all, they'll be there for 
dinner."
	"Oh, yes, they call it a dinner, but it will be more like a 
supper. I'll engage it won't be on the table before eleven o'clock -- 
or ten the earliest."
	"Well, even so," replied Mary. "They'll go at the usual 
hour, and you need not be so particular about our dinner to-day."
	"'Tis too late already," rejoined Mrs. Kearney, with a sigh, 
"to think of roasting a bit of beef. But if that fellow was home in 
time, sure I could have a nice steak for them at any rate. He's 
always disappointing me, and making mistakes, bringing wrong 
things, and running after peepshows, and ballad-singers, and 
Punches and Judys. My heart is broken with him," continued Mrs. 
Kearney, sighing deeply. "But indeed," she added with severe 
dignity, as she folded her plump hands and rested them on her 
knees -- "but indeed, only for the respect my Uncle Dan had for his 
mother I wouldn't keep him another hour under the roof of the 
house."
	Mary was not at all apprehensive that Barney was in danger 
of instant dismissal; but wishing to put her mother into good 
humour she observed, as if to herself, that "poor Barney was very 
devoted and strictly honest."
 	"Well, indeed," replied her mother in a softened tone, 
"there's nothing to be said against his honesty. His father would lay 
down his life for my Uncle Dan, and, indeed, I believe poor 
Barney would do the same for any one of the name."



CHAPTER XXVIII.

BARNEY WINS A BET, AND LOSES MUCH PRECIOUS 
TIME.

	THE cause of Mrs. Kearney's trouble was all this time 
comfortably ensconced in the chimney corner, in the little kitchen 
behind Mrs. Burke's shop, with his foot on the hob -- which foot, 
by the way, the servant girl had seized with the tongs while making 
the fire, mistaking it for a sod of turf of the description known as 
"hand turf"; in the manufacture of which the moulders allow free 
scope to their fancy, and occasionally produce a marvel of 
grotesqueness.
	Barney had but just reached Mrs. Burke's door, when the 
rain began to pour down in right earnest. So, after putting Bobby 
under a shed in the yard, he took possession of the corner, and kept 
it without flinching even when the fire was at the hottest, and the 
big black pot hanging over it was enveloped in the blaze -- which 
drew from the girl who had attempted to boil the potatoes with his 
foot, the remark that "the divil a wan else she ever knew could 
stand the same corner but Dan Brit and John Roche, the lime-
burners."
	"An' spake uv the ould boy an' he'll appear," she added; 
here is Dan himse'f."
	The individual spoken of drew a chair to the fire, scowling 
at Barney as if he considered him an intruder. It could be seen at a 
glance that Dan Brit was not a model of sobriety. After eyeing 
Barney in silence for a minute, he was turning to the girl to order a 
pint of porter, when he looked again at him and hesitated. In fact, 
Dan Brit was debating with himself whether, if he ventured to ask 
Barney to take a drink, was Barney the sort of person to say 
afterwards, "Let us have another." And in case he was the man to 
say so, Dan Brit had his mind made up to call back the girl just as 
she was going for the two pints of porter, saying, "Kitty, I'll take a 
glass of the old malt; I'm not very' well to-day." And so Dan Brit 
would have a glass of whiskey, price threepence, in exchange for 
the pint of porter, price three-halfpence; which, in a social and 
friendly way, and, in the spirit of a good fellow, he was thinking of 
pressing Barney Brodherick to accept at his hands.
	And while Dan Brit was pondering the risks to be run in the 
matter, his eye fell upon Barney's foot on the hob, which object 
seemed to fascinate Dan Brit and drive all other objects and 
subjects out of his thoughts for the time being.
	"The divil so ugly a foot as that," said Dan Brit, solemnly, I 
ever see, anyhow." 
	"There's an uglier wan in the house," rejoined Barney.
	"No, nor in Ireland," returned Dan. "Nor in Europe, Asia, 
Africa, or America."
	"Will you bet a quart uv porther?" said Barney.
	"That there's not an uglier foot in the house?" exclaimed 
Dan, staring in astonishment at him.
	"Yes," replied Barney, with spirit, "I'll wager a quart uv 
porther, an' let Kitty be the judge, that there's an uglier foot in the 
house."
	"Done!" exclaimed Dan Brit, who grasped at the certainty 
of getting a drink without paying for it. "But will you stake the 
money?"
	"Ay, will I," said Barney, suiting the action to the word, 
and slapping down the coppers on a chair near him.
	"Take that money, Kitty," said Dan Brit, "an' decide the 
bet."
	"What is the bet?" Kitty asked.'
	It was explained to her; and Kitty shook her head sorrow 
fully, and told Barney he was always a fool.
	"Stake the money, yourse'f," said Barney. And Dan did so.
	"Come, give me back that change," said Dan; "an' bring in 
the drink. The bet is mine."
	"Wait a bit," returned Barney. "Kitty, give us a peep at your 
own."
	"What impudence 'you have I" exclaimed Kitty,
indignantly. "Who dare say a word agin them, I'd like to know?" 
'And Kitty exhibited a pair of very presentable feet.
 	"Begob, Kitty," said Barney, with a grin, "if I was 
dependin' on thim, I'd lose my bet."
	"An' do you mane to say you haven't lost id?" Dan asked:
	"Run, Kitty, for the porther."
	"Ay,' will she; but 'tisn't my money'll pay for id."
	"Didn't you bet there was an uglier foot in the house than 
that?"
	And Dan Brit pointed to the foot on the hob.
	"I did."
	"An' where is id?"
	Barney Brodherick slowly and deliberately drew his other 
foot from under the chair, and held it up to view.
	 "Here's your money, Barney," exclaimed Kitty, in an 
ecstasy of delight. "You won the bet; I'll go for the porter."
	Dan Brit's jaw fell down as he stared with open mouth at 
Barney. And after swallowing his share of the porter he walked 
away with an expression of countenance which made Kitty observe 
that "wan'd think 'twas a physic o' salts he was afther swallyin'."
	When the rain ceased, Barney, snatching one of his baskets 
from Mrs. Burke's counter, hurried off to Wat Murphy's and 
presented Mrs. Kearney's written order to the butcher.
	"I haven't what she wants," said Wat; "but I can send her a 
nice bit that will answer her as well."
	He seized his knife and saw, and cut and weighed the beef 
so quickly that it was wrapped in the cloth and deposited in the 
basket before Barney could collect his wits to demur to the 
proceeding.
	"An' now," he muttered, scratching his head as if the thing 
were done past recall, "an' now she'll be puttin' the blame on me, 
an' sayin' 'twas my fau't -- an' that's the way they're always layin' 
everything on my shoulders. The divil may care what's done wrong 
-- 'tis Barney wud every wan uv 'em, big an' little."
	"If she finds any fau't wud that," said Wat, as if he were 
threatening somebody, "tell her 'tis her own cow," -- which, 
however, did not happen to be the fact. But Wat Murphy told lies 
in the way of business on principle. "For" -- Wat was wont to 
observe -- "if I didn't tell lies, do you think I could ever sell an ould 
ram?"
	"Och! be the hokey, 'twill dhrag the arm out uv me!" 
exclaimed Barney, as he raised the basket. "If I thought 'twould be 
so heavy, I'd bring up the ass."
	"Put it on your head," Wat suggested.
	"I'm d--n sure I won't. Do you want to make a woman uv 
me? Is it like a can uv wather you want me to carry id?"
	"A purty woman you'd make," observed Wat, as Barney 
stooped under the weight of the heavy basket.
	"Blood-an-ouns, Wat!" he exclaimed, turning round out 
side the door, "when are we to have the bull-bait?"
	The question was suggested by the white bull-dog, who 
walked to the street-door and back again without con descending to 
take the slightest notice of Barney, or anyone else.
	"I'm not at liberty to give particulars," Wat replied, in a 
manner that put a stop to all further inquiries on the important 
subject of the bull-bait.
	Barney held on his way till he reached the corner of the 
street, when he was obliged to rest his basket against the iron 
railings of a genteel house, separated by a small garden from the 
street.
	Oh, murther, murther!" he muttered, "I'll be kilt afore I'm 
down to Mrs. Burke's. An' 'tis a good deed; where was I comin' 
wudout Bobby? An' thanum-un-dioul! the misthress'll murther me 
worse nor the basket. I remimber now, she warned me to be home 
as fast as I could. I wondher what excuse I'll have for her? Let me 
see. Begob, I'll say Bobby got the cholic after the peltin' we got 
comin' through the bog. For how will she know but it was skelpin' 
in our face, barrin' Judy Brien might tell her; an' nice thanks that id 
be afther givin' her a lift from the crass."
	Here Barney pulled up his sleeve to the elbow and looked 
at his arm, upon which the handle of the basket had left its mark.
	"Begob, 'twill cut the arm off uv me," he continued. "An' 
the divil's cure to me; where was I comin' wudout Bobby?"
	He swung the basket on the other arm and was setting off 
again, when the hall door of the genteel house opened, and a lady 
came running towards him down the straight gravel walk,
	"Wait for a minute," she called out, "I want to speak to 
you."
	Barney stopped; but she required a minute or two to 
recover breath.
	"You're Mr. Kearney's man," she said at last.
	"Yes, Miss," replied Barney, "I'm his b'y."
	"What have you in the basket?"
	"Mate, Miss."
	"What sort? Show it to me."
	Barney raised a corner of the cloth.
	"Beef!" she exclaimed "I declare it's a round. Will that be 
all dressed together?"
	"Begob, mese'f don't know, Miss,"
	"Do your people have butchers' meat every day?"
	"Faith, an' they do so, Miss; barrin' Friday."
	"Oh, yes, they're Roman Catholics. Are you a Roman 
Catholic?"
	"Begob, I am, Miss -- though my mother was born a 
haythen."
	"Born a heathen! Is it possible?"
	"The divil a lie in id, Miss -- an' reared. But she turned 
afther runnin' away wud my father -- God rest his sowl."
	She looked at Barney as if he were a natural curiosity; and 
began to wonder what particular race of savages his mother 
belonged to.
	"Of what country was your mother a native?" she asked.
	"A native?" Barney repeated, as if the question were rather 
puzzling. "Oh, ay!" be added after a pause, "is id what 
counthryman is my mother? Begob, she was bred, born, an' reared 
in Ballyporeen. Her father was the clerk uv the church; an' my 
father was sarvin' the slathers whin they wor roofin' id. 'Tis of'n I 
heard her tellin' the ins an' outs uv id. He used to run up an' down 
the laddher so soople, that, be japers, she tuck a sthrange likin' to 
him, an' med off wud him -- though her sivin generations afore her 
wor haythens."
	"Oh, you mean," said the lady, "that your mother was a 
Protestant, and she married a Papist, and became an apostate."
	"Begob, that's' id, Miss," replied Barney, perfectly satisfied 
with her version of the affair. "But this'd never do for me," he 
added, thrusting his arm into the handle of his basket. " 'Tis all 
hours, an' I'm in for gettin' Ballyhooly from the misthress."
	"Wait for a moment," the young lady exclaimed, quite 
frightened at the idea of his escaping. "Tell me; is Mr. Lowe with 
your people still?"
	"Begob, he is, Miss; I have letthers for him."
	Show them to me!" she exclaimed eagerly, thrusting out 
her hand through the railing.
	"They're in the basket, below, at Mrs. Burke's, Miss, wud 
the newspapers an' things for Miss Mary."
	"What things are they?"
	"The divil a know I know. I get a scrap uv writin' 
mentionin' what I'm to brin'. On'y for that they'd bother the life out 
uv me."
	"How does Mr. Lowe spend his time?"
	"He's d--n fond uv discoorsin' Miss Mary," Barney replied, 
with the extraordinary grimace which he meant for a smile.
	"Oh, I suppose he has no other amusement?"
	"Himself and the docthor goes uv an odd time over to 
Hanly's," said Barney; "an' they wor out wud the hounds 
yesterday."
	"I wonder," said she, as if thinking aloud, "did they meet 
Robert?"
	"They didn't lave Mr. Bob's till wan o'clock last night, 
Miss," returned Barney. "An' 'tis I have good raison to know id; for 
I stopped up wud Tom Maher for the horses, an' they kep' me 
dancin' for 'em in the kitchen till I hadn't a leg to put ondher me. 
The docthor was purty well I thank you. An' faith there was no fear 
uv Mr. Lowe aither."
	"Do you mean to say that Mr. Lowe was at Mount Tempe 
last night?"
	"Faith, then, he was so, Miss; an' 'tis I have raison to 
remimber id."
	She turned round and ran into the house, as if she suddenly 
discovered that Barney was not a safe companion, and that the fate 
of the clerk's daughter, of Ballyporeen, might be hers if she did not 
instantly fly from danger. But, so far from having any such 
amiable intentions, Barney, as he swung his basket on his hip, 
ejaculated an imprecation of so extraordinary a character that we 
are not sure whether it would bear repeating -- at least in his own 
words. Miss Lloyd -- we hope the reader has recognised Miss 
Lloyd --  pulled up her skirts considerably higher than her ankles 
as she ran back to the house; and the glimpse thus afforded of the 
nymph's limbs must have suggested to Barney Brodherick the 
before-mentioned imprecation. For, looking after the flying fair 
one, and recollecting the precious time he had lost on her account, 
Barney prayed that a certain sable gentle man might have "her 
shin-bone for a flute, playing the 'Rakes of Mallow' for her sowl," 
into a place where it might dance to the music upon a pavement 
which must be pretty extensive by this time.
	"O Isabella!" Miss Lloyd exclaimed. "O Isabella!" She 
dropped into an arm-chair and panted for breath.
	Isabella ran to the window to try if she could catch a 
glimpse of the desperado who, she had no doubt, must have 
attempted to carry off her sister.
	"O mamma," she continued, "Mr. Lowe has been at Mount 
Tempe."
	"Well; and what of that?"
	"What! Oh, that we must have the party at once, and I am 
sure he will come."
	"No; I tell you he would not unless those people with 
whom he is staying were asked."
	"And what great harm would it be to invite them?"
	"Henrietta, you astound me! But there has been enough of 
that nonsense already. It is out of the question."
	"But what I mean is that they would not come."
	"No matter, it would be talked of. You know the Scotts did 
not ask ourselves last time; and if they knew we had such 
acquaintances what would they not say!"
	"But why do you think he would not come if they were not 
asked?"
	"Indeed, Henrietta," said her sister -- a blooming, blue-eyed 
girl of twenty summers or thereabout -- "it would be positive 
rudeness after your being there."
	"I would not mind the rudeness," rejoined her mother. "But 
when he saw you there he must be under the impression that they 
are recognised by the gentry. Indeed, I don't know how you can 
disabuse him of this notion -- you are for ever thrusting yourself 
into improper places."
	"Oh, I can say it was merely accidental. He knows they are 
only farmers. And Robert is so intimate with their brother."
	"Oh, if there was no one but him I should have no 
objection. But the sister is out of the question. I really wonder both 
she and her mother have not called on you. I saw them drive by the 
day before yesterday. And, indeed, I'd have no objection. Mrs. 
Barn tells me she's a respectable sort of person; and very good to 
make presents."
	"There is Robert," said Isabella, pointing to the window.
	"Oh, we must send for him!" exclaimed Miss Lloyd. "I 
wonder is there a meeting of the club to-night?"
	"No, it is to be on Thursday," her mother replied. "They are 
going to elect Beresford Pender."
	"Robert says he'll black-ball him," said Isabella.
	"I really cannot understand his prejudice against him. He is 
a young man of excellent principles," replied her mother.
	I hate the sight of him!" exclaimed Isabella. "He is the most 
insufferably vulgar creature I ever saw."
	Mr. Robert Lloyd, in hunting costume, and mounted upon 
his well-known grey horse, had ridden quietly past his mother's 
house without turning his eyes towards it. A servant, however, was 
sent to the hotel for him; and he soon strolled up the gravel walk, 
with his hands in his pockets.
	"O Robert," said his eldest sister, "you had Mr. Lowe last 
night?"
	"Ay, faith," he replied.
	"Do you think you could get him to stay with you for a few 
days?"
	"He's a d--d sight better off where he is. I wish I could 
exchange places with him."
	Miss Lloyd made a gesture expressive of the most ineffable 
contempt.
	"He's to be at Ned Brophy's wedding to-night," Bob 
observed.
	"Oh, and we are asked," exclaimed Miss Lloyd. "Are you 
going, Robert?"
	"Ay, faith. I always go to a tenant's wedding."
	"It is what the highest people do," said his mother.
	"And don't you think we ought to go?" Miss Lloyd asked.
	"If you wish it, I see no objection."
	"Will you come, Bell?"
	"If I thought there would be any chance of fun, I would. 
Will there be any fun, Robert?"
	"Ay, faith. He has two pipers and three fiddlers."
	"And an excellent dinner," said Miss Lloyd. "I saw all the 
things. They have three legs and two shoulders of mutton, and -- "
	"Don't mind the bill of fare. But can we make ourselves fit 
to be seen in so short a time?"
	"I'll wear my blue gauze," said Miss Lloyd.
	"What! Will you go in a low body?"
	"Of course I will; and I'll wear my pearls. And, mamma, 
will you lend me your bracelets?"
	"Yes, you may have them; but take care and don't lose 
them, as you did those trinkets the other day."
	"Oh, they were only worth a few shillings."
	"Yes, but it would be just as easy to lose them if they were 
diamonds."
	"Oh, you need not fear; I'll take care of them. Come, 
Isabella. And, mamma, will you tell John to have the car ready?"
	And Miss Lloyd hurried to her chamber, on hostile 
thoughts intent, so far as Mr. Henry Lowe's heart was concerned.
	"Now, Robert," said Mrs. Lloyd, on finding herself alone 
with her son, "did you do anything in that matter yet? You know 
her fortune is very considerable, and would enable you to put 
everything to rights. So I beg you will make up your mind this 
time, and don't act so strangely as you have so often done."
	"I'll talk to Jer about it,"
	"Well, Jer is sensible, and has got you out of some 
awkward scrapes. But this is a different thing altogether. So I 
request you will act for yourself now. Have you seen her?"
	"Ay, 'faith."
	"And how do you like her?"
	Mr. Robert Lloyd opened his mouth very wide and yawned. 
And when his mother looked round to see why he had not replied 
to her question, the gentleman was leisurely walking out of the 
room with his hands in his, pockets. Whistling was one of the 
things that Mr. Robert Lloyd did well; and as he sauntered down 
the gravel walk, his mother could distinctly hear the little air which 
he had played upon his jew's-harp for Mr. Lowe, and of which he 
had become particularly fond since Richard Kearney's 
misadventure in the bog.



CHAPTER XXIX.

THE HAULING HOME. -- "IS NORAH LAHY STRONG?"

	"GOOD evening, Barney," said Mr. Lloyd, as he was 
passing Mrs. Burke's shop-door, where Barney Brodherick was 
fixing sundry baskets and parcels in his donkey-cart. "What 
news?"
	"Nothin' strange, sir," replied Barney; "barrin' that I'm in a 
divil uv a hurry."
	"Barney, maybe you'd carry this as far as Honor Lahy's for 
me?" said Judy Brien, who stood by the donkey-cart with a new 
cradle she had just purchased from a travelling vendor.
	"An' welcome. Judy, an' yourse'f on the top uv id"
	"Oh, I must wait for Tim, an' he'll carry me behind him. I 
was goin' to lave the cradle here at Mrs. Burke's, till I met you. I 
thought you wor gone home hours ago."
	"All right," said Barney. "Put id on top uv this hamper, an' 
I'll tie id down wud this bit of coard."
	"Hallo! Bill," shouted Mr. Bob Lloyd, who watched the 
fixing of the cradle with great interest, and even held it in its place 
while Barney was tying it -- "hallo, Bill, where are you bound 
for?"
	It was Billy Heffernan upon his mule. The saddle was very 
far back towards the animal's tail, and kept in its place by a 
crupper. He was obliged to put both hands to one side of the rein in 
order to bring his steed to a stand, which he effected by very nearly 
riding through Mrs. Burke's shop window. This catastrophe was 
only prevented by Bob Lloyd hitting the mule on the nose with his 
whip.
	"Comin' home wud Ned Brophy, sir," replied Billy. "He 
sint me -- wo, Kit! -- on afore 'em to tell them to sind for another 
gallon uv whiskey an' some ginger cordial, as there's more comin' 
from that side than he expected."
	"All right, Bill," said Mr. Lloyd, turning the mule's head 
towards the road.
	And moving back a pace or two, Mr. Lloyd drew his 
hunting-whip from under his arm and deliberately lashed the mule 
several times under the flanks, which had the effect of making Kit 
fling out her hind legs as if she wanted to fling her shoes at the 
head of her assailant. But finding that this was impracticable, Kit 
put her head between her fore legs, and after a minute's debate with 
herself as to the proper course to be pursued under the 
circumstances, she clattered up the main street at a canter, with her 
nose to the ground, after the manner of mules and donkeys with a 
pack of canine tormentors at their heels.
	"Begob, sir," exclaimed Barney, as if a bright idea had 
struck him, "I b'lieve I might as well wait an' be home wad the 
weddin'."
	"Ay, faith, Barney," replied Mr. Lloyd.
	And there being neither peep-show, nor ballad-singer, nor 
Punch and Judy in Kilthubber on that day, Ned Brophy's wedding 
was a regular god-send to Barney; for were it not for the wedding, 
in spite of his ingenuity in finding temptations to keep him from 
being home at a proper time, Mrs. Kearney might possibly have 
been able to have the "nice steak" for dinner.
	A wedding party is always an object of interest; and Ned 
Brophy being well known in Kilthubber and along the whole line 
of march, men, women, and children were on the look-out for his.
	The procession comprised some ten or fifteen "carriages of 
people," including jaunting cars and "common cars," and a 
considerable troop of equestrians, among whom Mat the Thrasher, 
in his blue body-coat, mounted upon Ned Brophy's colt, was the 
observed of all observers. They were greeted with a cheer from a 
considerable crowd collected at the corner of the street, which 
compliment was attributed to the fact that several boon 
companions of the bridegroom's were in the crowd. But when they 
got a cheer at every cross road and cluster of houses they passed 
after leaving the town behind them, so unusual a circumstance 
began to excite surprise.
	Mat Donovan, however, having to alight to pick up the 
bridegroom's hat, which somehow had got the habit of being blown 
off his head every ten minutes or so, the whole procession rattled 
past him before he could remount; and as he came up with them 
just as they were passing the cross of Dunmoyne, he discovered 
that they were indebted to Barney Brodherick for turning Ned 
Brophy's hauling home into what the newspaper reporters call "a 
regular ovation." Barney was standing with a foot on each shaft, 
belabouring his donkey to keep him at a gallop, and behind him, on 
the top of his load, was Judy Brien's new cradle. It was naturally 
supposed that Ned Brophy had provided himself with a cradle at 
this early stage of his matrimonial journey; and such an instance of 
foresight was hailed with shouts of applause from Kilthubber to 
Knocknagow.
	Barney stopped at Honor Lahy's to leave the cradle there. 
"What is this?" a gentleman asked, putting his head out of a chaise 
that stood near the beech tree while the driver was repairing a 
break in the harness, pointing to the cars and horsemen as they 
passed.
	"Ned Brophy's funeral, sir," replied Barney as he pitched 
the cradle down on the ground.
	"Don't mind him, sir," said Honor Lahy, "'tis his weddin'."
	"The difference is not much," returned the gentleman --  
who must have been an incorrigible old bachelor -- as he pulled up 
the window and leant back in his seat.
	Mary Kearney, and Grace, and Ellie were out walking, and 
on hearing the shouts, and catching a glimpse of the wedding 
party, they ran into Mat the Thrasher's house, where they could see 
without being seen, from the little window, the light from which 
was wont to cheer the belated traveller as he plodded along the 
bleak bog road.
	Nelly Donovan was arraying herself in her best finery for 
the wedding.
	"Come here, Nelly," said Mary, "and point out the bride to 
us."
	"I never see her myself, Miss," replied Nelly, running from 
the room with her hair about her shoulders; "but that's Ned's first 
cousin on the same side of the car wad him; so, I suppose the tall 
wan at this side is the wife."
	"The cousin is very nicely dressed," Grace remarked. 
"That's a very pretty bonnet she has. In fact, she is quite lady-like. 
What is her name?"
	"Bessy Morris, Miss."
	"Is that Bessy?" said Mary, looking at the owner of the 
pretty bonnet with increased interest. "So it is; I see her now." For 
Bessy Morris had turned round and looked over the clipped hedge, 
and up at the old cherry-tree, and then down towards the school-
house beyond the quarry, with a wistful gaze that Mary interpreted 
into a sigh for the times that were gone.
	"She has all the latest fashions, Miss," said Nelly, "after 
coming from Dublin. But she was always tasty."
	"Ned looks as if he were going to be hanged," Grace 
observed. "I should not like to see such an expression as that in my 
husband's face on the wedding-day."
	The matter-of-fact way in which she spoke of her husband 
made them all laugh; while old Mrs. Donovan stopped her knitting 
and raised her hands in wonder.
	"Ah, I wouldn't say," said Nelly, as if to herself, "but that 
house below in the threes is after bringin' some wan to Ned's mind 
that put the heart across in him the night uv the party long ago."
	"And did she refuse him?" Grace asked.
	"No, Miss; she was fond uv the slob -- but she hadn't the 
fortune."
	"The bride is a fine-looking girl," said Mary.
	"Faith, then, she's nothin' short uv id," returned Nelly with 
an assenting notion of the head as she stooped down and pushed 
back her hair to get a better view, "though Billy Heffernan tould 
me she was a step-laddher."
	"Oh, a step-ladder!" exclaimed Grace. "What did he mean 
by that?"
	"Long and narrow, Miss," replied Nelly, laughing, "like 
huxter's turf."
	"Come, Grace;" said Mary; "it is getting late, and we have 
to call at Mrs. Lahy's yet. I didn't like to go in when I saw the 
chaise at the door. I hope all the wedding people are after passing."
	"They are, Miss," replied Nelly. "An' maybe you'd tell Phil 
Lahy not to delay, as I promised to wait for him."
	"Is Phil to be at the wedding?"
	"Faix, 'twouldn't be a weddin' wudout him," said Nelly.
	"You're in great style, Nelly," Mary remarked with a smile. 
"I suppose you are determined to break half-a-dozen hearts at least 
before morning?"
	Nelly sighed, and shook her head; but recovering herself, 
she replied in her wild way:
	"Well, I must thry an' do some good for myse'f among the 
strangers. There'll be some likely lads there to-night, an' who 
knows what luck I might have."
	Mary was welcomed, as usual, by Norah and her mother. 
But Phil seemed to have a weight upon his mind, and was as full of 
importance as if he were about to engage in some undertaking 
upon which the very existence of his little helpless family 
depended.
	"Good evening, Miss," said he in a subdued tone. He paced 
up and down the kitchen, as if it were a sick chamber, rubbing his 
newly-shaven chin, and occasionally feeling the high stiff collar of 
his clean shirt in a hurried way, as if the thought were continually 
occurring to him that he had forgotten to put it on.
	"Nelly Donovan desired me to tell you, Mr. Lahy, that she 
was waiting for you."
	Phil Lahy took down his hat, and putting it on with the air 
of a humane judge assuming the black cap, he left the house 
without uttering a word.
	"Is Mr. Hugh goin' to the weddin'?" Honor inquired.
	"Yes, he and Mr. Lowe are going."
	"Wisha, Miss, maybe you'd tell him to have an eye to Phil."
	"How so?" asked Mary in surprise.
	"Well," replied Honor, thoughtfully, "he's afther promisin' 
me an' Norah not to take anything stronger than cordial; an' if Mr. 
Hugh'd have an eye on him and remind him uv id now an' then, I 
know he'd be all right."
	"Well, I'll tell him," said Mary, with a smile.
	Grace was becoming a great favourite with Norah. Grace 
needed only to try to become a favourite with anybody. And how 
glad she was to see by Honor Lahy's smile that the poor woman 
harboured no prejudice against her, after all.
	"Are you glad that spring is coming?" she asked, turning to 
Norah.
	"Oh, yes, Miss; I'm longing for the fine days, when I can sit 
outside under the tree."
	"Are you fond of reading?"
	"I am, Miss; an' when I'm not strong enough myself, 
Tommy reads for me, an' so does my father sometimes."
	"I think I have some books at home you would like. And 
when I go home I'll send them to you the first opportunity I get."
	Norah looked her thanks, and perhaps there was a little 
pleased surprise in the look.
	"You are fond of music, too, I am told?"
	"I am, Miss, very. I'm told you play the piano beautiful?"
	"Well, I do play; but not near so well as I could wish. I 
played some Irish airs for Mat Donovan this morning."
	"Mat is a fine singer, Miss."
	"Yes, I have often caught snatches of his songs from the 
barn. But he would not sing for us to-day when we asked him."
	Ellie here interrupted them. She came to exhibit Tommy's 
new paper; but Grace motioned her away as if just then she had no 
time for trifling.
	"You showed me that before."
	"No, that was his old copy-book. But he is in Voster now."
	"In what?" She took the paper in her hand and read:

"THE RULE OF THREE DIRECT.
"Commenced by Thomas Lahy, January the 8th,
"Anno Domini, One thousand Eight
"Hundred and . . . ."

This was written at the top of the first page in the school-master's 
most magnificent large hand, and under this the page was divided 
by a black stroke down the middle into two equal parts. In these 
double columns Tommy Lahy had copied each question and 
answer fully and fairly from the book -- and the sums, fully and 
fairly worked out, were given under the questions and answers. 
Several pages of the book were filled in this way; and Tommy told 
them proudly, though somewhat bashfully, that he'd be "in 
Fractions after Easter." At which Grace looked astonished, 
evidently thinking that "fractions" and "smithereens" were 
convertible terms.
	"Show her your Voster, Tommy," said Ellie.
	Tommy brought the book, and, on looking at the title page, 
Grace nodded, and said:
	"Oh, yes; now I understand; but I never saw this book 
before."
	"Maybe 'tis a Gough you have, Miss?"
	Grace contented herself with nodding again by way of 
reply.
	"Could you work the piece of plank, Miss?"
	"What is that?"
	Tommy licked his thumb, and turned over the leaves till he 
came to a problem requiring the dimensions of a piece of plank of 
certain length, breadth, and thickness.
	Grace glanced at the problem and looked wise. But she 
began to think that Tommy Lahy could teach her some useful 
things of which she was altogether ignorant. She happened 
however, to glance at the fly-leaf of Tommy's "Voster," and her 
pleasant laugh made Norah turn round and look at her.
	"'Thomas Lahy, of Knocknagow, His Book,'" she read. 
	"And listen to this: --  

"Steal not this Book, my honest Friend,
For fear the Gallows might be your End;
The Gallows is High, and you are low.
And when you'd be up you'd be like a crow. 
If this Book be lost or Stole, 
I pray the finder will send it home 
To Thomas Lahy, of Knocknagow."


Grace laughed again and held up the book, with her finger pointing 
to the bottom of the page, where Mary, by leaning forward and 
straining her eyes a little, was able to read 

"Thomas Lahy, Copy Dated,"

And under this, in a different hand --  

"On'y for me the pigs would ate it."

	"The schoolmaster says, Miss," observed Honor, "that 
Tommy has a great turn for -- what's that he says you have a turn 
for, Tommy?"
	"For science," replied Tommy.
	"Oh, I always said that Tommy was a very intelligent boy," 
said Mary.
	"On'y for he's so wild, Miss," returned Honor, with a sigh, 
and a glance at the beech-tree.
	"I am very glad, Norah," said Mary, rising from her chair, 
"to see you getting on so well. When the weather gets fine I hope 
you will be much better. And, when the flowers are in bloom, I 
won't be satisfied till we get you up to show you the garden."
	"Thank, you, Miss," replied Norah, with that worshipping 
look with which she always regarded her.
	"An' sure you won't forget, Miss," said Honor, "to tell Mr. 
Hugh to keep Phil in mind uv the cordial?"
	"Oh, never fear. I'll tell him."
	"O Mary," said Grace on their way home, "how much 
mistaken I was.
	"In what were you mistaken?"
	"About Norah Lahy. I believe now she is the happiest girl I 
ever saw."
	"Have you found that out?" Mary asked, with a delighted 
look. "I knew you would."
	"Oh, yes; I am sure of it."
	"And so am I."
	They walked along in silence for some time, till Ellie, who 
had lingered behind them, came running up and said there was a 
gentleman with a red coat riding slowly after them. It was Mr. 
Robert Lloyd; and, on finding that they were aware of his 
proximity, he put his horse to a quicker walk in order to pass them.
	"He had his hand to his hat to salute you," said Grace, "but 
you did not look at him. Do you know, I always thought there was 
affectation in that not looking at people."
	"I am not sure but you are right," replied Mary.
	"It looks like vulgar pride, or sulky ignorance," said Grace. 
"Oh, those are very hard words," said Mary, laughing.
"But do you never turn up your nose at people yourself?"

"'Oh wad some power the giftie gie us,
To see ourselves as ithers see us,'"

replied Grace. "Yes, I do plead guilty to the charge. But,. my dear 
Mary, we can all see the mote in our neighbour's eye much easier 
than the beam in our own. But with regard to the gentleman on the 
grey horse, would you not have returned his salute?"
	"I am not personally acquainted with him," Mary replied. 
"But I would have returned his salute, though I might rather avoid 
it if I could do so without laying myself open. to the charge of -- 
what's that you said it looked like?"
	"I believe I said vulgar pride, or sulky ignorance."
	"Well, if I could not pass the gentleman without being open 
to such a charge, I would, of course, return his salute. And yet," 
she added, with a smile, "if I were a lady he would scarcely have 
saluted me without some previous acquaintance or introduction."
	"Why, what on earth do you mean by saying if you were a 
lady?"
	"Oh, I see you don't know what our notions are respecting 
ladies or gentlemen in the country."
	"Well, tell me."
	"Did you never hear your papa tell what Sally Egan said to 
Mrs. French?"
	"No, I don't remember; but I recollect Sally Egan very well. 
It was she nursed me."
	"Well, your papa gave her an excellent character when she 
was leaving you, and Mrs. French asked her what place she was in 
before that. 'I was with a gentleman, ma'am,' she replied. 'And was 
not your last master a gentleman?' asked Mrs. French. 'Oh, no, 
ma'am,' said Sally, 'he's only a doctor.'"
	Grace reddened with indignation, and pronounced Sally 
Egan's conduct an instance of the basest ingratitude.
	"You mistake altogether," said Mary. "She did not mean to 
make little of the doctor at all."
	"If papa is not a gentleman," exclaimed Grace, "I don't 
know who is."
	"That's my way of thinking, too," replied Mary; "but you 
see it was not Sally Egan's. It is only what are called 'estated men' 
are gentlemen in Ireland, and their wives and daughters are the 
only ladies. Tom Maher thought he was paying me a great 
compliment the other day by saying that I was 'like a lady.'"
	"What must be the reason?" said Grace, musingly.
	"Try and find the solution of the mystery," replied Mary, 
laughing.
	Grace put her finger to her lips and knit her brows. "It is 
because they are slaves!" she exclaimed, with emphasis.
	"I believe you have guessed it," replied Mary, quietly. They 
came up again with Mr. Lloyd, who had gone into a house to light 
his pipe. It was plain he meant to be respectful, for he took the pipe 
from his mouth and put it behind his back while they were passing. 
Mary returned his salute this time.
	"Do you know, Mary," said Grace, "I think it is because he 
knows Richard so well."
	"You are quite right," she replied, quickly; "that never 
occurred to me before."
	"There is something good-natured looking about him," 
Grace observed. "And he is a fine, handsome man, though, I 
should say, somewhat foolish"
	"You are not very flattering," said Mary.
	"Well, now," said Grace after another interval of silence, 
"tell me candidly what you think of him?" She pointed to Mr. 
Lowe, who was walking with the doctor in the lawn.
	"Well, I think he improves on acquaintance," Mary replied. 
"The more I know of him, the better I like him."
	"It is just the contrary with me. I was ready to worship him 
as a superior being at first. His elegant, gentleman-like manner 
quite fascinated me. But now I feel there's some thing wanting. 
There is something milk-and-waterish about him. He is not 
strong."
	Mary looked at her with surprise, as indeed she often did.
	"And is Richard, for instance, strong?" she asked.
	"No, not strong; but he has animation, or something that the 
other wants."
	"And Hugh?"
	"Yes," she replied, compressing her lips, and with a 
movement of the head. "Yes; Hugh is strong. He has a strong 
face."
	"Is Norah Lahy strong?"
	The question seemed to surprise her at first, but, after a 
moment's thought, she replied:
	"Yes: Norah Lahy is strong. There are different kinds of 
strength. I fear I am not strong myself. In some ways I know I am; 
but if I were afflicted like Norah Lahy, I never could endure it as 
she does."
	"You could," replied Mary, "God would give you strength."
	"You could bear it," returned Grace, "just the same as she 
does."
	"Oh, I fear I never could, with such cheerful resignation. 
But if it ever should be my lot to be tried with affliction, how much 
I shall owe to Norah Lahy!"
	"Mary," said Grace, after another pause, "I am beginning to 
feel quite nervous. That is why I can never meditate on such 
things. It makes me think that I shall soon die, and that frightens 
me."
	"It is a thought that ought to frighten us all," returned Mary. 
"But I need not preach to you, Grace. You understand these things 
very well. And I am sure you do some times meditate on death."
	"I try -- sometimes."
	"I seldom talk in this way," said Mary. "I scarcely know 
how you managed to introduce the subject. But we must hurry in 
and deliver Mrs Lahy's injunctions to Hugh before they go."
	"They seem to be in no hurry," Grace remarked. "There is 
Adonis vaulting over the gate, and, I suppose, challenging Apollo 
to follow him. But Apollo prefers opening the gate. And now he 
sees us, and is sorry he has not bounded over it like an antelope."
	"Well, let us hurry," said Mary. "They are waiting for us."
	"I hope," she remarked, on reaching the gate, "I hope you 
will find a great deal to amuse you at the wedding to-night."
	"I am all impatience to see a real Irish wedding," he 
replied. "And to judge from the glimpses we are after getting of the 
party as they drove by, this is to be a genuine affair."
	"Yes, 'twill be the correct thing," the doctor observed "By 
Jove! only for an engagement I have I'd be tempted to go with you. 
Nelly Donovan's ankles would make a saint forget the sky as she 
tripped by just now."
	"But not a sinner forget the important duty of spending a 
long winter evening telling an appreciative circle what he would do 
with the bars of the grate," said Grace.
	The doctor pulled his moustache and tried to laugh.
	"What do you mean by the bars of the grate?" Mary  asked.
	"Oh, don't you know? 'What will you do with this one?' 'I'll 
ask her to sing a song.' 'And what will you do with this one?' 'I'll 
adore her.'"
	"Oh, I suppose you are too wise," returned Mary, "for such 
things. But I must not forget Phil Lahy and the cordial."
	She quickened her pace in order to meet Hugh, who was 
dismounting from his horse, after returning from the out-farms. 
And as Mr. Lowe gazed after her, he thought to himself that if 
some accident occurred to prevent their attendance at Ned 
Brophy's wedding he would bear the disappointment like a 
philosopher, and spend the evening by the fireside.



CHAPTER XXX.

NED BROPHY'S WEDDING

	WHEN Mr. Lowe found himself knee-deep in fresh straw, 
after jumping from the gig in Ned Brophy's yard, he looked about 
him with a slight sense of bewilderment. Their drive for the first 
two miles had been pleasant enough, but when they turned off the 
high road into a narrow "boreen," Mr. Lowe expected every 
moment to be flung over the fence, against which the wheel almost 
rubbed as they jolted along.
	"Have we much farther to go?" he asked, clutching the side 
of the gig, as the wheel at Hugh's side sank into the deepest slough 
they had met yet.
	"Only a couple of fields," Hugh replied. "We'll be in view 
of the house after passing the next turn."
	The couple of fields seemed five miles long at a moderate 
calculation to Mr. Lowe, and it was not till he found himself on his 
legs in the straw he felt satisfied they had really arrived at their 
journey's end. As he gazed about him he had a confused 
consciousness of the twang of fiddles, mingled with the hum of 
many voices and the clatter of many feet, on the one hand, and a 
combination of odours, in which turf, smoke and roast goose 
predominated, on the other. The music came from the barn, and the 
odours from an out-office at the opposite side of the yard, which 
was converted into a kitchen for the occasion -- and there being no 
chimney, a plentiful supply of smoke was the natural consequence.
	Hugh shouted for someone to come and take care of his 
horse; and a workman rushed from the barn, creating considerable 
confusion among a crowd of beggars at the door --  for whom the 
fun at that side seemed to possess more attraction than the culinary 
preparations and savoury odours at the other.
	Mr. Hugh Kearney's arrival was soon made known to the 
people of the house; and Mat Donovan, as "best man" and master 
of the ceremonies, was at the door to receive and welcome him.
	"Is this the doctor you have wud you?" Mat asked. "Begor, 
I'm glad we have him, as I was afeard there'd be no wan to talk to 
the ladies."
	"This is Mr. Lowe," replied Hugh.
	Mat was evidently disappointed; for he had the highest 
opinion of the doctor's powers in the matter of "discoorsin' the 
ladies."
	On entering the kitchen, where preparations for dinner were 
also proceeding on a large scale, Ned Brophy's mother welcomed 
them with a curtsey, and her daughter took their hats and overcoats 
to one of the two bedrooms off the kitchen. Mat Donovan opened 
the parlour door, and showed the gentlemen in with a bow and a 
wave of his hand that even the accomplished Richard, whose 
absence he so much regretted, might have envied.
	Two ladies who sat by the fire -- one in a blue ball-dress 
and pearl necklace, the other in a plain black silk, with only a blue 
ribbon for ornament -- stood up; and Mr. Lowe found himself 
shaking hands with the blue ball-dress almost before he was aware 
of it.
	"Don't you remember Miss Lloyd?" Hugh was obliged to 
say; for it was painfully evident he did not at once recognise her.
	"Oh, I beg pardon," said he, "but really the pleasure was so 
unexpected."
	Miss Lloyd was in fidgets of ecstasy, and called to her 
sister to introduce her.
	Mr. Lowe bowed again, and it was pretty clear from the 
expression of his eye that he thought the plain black dress and the 
blue ribbon a pleasanter sight to look at than the blue gauze and 
pearl necklace.
	"Sit down, sir," said Mat Donovan, placing a chair in  front 
of the fire. "Or, maybe," he added, turning to Hugh, "you'd like to 
have a bout before the tables are brought into the barn?"
 "Oh, no, we'll wait till after dinner," said Hugh.
	"Very well, sir," replied Mat. "Father Hannigan'll be here 
shortly, and I'll bring him in to have a talk wad ye before supper is 
ready. I'm afeard the cook is afther takin' a sup too much,, an' if the 
ladies here don't show 'em what to do, things'll be apt to go 
contrairy."
	"Oh, you may command my services," said the younger 
lady, with a laugh.
	"Thank'ee, Miss," returned Mat. "But she's takin' a sleep, 
and maybe she'd be all right after id."
	"Who is the cook?" Miss Lloyd asked, eagerly. "Is it Mrs. 
Nugent?"
	"'Tis, Miss," replied Mat. "She was up at the castle 
yesterday, preparin' the big dinner, an' she's bate up intirely."
	"Oh, was she at the castle? Where is she? I'd like so much 
to ask her all about it."
	"She's gone into the little room there, Miss, to take a stretch 
on the bed."
	Miss Lloyd was on the rack immediately. Even Mr. Lowe 
faded from her mind and was lost in the steam of that big dinner at 
the castle.
	Seizing a candle from the table, Miss Lloyd rushed into the 
little bedroom off the parlour. Immediately a loud scream made 
them all start to their feet, and fly to her assistance. All was 
darkness in the bedroom, till some one brought in a candle; and 
there was poor Miss Lloyd, blue ball dress, pearl necklace, and all, 
sprawling on the floor, and staring wildly about her. The fat cook -
- who was a very mountain of a woman -- was lying on the floor 
too, snoring sonorously; and it at once became apparent to the 
astonished spectators that Miss Lloyd had tumbled over her.
	Hugh Kearney stepped over the fat cook, and reaching his 
hand to the frightened lady, raised her up.
	"O Mr. Kearney," she exclaimed, panting for breath, what 
have I fallen over?"
	"Over a mountain," replied Hugh, laying his hand on the fat 
cook's shoulder and shaking her.
	The sonorous music that proceeded from the mountain 
suddenly ceased; and a second vigorous shake had the effect of 
causing the fat cook to open her eyes.
	"O Mr. Kearney," she exclaimed piteously, looking into his 
face, "you know what a weak constitution I have."
	This address, uttered as it was in a familiar and affectionate 
manner, took Hugh somewhat by surprise; for it happened that 
Mrs. Nugent was a perfect stranger to him.
	"Tundher an' turf, Mrs. Nugent," exclaimed Mat Donovan, 
"everything is roasted an' biled -- an' there's open war among the 
women. Wan says wan thing, an' another says another thing; an' 
between 'em all, everything is three-na-yhela."
	Mat put his arms round Mrs. Nugent and lifted her to her 
feet -- a feat which no man in "the three parishes" but himself 
would have attempted.
	Mrs. Nugent steadied herself for a moment, untying her 
apron and turning the other side out, with great deliberation.
	"You know, Mr. Kearney," said she, "how a salt herring 
upsets me."
	Hugh felt slightly confused, and altogether at a loss to 
understand why Mrs. Nugent should persist in assuming that he 
had so intimate a knowledge of her constitution.
	"Really, ma'am," said he, "I do not know. I believe this is 
the first time I ever had the pleasure of meeting you."
	"Well, if you don't, your mother does," said Mrs. Nugent, 
as she stuck a pin in her cap a little over her right ear -- for what 
purpose it would be difficult to say.
	"She knows what dressing a dinner is," continued Mrs. 
Nugent, looking round on the company, "for she was used to 
nothing else in her own father's house."
	Hugh felt that this compliment to the O'Carrolls would 
have greatly gratified his mother, and that she would have quite 
overlooked the assertion that she was "used to nothing else" but 
dressing dinners at Ballydunmore.
	"And how are you to-night, Miss Lloyd?" said Mrs. 
Nugent. "I hope your family are well."
	"Quite well, thank you, Mrs. Nugent," replied the lady 
addressed, who was nervously feeling her pearls one by one, to 
know if any of them had come to grief in consequence of her 
tumble.
	"Come, Mrs. Nugent," said Mat Donovan, "an' set 'em to 
rights at the dishin', in the name o' God."
	"Yes, Mat the Thrasher," replied Mrs. Nugent. "Let me 
alone for setting them to rights."
	She moved with great dignity towards the door; but making 
a sudden and quite unexpected detour before she reached it, Mrs. 
Nugent came plump up against Mr. Henry Lowe, who 
mechanically caught her in his arms, as, yielding to the momentum 
he staggered backwards.
	"Hands off, young man, till you're better acquainted," 
exclaimed the fat cook, in an offended tone. "I'm no sick sort of 
indivigel," she added, as she shook the young gentleman from her, 
to his utter confusion and dismay. But before he could collect his 
wits to protest he meant no harm whatever, Mat Donovan took the 
offended lady's arm, and conducted her to the kitchen, where her 
appearance, as she stood with arms akimbo in the middle of the 
floor, made Mrs. Brophy and her servant girls feel like delinquents, 
so awe-inspiring was the glance the mighty empress cast round her 
dominions
	"Mat the Thrasher," said Mrs. Nugent, "will you -- "
	"Begob, there's Father Hannigan; I must be off," exclaimed 
Mat, as he hurried away without waiting to know 'what Mrs. 
Nugent required.
	"God save all here," said Father Hannigan, stamping his 
feet as he stepped over the threshold. "How are you, Mrs. 
Brophy?"
	"You're welcome, sir," was Mrs. Brophy's reply, as she 
opened the parlour door.
	Father Hannigan had a hearty greeting from every one, and 
Mr. Lowe was particularly glad to see him.
	"I beg your pardon, Miss Lloyd; but we must put Mr. 
Flaherty in that corner. Sit down there, Mr. Flaherty," he 
continued, laying his hand on the arm of a respectable looking 
man, who until now had been concealed behind the tall figure of 
the priest.
	The old man was dressed in a decent suit of black, and as 
he sat down in the chair to which the priest had conducted him, 
Mr. Lowe was struck by the placid smile that glowed over his 
round, ruddy face. He wore a brown wig, curled all round from the 
temples, which he now caught hold of over his ear, to fasten it on 
his head. He then commenced playing with a bunch of seals 
attached to his watch-ribbon, which hung from the fob in his small 
clothes.
	"Good night, Miss Lloyd," said he, without turning towards 
her.
	"Good night, Mr. Flaherty," she replied.
	"Ha!" he laughed, appearing to look straight before him, 
though the lady was on one side, and rather behind him. "I think 
this is Miss Isabella I have beside me," he said after playing again 
with the bunch of seals.
	"Yes, Mr. Flaherty. It is a long time now since you paid us 
a visit."
	He did not reply, as he was listening, with an anxious look, 
to the conversation passing between Father Hannigan, Mr. Lowe, 
and Hugh Kearney.
	"This is the English gentleman?" he observed in a whisper, 
leaning his head towards the young lady who had just spoken to 
him.
	"Yes; he is Sir Garrett Butler's nephew," she replied.
	Mr. Lowe's curiosity to know something of Mr. Flaherty 
was so strong that it brought him to the side of Miss Lloyd, at the 
other end of the room. She tossed her flounces about, and made 
way for him in an ecstasy of delight.
	"I am curious to know," he said, "who is that old 
gentleman?"
	As he spoke, his curiosity was further excited by seeing a 
little boy come into the room and place a green bag on the old 
man's knees.
	 "That's the celebrated Irish piper," she replied. "I am 
surprised to see him here. I did not think he attended country 
weddings."
	"I suppose," said Mr. Lowe, "he goes round among the 
nobility and gentry, as we are told the harpers used to do."
	"He does," she replied; "and he has a beautiful little pony 
the countess gave him. But I suppose he is stopping at present with 
the priests, and Father Hannigan has brought him with him."
	"I wish he would begin to play," said Mr. Lowe. And he 
was rather startled when the old man immediately said:
	"Yes, I'll play a tune for you."
	"Oh! thank you; but I really did not think you could hear 
me."
 "Ha!" he replied, laughing; "I can hear the grass growing."
	He pulled out his watch, and after opening the glass and 
fumbling with it for a moment, he said:
 "Twenty minutes past nine."
	Mr. Lowe, who looked at him in surprise as he smiled and 
chuckled while putting up his watch, caught a glimpse of the old 
man's eyeballs, and saw that he was blind.
	"Sit down here near me," said Mr. Flaherty. "I knew Sir 
Garrett and your mother well. I'll play one of poor Garrett's 
favourite tunes for you."
	As he uncovered his pipes their splendour quite took Mr. 
owe by surprise. The keys were of silver, and the bag covered with 
crimson velvet fringed with gold; while the little bellows was quite 
a work of art, so beautifully was it carved and ornamented with 
silver and ivory. Having tied an oval-shaped piece of velvet with a 
ribbon attached to each end above his knee, he adjusted his 
instrument, and after moving his arm, to which the bellows was 
attached by a ribbon, till the crimson velvet bag was inflated, he 
touched the keys, and catching up the "chanter" quickly in both 
hands began to play. Mr. Lowe, who watched him narrowly, now 
saw the use of the piece of velvet tied round his leg, as the 
"chanter" was ever and anon pressed against it to assist in the 
production of certain notes by preventing the escape of the air 
through the end of the tube.
	The musician soon seemed to forget all mere human 
concerns. He threw back his head, as if communing with invisible 
spirits in the air above him; or bent down over his instrument as if 
the spirits bad suddenly flown into it, and he wanted to catch their 
whisperings there, too.
	The audience, to some extent, shared in the musician's 
ecstasy; particularly Father Hannigan, from whose eyes tears were 
actually falling as the delicious melody ceased, and the old man 
raised his sightless eyes, and listened, as it were, for an echo of his 
strains from the skies.
	"Oh!" exclaimed Father Hannigan, turning away his head, 
and flourishing his yellow Indian silk pocket-handkerchief, as he 
affected to sneeze before taking the pinch of snuff he held between 
the fingers of the other hand -- "Oh, there's something wonderful in 
these old Irish airs! There was a ballad in last Saturday's Nation 
about that tune, that was nearly as moving as the tune itself. Did 
you read it?" he asked, turning to Hugh Kearney.
	"Yes," he replied. "Your friend, Dr. Kiely, induced me to 
become a subscriber to the Nation."
	"I don't get it myself," returned Father Hannigan. "'Tis 
Father O'Neill gets it, and I suspect he has a leaning towards those 
Young Irelanders, and dabbles in poetry himself. But I wish I had 
that ballad about the 'Coolin,' to read it for Mr. Flaherty. If poetry 
as well as music could be squeezed out of an Irish bagpipes, I'd say 
that ballad came out of that bag under his oxter."
	The old man's face brightened up, as he raised his head, and 
appeared to be listening to the spirits in the air again.
	"Can you remember any of the lines, Hugh?" 
	"Not to repeat them," he replied; "but I have a general 
recollection of them."
	 "We're obliged to you, intirely, for your general 
recollection," returned Father Hannigan, with his finger on his 
temple. "But what's that he said about 'sorrow and love'?"
	"Sobbing like Eire," replied Hugh.
	"Ay, ay," interrupted Father Hannigan. "Now I have it. The 
poet, Mr. Flaherty, described the 'Coolin' as

'Sobbing like Eire with sorrow and love.'

	Isn't that beautiful? -- and true?
	The old man laughed and listened more intently, as if the 
spirits in the air were very far off, and he were trying to catch the 
flapping of their wings.
	"He also said," Hugh added, "that

'An angel first sung it above in the sky.'"

	This seemed to catch the minstrel's fancy more than the 
other line, for he nodded his head several times, with his mouth 
slightly open, as if he were softly repeating the interjection ha! ha! 
ha!
	The wedding guests had been silently dropping into the 
room, which was now pretty well filled. Mat Donovan 
occasionally seized a bottle or decanter, and filled out a glass of 
wine, or whiskey, or "cordial" for some of them; and Hugh 
Kearney observed that Mat was particularly attentive to old Phil 
Morris, the weaver, whose entrance necessarily attracted attention, 
as be was lame and leant upon a short stick, which he struck 
against the ground at every step, with a sturdy defiant sort of 
knock, which, taken in connection with his tightly compressed lips 
and keen grey eyes, conveyed the idea that old Phil Morris was a 
Tartar, with a dash of the cynic in his composition. And old Phil 
really did look upon the present generation as a degenerate race, 
who could "put up with anything," and altogether unworthy sons of 
his "early youth's compeers."
	As Mat Donovan pressed old Phil Morris to drink with 
unusual earnestness, there was a hustling heard at the door, and 
Ned Brophy himself was seen pushing two blind pipers into the 
parlour with a degree of violence and an expression of countenance 
that led Mr. Lowe to imagine he must have caught them in the act 
of attempting to rob him or something of that kind. The two pipers 
were tall and gaunt and yellow -- a striking contrast in every way 
to Mr. Flaherty. One was arrayed in a soldier's grey watch-coat, 
with the number of the regiment stamped in white figures on the 
back, and the other wore a coarse blue body-coat, with what 
appeared to be the sleeves of another old grey watch-coat sewed to 
it between the shoulders and the elbows. Both wore well-patched 
corduroy knee-breeches and bluish worsted stockings, with 
brogues of unusual thickness of sole, well paved with heavy nails. 
Their rude brass-mounted instruments were in keeping with their 
garments. The sheep-skin bag of one had no covering whatever, 
while that of the other was covered with faded plaid, "cross-barred 
with green and yellow." They dropped into two chairs near the 
door, thrusting their old "caubeens" under them, and sat bolt 
upright like a pair of mummies or figures in a wax-work 
exhibition.
	This invasion of the parlour was caused by the expulsion of 
the dancers from the barn, to make room for laying the tables for 
the banquet.
	"Play that tune that the angel sang again, Mr. Flaherty," 
said Father Hannigan.
	Mr. Flaherty complied, and the noise and hum of voices 
were at once hushed.
	"Have you that?" the piper in the watch-coat asked his 
companion in a whisper, at the same time beginning to work with 
his elbow.
	"I have," replied the other, beginning to work with his 
elbow, too.
	A sound like snoring followed for a moment, and Mr. 
Flaherty jerked up his head suddenly, and looked disturbed --  as if 
an evil spirit had intruded among his "delicate Ariels." But as the 
noise was not repeated, his countenance resumed its wonted 
placidity, and he bent over his instrument again.
	"I think I could do id betther myse'f," said he of the blue 
body-coat, holding his big knotty fingers over the boles of his 
chanter. "He don't shake enough."
	"So could I," replied the grey watch-coat, giving a squeeze 
to his bag, which was followed by a faint squeak.
	"Turn him out!" shouted Mr. Flaherty, in a voice of 
thunder, as he started to his feet, his eyes rolling with indignant 
anger.
	There was great astonishment among the company; and 
Miss Lloyd jumped upon her chair and stared wildly about her, 
with a vague notion that Wat Murphy's bulldog -- of which 
interesting animal she entertained the profoundest dread -- hath got 
into the room and seized Mr. Flaherty by the calf of the leg.
	"Come, Shamus," said Father Hannigan, "this is no place 
for you. Come, Thade, be off with you," and Father Hannigan 
expelled the grumbling minstrels from the parlour; but in doing so 
he gave each a nudge in the ribs, and slipped a shilling into his fist, 
which had the effect of changing their scowl into a broad grin, as 
they jostled out to the kitchen.
	"Well, Phil, are you brave and hearty?" said Father 
Hannigan, when he returned to his seat.
	"Purty well, I thank you, sir."
	"Oh, is that Phil Lahy? I didn't see you till I looked at you. 
'Tis to the old cock I was talking. How goes it, my old Trojan?" he 
added, turning to Phil Morris, whom Mat Donovan was pressing to 
drink a glass of whiskey, which the old man pushed away from 
him.
	"Sound as a bell," was his reply, as he folded his hands and 
leant on his stick.
	"Well, if you won't take it," said Mat, "your namesake 
will."
	"No, Mat, I'm obliged to you. But I'm takin' nothin' stronger 
than cordial."
	"Well, sure, we have lots uv that same," Mat rejoined. "We 
didn't forget the teetotallers. Which soart will you have?"
	"I'll take a small drop of the ginger-cordial."
	"Begor, 'tisn't aisy to know id from the wine for the ladies," 
said Mat, holding up two decanters between him and the light. He 
poured a little of the contents of one into a tumbler and tasted it.
	"Oh, faith, I have id," he continued, coughing; "an' hot stuff 
it is."
	He filled the tumbler, and presented it to Phil Lahy, who 
took it with a look of meek resignation, which was quite affecting.
	Nelly Donovan rushed in with her face very much flushed, 
and, making her way to Miss Isabella Lloyd, said in a whisper
	"Wisha, Miss, maybe you'd come out an' show us what to 
do. We can't get any good uv the cook; she's like the dog in the 
manger, an' won't either do a hand's turn herse'f, or let any wan 
else do id. There's lots uv dacent women here that knows what to 
do as well as herse'f, but she's afther insultin' every wan uv 'em, 
and as for poor Mrs. Brophy, she don't know whether it is on her 
head or her heels she's standin', wad her."
	"I'll try what I can do," replied the young lady, laughing, as 
she followed Nelly to the kitchen.



CHAPTER XXXI.

MR. LLOYD DOES WHAT IRISH LANDLORDS SELDOM 
DO.

	A TABLE at one end of the barn was appropriated to the 
more distinguished guests, at which Father Hannigan presided, 
with the bride on his right hand, and an empty chair on his left; for 
Ned Brophy resolutely resisted all attempts to force him into the 
seat which Miss Isabella Lloyd had assigned him.
	Before the covers were taken off the dishes, however, Mr. 
Robert Lloyd strolled up to the head of the table and quietly took 
possession of the unoccupied chair. To his eldest sister's 
consternation, Mr. Lloyd appeared in his scarlet coat and buckskin 
breeches, and even had his hunting whip tied over his shoulder.
	Ned Brophy, on seeing his landlord, hurried from the lower 
end of one of the two rows of tables that extended along each side 
of the barn, and shook him vigorously by the hand.
	"Welcome, Mr. Bob," said Ned Brophy. "Begor, I'd never 
forgive you if you didn't come." And for the first, time since his 
doom was sealed, Ned Brophy was seen to smile.
	"This is herse'f, sir," Ned added. And Mr. Lloyd shook 
hands with the bride -- reaching his arm behind Father Hannigan's 
back -- in quite an affectionate manner; which caused the bride to 
smile too, apparently for the first time since her doom was sealed. 
So that Mr. Robert Lloyd chased the clouds from the faces of his 
tenant and his tenant's wife -- a thing which, as a rule, Irish 
landlords are not much in the habit of doing.
	Mat Donovan hurried up to make room for two other 
unexpected guests at the principal table, and Maurice Kearney and 
Lory Hanly took their places sufficiently near Miss Lloyd to call 
up a frightened look into that nervous lady's face when she saw 
Lory turning round to address her.
	As soon as Lory saw his sisters wholly taken up with the 
doctor, who punctually kept the appointment to which he had 
casually referred in the evening, the bright idea struck the 
enamoured young gentleman that he had an excuse for paying 
another visit to his fair enslaver. So as Mary Kearney and Grace 
were sitting by the fire, and feeling rather dull and lonely, a knock 
was heard at the door. They listened to know who might be the 
unexpected visitor, and immediately after the door was opened, 
Lory walked into the parlour with the jay's large wicker-cage in his 
arms. They were very glad to see him, and so was Maurice 
Kearney himself: But Mrs. Kearney evidently looked upon Lory as 
a dangerous character, and did not consider herself quite safe so 
long as he was in the house. Lory, however, was asked to sit down; 
and the expression of his countenance as he stared round him, and 
then looked at Grace, might be translated "jolly."
	Ned Brophy's wedding happened to be mentioned, and the 
whim seized Mr. Kearney that he and Lory would go there 
together.
	The fact was, the young gentleman's dancing so tickled 
Maurice Kearney's fancy the evening he first made Lory's 
acquaintance, that he could not resist the temptation to see him 
perform again.
	"Come, and I'll drive you over," said he, "and you'll have a 
good night's fun."
	"Faith, I will!" exclaimed Lory, in a voice that reminded 
Mrs. Kearney of her broken tea-cup.
	"Will you come?" he added, turning to Grace and waiting 
for her reply with his eyes very wide open.
	"Oh, no, thank you," she replied.
	"If you do, I'll dance with nobody else. 'Pon my word I'd 
rather dance with you than with anybody."
	Grace expressed her acknowledgment, but regretted she 
should deny herself the pleasure.
	Mrs. Kearney went to the kitchen to announce to Barney 
that he was to drive the car, and to warn him above all things to 
take care of "Flanigan's Hole." To which injunction Barney replied 
by doing the "side step" in a reel very genteelly, and in a manner 
peculiar to himself: it being the usual practice to have the right foot 
foremost when moving towards the right, and the left foot foremost 
when moving towards the left, whereas Barney reversed this, and 
moved to the left with the right foot in front, and to the right with 
the left foot in front -- the effect of which was very striking.
	"More power, ma'am! Would I doubt you? An' all my 
figure dance gone out uv my head for want uv practice. One-two-
three, one-two-three, one-two-three." And Barney, with his head 
thrown back, till his poll rested on the collar of his coat, one-two-
three'd to the stable.
	The safe arrival of Mr. Kearney and Lory Hanly in Ned 
Brophy's barn just as the wedding guests had sat down to dinner, is 
a sufficient proof that Barney had driven them safely past 
Flanigan's Hole.
	In spite of Miss Isabella Lloyd's exertions, ably seconded 
as she was by Nelly Donovan, the arrangements were not as 
successful as might have been wished. For instance, when Father 
Hannigan raised the cover of the large dish before him, he was 
rather taken by surprise, on seeing two very plump geese reposing 
side by side on a bed of very greasy cabbage; and what added 
considerably to the astonishment of the beholders was the unusual 
circumstance that while one goose was brown, the other was quite 
white.
	A word from Miss Isabella Lloyd, who could not conceal 
her indignation at the stupidity of some one whom she designated 
"that wretch," sent Nelly Donovan flying down between the two 
rows of tables; and when she returned bearing another dish, that 
which contained the geese was pushed out of the way, and before 
he had well recovered from his surprise, Father Hannigan found a 
piece of roast beef before him, which might have vied with that 
wonderful quarter that Father M'Mahon got as a Christmas present, 
and merely to look at which, according to Father Hannigan, would 
"do your heart good." The two geese were removed to another 
dish, and banished to one of the side tables; and Mat Donovan 
completed the arrangements by placing a huge piece of pork on the 
"bolster of cabbage," originally intended as its resting place.
	The roast beef became "small by degrees and beautifully 
less," under Father Hannigan's carving knife. Hugh Kearney and 
his father worked with might and main, too; and knives and forks 
were soon busy all round the barn. But the white goose had 
aroused Miss Lloyd's inquisitiveness, and she could not rest till she 
knew all about it. So when Nelly Donovan was passing, Miss 
Lloyd put back her hand and caught her by the skirt.
	"What soft of a goose is that?" she asked, as Nelly bent 
over her chair.
	"'Tis wan uv their own geese, Miss. Mrs. Brophy always 
rears three or four clutches."
	"But why is it white?"
	"Oh, is id that wan? Ould Molly, Miss, that didn't 
understand the cook, an' popped wan uv 'em into a pot of wather 
an' biled id, instead uv puttin' it in the oven pot as she was tould. 
She did the same to a beautiful pair uv ducks, an' spiled 'em."
	"What's that you have on the plate?"
	"Some bacon an' cabbage, Miss, that Wattletoes is afther 
sendin' me to Mr. Kearney for. An' spake uv the divil an' he'll 
appear," she exclaimed. "Here is Barney himself."
	"Tare-an'-ouns, Nelly," muttered Barney grumblingly, "is 
id goin' to lave me lookin' at 'em all skelpin' away you are, an' not 
as much as ud bait a mouse-trap furnint me, barrin' a dhry pueata?"
	"I have id here for you, Barney," she replied, presenting the 
well-filled plate to him.
	"More power to your oaten-male-pueata-cake -- an' a 
griddle to bile id," exclaimed Barney, as he hurried off to his place 
at the lower end of the barn.
	We have some recollection of a description of an English 
harvest-home, from the pen of Mr. Charles Reade. The guests were 
of the same class as those assembled in Ned Brophy's barn. But the 
English novelist tells us that during the whole time while the 
viands were being demolished, the only words uttered were the 
following
	"Bo-ill, wull you have some weal wud your bacon?"
	"That I woun't, Jock."
	In this respect the Irish wedding presented a singular 
contrast to the English harvest-home. Jokes and laughter were 
heard on every side; and from Father Hannigan at the head of the 
table to Barney Brodherick who sat upon an inverted hamper with 
his back against the winnowing machine, and his plate on his 
knees, at the opposite end of the barn, every face wore a smile, and 
fun sparkled in every eye. The only exceptions to this rule were 
two or three bashful young women whose potatoes broke upon 
their forks, and filled them with confusion. One of these bashful 
young women, after a second and third failure, dropped her arms 
by her side, and resisted every effort to induce her to taste a single 
morsel of anything. Nelly Donovan did all she could to coax her, 
but the bashful young woman rigidly refused to touch knife or fork 
again -- even though Nelly, with mischievous drollery, called out 
to Miss Isabella Lloyd --
	"Wisha, Miss, maybe you'd have a little lane bit there. We 
have a girl down here that won't ate a taste uv anything for us."
	The necessity of peeling the potatoes on the fork at a 
wedding was regarded as a very trying ordeal; and the remark 
"that's the pueata I'd like to get at a weddin'," was one not 
unfrequently heard at Knocknagow, as the speaker held up a 
"white-eye" between her finger and thumb, which had resisted a 
tight squeeze of the hand without breaking.
	But how will Professor Huxley account for the difference 
we have alluded to between the Irish wedding and the English 
harvest home?
	In the matter of smiling faces, however, we should make 
one more exception, besides the bashful young women whose 
potatoes fell to pieces. Miss Lloyd was haunted by the boiled 
goose. That doughy looking object seemed both to fascinate and 
frighten her. She stared at it as a shying horse will stare at a white 
wall. At last, unable to resist any longer, she held out her plate and 
asked to be helped to the boiled goose. A young farmer, who sat 
opposite that neglected and utterly forlorn-looking bird, jumped to 
his feet and plunged a fork into its side; and then sawed away 
vigorously with his knife, but without any regard to the bones or 
joints of the boiled goose. In spite of his vigorous exertions -- or 
rather in consequence of them -- the unhappy boiled goose rolled 
and slipt about the dish, but lost not a particle of flesh under the 
knife of the operator.
	Now, this young farmer partook of boiled goose in his own 
house on an average once a week -- that is to say, every Sunday -- 
since Michaelmas. But then the goose was always dismembered 
before it was put into the pot with the dumplings. And a very 
savoury dish, too, is goose and dumplings cooked in this way.
	Miss Lloyd held out her plate patiently till her arm began to 
feel tired, when the young farmer, becoming quite desperate, 
pulled his fork out of the boiled goose, and plunging it into the 
piece of fat pork that happened to be within arm's length of him, 
slashed off some two or three pounds of the same, and flinging it 
upon the young lady's plate, exclaimed:
	"Maybe you'd rather have a bit of this, Miss?"
	Miss Lloyd stared helplessly at the mass of pork on her 
plate, which, in her bewilderment, she continued to hold out at 
arm's length. Whereupon, the young farmer added a liberal supply 
of cabbage, and Miss Lloyd laid down the plate before her, looking 
as stupefied as Mat Donovan's cock when he was going to walk 
into the fire, after falling from the collar-beam upon Phil Lahy's 
head. And during the rest of the meal Miss Lloyd seemed quite as 
incapable of further action as the bashful young woman for whom 
Nelly Donovan wanted "a little lane bit."
	Dinner over, the two pipers and three fiddlers struck up 
"Haste to the Wedding," which was the signal for removing the 
two rows of tables, and the floor was immediately cleared for 
dancing.
	Mr. Robert Lloyd led out the bride; and, after a good deal 
of rough shaking and pushing, Mat Donovan persuaded the 
bridegroom to go through the usual bowing and scraping in front 
of Miss Lloyd, who was roused from the stupor into which the fat 
pork had thrown her by the words, "I dance to you, Miss," which 
were uttered by Ned Brophy much in the same tone and with the 
same look as usually accompany the phrase, "I'm sorry for your 
trouble."
	"Come, Mr. Lowe," said Father Hannigan, "don't you see 
Miss Isabella there, throwing sheep's eyes at you? Out with you 
and join the fun."
	"Mr. Lory, your sowl," exclaimed Nelly Donovan, clapping 
him on the back, "before the flure is full." And Nelly seized Lory 
by the hand and pulled him along till they found a place among the 
dancers.
	Hugh Kearney walked down the barn looking to the right 
and left among the blooming damsels, but it was evident the object 
of his search was not in sight.
	"You want somebody," said Mat, with a meaning look.
	"Well, I do," replied Hugh. "I want a partner."
	"Who is she, an' I'll make her out for you?"
	"That's just what I don't know," replied Hugh. "But 'tis the 
girl with the white jacket."
	Mat shook his head, as much as to say, "Sure, now, I knew 
what was in your mind." And then looking all round for the white 
jacket, Mat Donovan said aloud --  "The nicest little girl!" and 
there was a melancholy tenderness in his voice, and a softness in 
his smile, which made Hugh at once suspect that the owner of the 
white jacket was no stranger to Mat the Thrasher.
	"Who is she?" he asked.
	"Bessy Morris, sir," replied Mat, after a moment's silence, 
as if he were roused from a reverie.
	"Is that old Phil's granddaughter?" Hugh asked in surprise. 
"I know her very well, but I have not seen her for a long time."
	"She was in Dublin at her aunt's, sir," replied Mat. "I think 
she's gone into the house now to put a stitch in the bridesmaid's 
gown that Wattletoes is afther dhriving his fut through -- would 
you doubt him? I'll run in for her."
	He soon returned with Bessy Morris, who blushed and 
laughed as he told her how Mr. Hugh Kearney had singled  her out.
	"I really did not know you," said Hugh, as he shook hands 
with her, "till Mat told me who you were."
	"They all tell me I am greatly altered, sir," she replied, "but 
I can't see it myself."
	"We have some purty girls here to-night, sir," said Mat, 
looking round on every side.
	"Very pretty girls," Hugh replied. "There, for instance, that 
fair-haired girl sitting near the musicians is about as handsome a 
girl as ever I saw."
	"So she is, sir," said Mat. "She's called the Swan of 
Coolmore. But for all that," he added, with a humorous glance at 
Bessy Morris, "'tis the white jacket he was lookin' for."
	"Oh, but Bessy and I are old acquaintances," replied Hugh, 
laughing.
	"Nabocklish!" returned Mat. "You tould me you didn't 
know who she was. But I always said you had a good eye uv your 
own."
	The two pipers and three fiddlers found the "tuning" 
business so difficult that Mat thought there was still time for him to 
look out for a partner for "the first bout."
	"Now, which would you advise me to take?" he asked, 
stroking his chin as if he found it difficult to make up his mind. 
"The swan or the bridesmaid -- the goolden locks or the goolden 
guineas?"
	This question bad the effect of making Bessy Morris look 
very earnestly at him. But she laughed when he added --  "Here 
goes for a shake at the ould saucepan."
	"But you are forgetting," said Bessy, "that you were desired 
to make some punch for the ladies."
	"Oh murther!' he exclaimed, "that ould saucepan put id out 
uv me head."
	Billy Heffernan here appeared at the door with a jug of 
boiling water in each hand, and Mat hurried to the table to make 
the punch for the ladies; which punch was soon "shared" all round, 
and caused an immense deal of coughing and a grand display of 
"turkey-red" pocket-handkerchiefs.
	Hugh found his partner so lively and intelligent, and 
altogether so captivating, that he quite overlooked the fact that the 
dancing had commenced, till the swinging of Lory Hanly's legs 
warned him that he must either retire, or join in with the rest.
	The "merry din" now commenced in right earnest; but 
beyond all question the happiest mortal under the roof of Ned 
Brophy's barn that night was Barney Brodherick, who, fenced in 
by a table, in a corner all to himself, rattled away through all his 
wonderful steps as if he thought it a sin to let a single bar of jig, 
reel or double go for nothing.



CHAPTER XXXII.

AN OLD CROPPY'S NOTIONS OF SECURITY OF TENURE.

	FATHER HANNIGAN and Maurice Kearney, with old 
Phil Morris and Phil Lahy, and a few more choice spirits, drew 
close together round the social board, and enjoyed themselves in 
their own way.
	"I gave my daughter to Ned Brophy," said old Larry 
Clancy, in reply to a question of Father Hannigan's -- "I gave my 
daughter to Ned Brophy, because he has a good lase."
	"A good landlord is as good as a good lease," said Maurice 
Kearney.
	"I do not know that," returned Larry Clancy, slowly and 
emphatically. "For my own part, I'd rather have a good lase wud 
the worst landlord, than no lase wad the best landlord that ever 
broke bread. Security is the only thing to give a man courage."
	"He's right," exclaimed old Phil Morris, striking his stick 
against the ground. "Security is the only thing. But if every man 
was of my mind he'd have security or know for what."
	"Hold your tongue, you old sinner," said Father Hannigan, 
who had often combated Phil Morris's views, as to how the land 
question could be brought to a speedy settlement.
	"I have my old pike yet -- an' maybe I'd want id yet!" he 
exclaimed, with a look of defiance at the priest. "An' the man that'd 
come to turn me out on the road, as I see
others turned out on the road, I'd give him the length uv id, as sure 
as God made Moses."
	"And swing for it," said Father Hannigan.
	"Ay, an' swing for it," shouted the old Croppy; for it was a 
musket bullet that shattered Phil Morris's knee in '98. "Ay, an' 
swing for it."
	"And be damned," added the priest. "Don't you know 'tis 
murder -- wilful murder?"
	"I don't know that," he replied. "But the prayers of the 
congregation would carry the man's sowl to heaven, that'd do a 
manly act, an' put a tyrant out uv the country, and keep other 
tyrants from following his example. 'Tis self-defence," he added, 
striking his stick against the ground; 'tis justice."
	"'Tis bad work," said Father Hannigan. "And take my word, 
luck or grace will never come of it."
	"I agree with you," Hugh Kearney observed, who had 
joined them during the latter part of the discussion.
	"You do!" exclaimed old Phil, turning upon him with a 
scowl. "An' who the divil cares what you or the likes of you agree 
with? You're well off as you are, and little trouble id gives you to 
see the people hunted like dogs."
	"You're wrong there, Phil," replied Hugh. "I'd like to see 
that old pike of yours taken from the thatch for a manly fight like 
that you fought in '98. But that's a different thing."
	"Well, I know that," returned Phil Morris, letting his chin 
drop upon his chest, and seeming to brood over the  subject for a 
minute or two. "But five years ago," he added, "I could count 
three-an-twenty houses, big an' little, between the cross uv 
Liscorrig an' Shanbally-bridge; an' to-day you couldn't light your 
pipe along that whole piece uv a road, barrin' at wan house -- and 
that's my own. An' why am I left there? Because they knew I'd do 
id," he muttered through his clenched teeth, as if he were speaking 
to himself.
	"Let him alone," said the priest. "There's no use in talking 
to him."
	"There's raison in what he says," says old Larry Clancy, in 
his slow, emphatic way. "I say," he added, looking at the priest, 
"there's raison in what he says."
	"Don't be talking foolish," returned Father Hannigan, who 
saw that the eyes of three or four small farmers were fixed 
inquiringly on his face. "Good never came of it."
	"Do you hear him?" exclaimed old Phil Morris, turning to 
Hugh Kearney.
	"Well, to a great extent," said Hugh, after a short silence -- 
for he saw they all expected he would speak -- "to a great extent I 
agree with Father Hannigan. But there is no use in denying that the 
dread of assassination is the only protection the people have 
against extermination in this part of Ireland."
	"I say 'tis justice in the eye uv God," exclaimed old Phil 
Morris, "to punish the bloody tyrants -- the robbers and murdherers 
that rob the people uv their little spots, an' turn 'em out to perish. 
'Tis justice to punish the bloody robbers!" And as old Phil struck 
his stick against the ground and looked around, there was a 
murmur of applause from the bystanders, who by this time were 
pretty numerous.
	"The man that believes he is robbed or persecuted," said the 
priest, "cannot be an impartial judge. If every one was to take the 
law in his own hands, there would be nothing but violence and 
bloodshed."
	"Well, what do you say to giving the exterminators a fair 
trial before judge and jury?" 
	"What judge and jury?"
	"'Tisn't the judge an' jury in the coort-house," returned Phil 
Morris, "because they're all for the tyrants, an' some uv 'em tyrants 
themselves; but a fair jury uv the people, an' a fair judge."
	"I know what you mean," said Father Hannigan. "But if the 
judge and jury in the court-house be all for the tyrant, don't you 
think your judge and jury would be as much for the victim?"
	"No; they'd never condemn a man that didn't desarve id," 
replied Phil.
	"Ignorant men," rejoined the priest, "blinded by passion --  
perhaps smarting under wrong themselves, or dreading that their 
own turn might come next couldn't be a fair judge and jury, Phil, 
even if what you speak of were lawful or just in the sight of God. 
So hold your tongue."
	"Ay, that's the way always. 'Howld your tongue' settles id.
	"There is Mr. Lloyd," continued Father Hannigan, as that 
gentleman returned to his seat; "and if he put out a tenant would 
you shoot him?"
	"The divil a hair uv his head would be touched," replied 
Phil. "He gives good lases at a fair rent; and the man that does that 
won't turn out a tenant unless he desarves to be turned out. Answer 
me this wan question. Did you  ever know uv a good landlord to be 
shot, or a good agent? Answer me that."
	"Well, no," replied the priest. "I never did."
"There it is," observed Larry Clancy, as if that settled the question, 
and Father Hannigan had thrown up the sponge.
	"Well, now, Mr. Lowe," said Father Hannigan, "what's 
your opinion of this matter?"
	"I am almost entirely ignorant of it," he replied. "But I 
confess I came over to Ireland under the impression that the people 
were lawless and revengeful, particularly in your county."
	"You only saw the dark side of the picture," returned Father 
Hannigan. "We are not so black as we are painted."
	"I believe that. And a remark made by an Irish judge, with 
whom I had the honour of dining a few weeks ago, made a great 
impression on me, I confess."
	"What did he say?"
	"He had sentenced several men to be hanged a short time 
before, and a gentleman present made some severe remarks, while 
discussing the subject of agrarian outrages, when Judge said: 'I 
never met an instance of a landlord being killed, who did not 
deserve -- I won't say to be hanged, as I am a judge -- but I do say, 
a case of the kind never came before me that the landlord did not 
deserve to be damned!"'
	Old Phil Morris looked with astonishment at the speaker.
	"Put id there," he exclaimed, reaching his horny hand 
across the table. "If you were the divil you're an honest man."
	"I don't despair of old Ireland yet," said the priest. "The 
people are good if they only get fair play."
	"Ireland will never do any good till we have trade and 
manufactures of our own," observed Phil Lahy. And a certain 
thickness of utterance indicated that Phil had forgotten his 
resolution respecting the cordial long ago.
	"Our rulers crushed our trade and manufactures," said 
Father Hannigan.
	"Yes," returned Phil Lahy, "but the people are too much 
given to farming. A beggarly sky farmer that's stuck in the mud 
from mornin' to night, an' don't know beef from mutton -- no, nor 
the taste of an egg; for if he dare look at a hen's tail, his wife would 
fling the dish-cloth at him. An' that poor crawler, with his bead 
bald from the rain droppin' on it from the eave from standin' 
outside his honour's window, waitin' till his honour condescended 
to talk to him --  that beggar would despise the tradesman an' look 
down on him. Tom Hogan comes in to me this mornin' to know 
was there any news in the paper. 'There is,' says I. 'I'll read one uv 
the best articles ever you heard for you,' says I. "Look at the 
markets,' says Tom Hogan. Ha! ha! ha!" And Phil Lahy laughed 
quite sardonically. "'Look at the markets.' Ha! ha! ha!"
	"There's some truth in what you say," said Father 
Hannigan.
	"Ay," continued Phil, "an' the big farmer will make doctors 
an' attorneys of his sons, instead of setting 'em up in business."
	"I'm going to bind my youngest son to his uncle," said Mr. 
Kearney.
	"For a wonder," returned Phil Lahy, tasting his punch; and, 
not considering it up to the mark, adding another glass of whiskey.
	"That's what I call a double entendre, Phil," said Father 
Hannigan.
	"I fear you are forgetting your promise," Hugh observed.
	"What promise?" Phil asked.
	"Not to drink anything stronger than cordial."
	Phil Lahy stared at the speaker for half a minute; and then 
stared at the double entendre for half a minute more.
	In fact, Phil Lahy felt himself in a dilemma. Making a 
sudden dive, however, at the ginger cordial decanter, he filled his 
glass and carefully added the glass of cordial to the two glasses of 
whiskey in his tumbler.
	"Will that please you?" he asked, turning to Hugh, as if that 
didn't satisfy him nothing could.
	Hugh rubbed his hand over his face, and did his best to 
keep from laughing.
	"Would you doubt Phil for getting out of a promise?" 
observed Father Hannigan. "He'd drive a coach-and-six through 
any promise that ever was made -- as old Dan used to say of an Act 
of Parliament."
	"Old Dan said many a good thing," rejoined Phil Lahy, not 
choosing to notice the reference to the "promise." "But the best 
thing ever he said," he continued, casting about for something that 
would turn the conversation away from promises and cordial 
altogether -- "the best thing ever he said was: 'England's difficulty 
is Ireland's opportunity" exclaimed Phil Lahy, as the happy 
apothegm suddenly flashed into his mind at the very moment that 
he was about taking refuge in a severe fit of sneezing. "An' you'll 
see Ireland yet -- "Here Phil stopped short, as if he had lost the 
thread of his discourse; but after a good pull at the tumbler, he 
seemed to find it again, and added -- "when a redcoat will be as 
great a curiosity as a white blackbird. There's a storm brewin'," he 
continued, with a portentous scowl. "Columbkill's words is comin' 
to pass. An' the day will come when we can drive the invader out 
of Ireland -- wud square-bottles, as Mat the Thrasher said the other 
day."
	"But I don't like to hear you running down the farmers," 
observed Father Hannigan.
	"I don't run down the farmers -- except when they deserve 
id."
	"Manufactures are good," continued Father Hannigan; "and 
we'll have enough of them when our fine harbours are crowded 
with the shipping of America -- and of the whole world. But for all 
that I'd be sorry to see the homes of the peasantry disappearing 
from our hills and our plains, and the people crowded into 
factories."
	"You're right," exclaimed Phil Lahy, almost with a shout.

"'Princes or lords may flourish or may fade.'

Mat Donovan has a new song that touches upon that."
	"Come, Mat, give us the new song," said Father Hannigan.
	"I'm afeard I haven't id be heart right yet, sir," replied Mat.
	"Oh, we'll excuse you; we'll excuse all mistakes," rejoined 
the priest. "Come, Mr. Hanly," he called out to Lory -- who with a 
dozen others was battering the floor to the tune of " O'Connell's 
Trip to Parliament" -- "We're going to get a song. Give the poor 
pipers and fiddlers a rest. Come, Mat, up with it!"
	There was a general movement towards the table, and all 
waited anxiously for Mat the Thrasher's new song, of which many 
of the company had heard. 
	Mat Donovan leant back in his chair, and with a huge hand 
resting on the table, and clutching one of the gilt buttons on the 
front of the blue body-coat with the other, he turned his eyes to the 
collar-beams, and sang in a fine mellow voice:

THE PEASANT-FARMER'S SONG -- FOR THE TIME TO 
COME.

I've a pound for to lend, and a pound for to spend --
And céad mile fáilte my word for a friend;
No mortal I envy, no master I own --
Nor lord in his castle, nor king on his throne.
Come, fill up your glasses, the first cup we'll drain
To the comrades we lost on the red battle plain!
Oh, we'll cherish their fame, boys, who died long ago --
And what's that to any man whether or no?

The spinning-wheels stop, and my girls grow pale,
While their mother is telling some sorrowful tale,
Of old cabins levelled, and coffinless graves,
And ships swallowed up in the salt ocean waves.
But, girls, that's over -- for each of you now
I'll have twenty-five pounds and a three-year-old cow;
And we'll have lán na mhála* at your weddings I trow --
And what's that to any man whether or no?

Come here, bhean na tighe+ sit beside me a while,
And the pride of your heart let me read in your smile.
Would you give your old home for the lordliest hall?
Ha! -- you glance at my rifle that hangs on the wall.
And your two gallant boys on parade-day are seen
In the ranks of the brave 'neath the banner of green;
Oh! I've taught them to guard it 'gainst traitor and foe -- 
And what's that to any man whether or no?

But the youngest of all is the "white-headed boy"++ --
The pulse of your heart, and our pride and our joy:
From the dance and the hurling he'll steal off to pray,
And will wander alone by the river all day.
He's as good as the priest at his Latin I hear,
And to college, please God, we'll send him next year.
Oh, he'll offer the Mass for our souls when we go --
And what's that to any man whether or no?

Your hands, then, old neighbours! one more glass we'll drain;
And céad mile fáilte again and again!
May discord and treason keep far from our shore,
And freedom and peace light our homes evermore.
He's the king of good fellows, the poor, honest man;
So we'll live and be merry as long as we can,
And we'll cling to old Ireland through weal and through woe --
And what's that to any man whether or no?

* "Lan na mhala " -- pronounced lawn-na-waula.---"Full of a bag," -- i.e., 
abundance. 
+ "Bhean na tighe,"--" pronounced van-a-thee. -- "The woman of the house."
++ "The white-headed boy," -- the favourite.

	There was a shout of applause at the conclusion of Mat 
Donovan's song; and some of the women were seen to wipe the 
tears from their cheeks with their aprons. Bessy Morris raised her 
eyes to his; and as she laid her hand upon his arm while turning 
away her head to reply to a question of Hugh Kearney's, Mat 
Donovan pressed his hand over his eyes, and caught his breath, as 
if he had been shot through the body.
	Bessy Morris resumed her coquettish ways as she went on 
talking to Hugh Kearney, who was evidently captivated by her. If 
he had proposed for her on the spot, with or without his father's 
consent, and if it were arranged that they were to be married that 
day week, or any day before Ash-Wednesday, it would not have 
surprised Mat Donovan in the least. But while she talked and 
laughed with Hugh Kearney, her hand remained resting on the 
sleeve of the blue body-coat. Perhaps this little incident did not 
mean much. Mat Donovan never for a moment thought it meant 
anything. But he kept his arm quite still, and would not have 
frightened away that little hand for a trifle.
	"That's a right good song, Mat," said Father Hannigan.
	"The chorus," observed Phil Lahy, who seemed in a mood 
for contradiction, "is as ould as the hills."
	"So much the better," replied the priest. "Are we going to 
get a song from anyone else?"
	"Billy Heffernan has another new wan," said a voice from 
the crowd.
	"Don't mind id!" exclaimed Phil Lahy, contemptuously, 
"'Tis a 'come-all-ye.'" By which Phil meant that Billy Heffernan's 
new song belonged to that class of ballads which invariably 
commence:

"come all ye tender Christians, I hope you will draw near,"

	'Tis a come-all-ye," repeated Phil Lahy. "Don't bother us 
wud id."
	The twang of the fiddles, followed by the sound of drone 
and chanter, however, showed that the dancers were becoming 
impatient, and had urged the musicians to strike up; and Lory 
Hanly was immediately on his legs again with his partner, to finish 
the "bout" which Father Hannigan had cut short so 
unceremoniously.
	Hugh Kearney was about asking Bessy Morris to dance 
again, when Nelly Donovan came up to him.
	"Come into the parlour, sir," said she. "'Tis cleared up, an' 
Mr. Flaherty is afther consentin' to play a few sets for the ladies."
	To the great satisfaction of many of the boys, and not a few 
of the girls, the priest and the "ladies and gentlemen," with about a 
dozen of the more genteel among the guests, withdrew to the 
dwelling-house. Mr. Lowe offered his arm to Miss Lloyd, and 
Miss Isabella evidently expected that Hugh Kearney would 
conduct her through the yard. But Hugh kept possession of the 
piquant Bessy, and Father Hannigan gallantly offered his arm to 
Miss Isabella, who, in spite of her good humour, looked a little 
vexed. Lory Hanly refused point-blank to accompany them, 
declaring that he considered the barn "better value"; in which 
opinion Mr. Robert Lloyd entirely concurred, and pronounced 
Lory a lad of spirit. And here we have to record a very curious fact. 
No sooner was the priest's back turned than fully half-a-score of 
seats round the barn might have been dispensed with; for by some 
strange chance quite a number of the prettiest girls found 
themselves sitting on their partners' knees -- an arrangement, 
however, which not a single "matron's glance" attempted to 
"reprove." And now the fun began in right earnest. But not a single 
dancer, during that memorable night, so distinguished and covered 
himself with glory, as Lory Hanly, who tired down all his partners, 
even Nelly Donovan, who was never before known to throw up the 
sponge. And Barney Brodherick, too, called down thunders of 
applause by dancing a "single bout" upon the big table. In the 
midst of the cheers that greeted Barney's performance, Nelly 
Donovan pushed her way through the crowd to Billy Heffernan, 
and asked breathlessly:
"Billy, have you your flute?"
	"Why so?" returned Billy, in by no means a cheerful 
manner.
	"Because they want you to play the 'Frolic,'" replied Nelly, 
excitedly.
	"Who wants me to play id?" Billy asked, rubbing his nose.
	"Father Hannigan, and all uv 'em. Have you the flute?"
	"Well, I have the flute," said Billy. "But I don't know what 
to say about playin' the 'Frolic' while Mr. Flaherty is there. Maybe 
'tis turned out I'd be like the pipers." Billy Heffernan evidently 
stood in awe of the great Flaherty.
	"Come away," exclaimed Nelly. "'Tis he wants to hear id. 
Man alive! if you heard the way Father Hannigan praised you to 
the skies. He said you wor a born janius. Come, before they're up 
for the next set."
	"Are they dancin'?" Billy asked, scratching his head, as if 
he sought for an excuse to put off the ordeal as long as possible.
	"They are, they are," Nelly exclaimed, impatiently. "The 
strange gentleman an' Miss Lloyd is afther dancin' that new
-dance they call the polka. An' faith, 'tis no great things uv
-a dance. 'Tis all bulla-bulla-baw-sheen. Myse'f don't know how 
they can stand id --

Tal-tal, tal-tal, tal-tal, tal-tal-la!

all the same, round an' round." And Nelly sang a somewhat 
monotonous dancing-tune which was then known in those parts as 
"the polka."
	"By my word," continued Nelly Donovan, contemptuously, 
"they'd soon get tired uv id -- on'y for the ketchin'."
	Billy Heffernan screwed his flute together, and sounded 
low D.
	"Maybe id wants a dhrink," said Nelly, with whom the old 
flute was evidently an old acquaintance.
	"No, 'tis all right," Billy replied. "I iled id yestherday. But 
sure there's no hurry; an' if I was flusthered I'd make
a show uv myse'f. Sit down awhile an' tell me who's wudin, an' 
how they're goin' on."
	"Wisha, sure you know the whole uv 'em as well as 
myse'f," Nelly replied, as she sat down. "Miss Isabella is a darlin', 
an' she's so pleasant. I must be tellin' Miss Mary to-morrow what 
an eye she has afther Mr. Hugh. I'd hould. my life she'd rather have 
him than the young landlord, or whatever he is. But bad cess to me, 
Billy, but Bessy Morris has em all light about her. I think she must 
have a four-laved shamrock or somethin'. She bates the world. An' 
'tisn't because she's so handsome. There's Alice Ryan, an' she's be 
odds a purtier girl -- an' faith she don't want to be reminded uv that 
same, either. If you see the bitther look she gave Tom Daniel, just 
because he asked her was id long since they had a letther from her 
brother. An' signs on, the divil a much any wan cares about her, in 
spite uv all her beauty. An' look at 'em all ready, you'd think, to put 
their hands undher Bessy's feet."
	"Wisha, begor, Nelly," returned Billy Heffernan, "you 
wouldn't let id go wud any uv 'em yourse'f."
	"Arrah, now, Billy, what sign uv a fool do you see on me? 
Don't think you can come Jack Hannan over me that way. The man 
that'll buy me for a fool, will be a long way out of his money."
	I'm on'y tellin' the honest thruth," replied Billy, solemnly. 
"I said id to myse'f when you were dancin' wud Tom Daniel a 
while ago."
	She looked at him with pleased surprise, but said nothing.
	"What way is Phil Lahy goin' on?" he asked. "Is he stickin' 
to the cordial?"
	The question seemed to cast a gloom over Nelly Donovan's 
face, but rousing herself, she replied laughing: 
	"Well, yes; he's stickin' to the cordial, but I'm afraid be puts 
in a drop uv the hardware sometimes by mistake."
	"He's all right," Billy remarked, " 'till he comes to the holy 
wather."
	"Faith, then, he is afther comin' to id," she replied. "Just as 
I was comin' out he was tellin' Father Hannigan the ould story, how 
he never went to bed wudout sprinklin' himse'f wud the holy 
wather."
	"He must be looked afther," said Billy Heffernan. "I 
promised Norah I'd have an eye to him. But he has so many turns 
and twists in him 'tis hard to manage him. 'Tis 'cuter and 'cuter he 
gets the more he has taken. No matther what you'd say, he'd have 
an argument agin you."
	"Well, here, come away," said Nelly, taking him by the arm 
and pulling him to the door. He walked voluntarily across the yard, 
but came to a stand outside the parlour door, and Nelly was 
obliged again to have recourse to force to get him in.



CHAPTER XXXIII.

BILLY HEFFERNAN'S TRIUMPH.

	"OH, is that you, Billy?" exclaimed Father Hannigan. 
"come, sit down here and play that tune you made yourself, for Mr. 
Flaherty. He's not inclined to believe that you made it at all."
	"Begor, I don't know whether I did or not, sir," replied 
Billy, as he sat down. "'Twas to dhrame id I did, sir."
	"Come, do ye sit down, and rest for awhile; we're going to 
get a tune from Billy Heffernan," said Father Hannigan, addressing 
those who had taken their places for the next dance, and were 
patiently waiting for the music. "Sit over here, Mr. Lowe," he 
continued, "and listen to this."
	Mr. Lowe left Miss Lloyd's side, and sat near Billy 
Heffernan.
	"Maybe, sir," said Billy Heffernan, looking reverentially at 
the silver-mounted bagpipes, "maybe Mr. Flaherty wouldn't like 
me to play." 
	"Oh, play," said the old man, patronisingly.
	Billy looked at his flute, and seemed to hesitate. The rustle 
of Miss Lloyd's dress was plainly audible, as she left her chair and 
sat on the corner of a form, intending to resume operations against 
Mr. Lowe as soon as possible; and this stillness added to the 
musician's embarrassment.
	"Come, Billy, don't you see they're all waitin'? Up wud id," 
said Mat the Thrasher.
	"Give us a tune yourse'f," returned Billy, offering him the 
flute.
	"I thought Mat only understood the big drum," said Father 
Hannigan.
	"Faith, then, he do so, sir; and a right good player he is," 
replied Billy.
	"Don't mind him, sir," returned Mat Donovan. " I'm on'y a 
whaiten garden player." By which Mat intended to convey that his 
music was only suitable for the open air, and the harvest field.
	"I believe every one in Knocknagow is a musician," said 
Father Hannigan. "But what's delaying you Billy? I never saw you 
so long about it before."
	"Well, you see, sir," he replied with another glance at the 
silver keys and the crimson-velvet bag, "Mr. Flaherty is such a fine 
player, I feel somewhat daunted."
	"Oh, don't mind, don't mind," returned Mr. Flaherty.
	Thus encouraged, Billy Heffernan commenced to play; and 
as he went on, the incredulous expression in the old blind 
musician's face gave place to a look of surprise, which quickly 
changed again into one of delight. He caught up his chanter, but 
without inflating the velvet bag, and mentally accompanied the 
performer, who soon gave his whole soul to the melody; and, as he 
concluded, Mr. Flaherty exclaimed with emphasis, with his face 
turned up towards the ceiling:
	Billy Heffernan -- you are a musician."
	What did I tell you?" said Father Hannigan, who was 
evidently proud of his judgment. "I always said Billy was a first-
rate player."
	Every one was delighted at Billy Heffernan's triumph --  
particularly Nelly Donovan, who stood leaning against the door 
with her arms akimbo, and could scarcely resist the impulse to 
jump into the middle of the floor, and call for "three cheers for 
Knocknagow, and the sky over it."
	Mr. Flaherty adjusted his pipes, and Father Hannigan held 
up his hand as a signal for silence. And now it was Billy 
Heffernan's turn to be astonished; for the blind musician played the 
tune in a manner which almost made the hair of the composer's 
head stand on end.
	"For God Almighty's sake, sir," Billy exclaimed 
imploringly, "didn't you ever hear id before?"
	"No, I never heard it before," replied Mr. Flaherty.
	"Oh," exclaimed Billy, with a deep sigh, "I can't b'lieve I 
ever med it."
	"I'll play 'Heffernan's Frolic' for Father M'Mahon to 
morrow," said Mr. Flaherty. And Billy Heffernan felt that he was 
famous.
	Miss Lloyd found it impossible to keep quiet any longer. 
She left her seat with a skip, and actually sat down upon Billy 
Heffernan's knee, who occupied the nearest chair to Mr. Lowe.
	"Mamma will be so delighted," she began, resuming the 
conversation which Father Hannigan had interrupted, "when I tell 
her that Mrs. Lowe remembers her." She glanced carelessly at 
Billy Heffernan, who leant back in his chair; and Miss Lloyd could 
not help smiling at the thought that poor Billy Heffernan was quite 
overpowered by the honour she had done him. She even stole a 
look at Mr. Lowe to see if he did not envy Billy Heffernan.
	"And now, Mr. Lowe, won't you promise to come and see 
us before you leave the country?"
	"You're an inconvaniance to me, Miss," said Billy 
Heffernan.
	"What!" exclaimed Miss Lloyd, turning round, and staring 
at the speaker.
	"You're an inconvaniance to me," he repeated, quietly. Mr. 
Lowe, in spite of all he could do, was obliged to laugh.
	"Oh, really!" she exclaimed, jumping up, and retreating 
backwards, with her eyes fixed on Billy Heffernan, as if he had 
been miraculously metamorphosed into a boiled goose.
	And Billy Heffernan, having got rid of the 
"inconvaniance," quietly unscrewed the joints of his flute and put 
them in his pocket.
	On seeing Father Hannigan look at his watch, Mat 
Donovan started up and hastily left the room. He soon returned 
with a plate in each hand.
	"Here, Mr. Hugh," said he, presenting one of the plates to 
Hugh Kearney, "let us not forget the music."
	"That's right, Mat," said Father Hannigan; "make the 
collection for the musicians before we go. 'Tis near twelve 
o'clock."
	Hugh took the plate and went round to make the collection, 
Mat keeping close to him, and transferring to his own plate the 
half-crowns, and shillings, and sixpences -- we don't mind 
including the fourpenny-bits, they were so few -- as fast as they 
were dropped on Hugh's. Each person's contribution was thus plain 
to be seen, which would not be the case if the silver were allowed 
to accumulate on the plate upon which it was dropped.
	'Tis a fine collection," said Mat. "We won't mind the barn 
for another hour or two; but what about the beggars?"
	"Don't mind the collection for the poor people," said Nelly, 
"till by-and-by. Sure there's no wan goin' away but the Miss 
Lloyds, an' the priest, an' the two Mr. Kearneys, an' the strange 
gentleman."
	The collection for the beggars was accordingly put off to a 
later hour, and Mat beckoned to a genteel-looking young man, who 
was serving his time to the grocery business, to help him with the 
negus.
	"Maybe Mr. Lowe an' yourse'f would like a dhrop uv 
somethin' before goin' out in the cowld," said Mat Donovan to 
Hugh Kearney, who was standing near the door with Miss Isabella 
Lloyd's shawl on his arm.
	"Will you have something?" Hugh asked.
	"Oh, no, no," Mr. Lowe replied. "I'd rather not."
	"Let us be all together as far as the cross," said Father 
Hannigan. "Come, Mr. Flaherty."
	When they were gone, it was agreed upon all hands that 
one of the fiddlers should be brought in from the barn, and the 
dance kept up in the parlour. Jugs of punch were "shared" round at 
intervals, and, on the whole, Ned Brophy's wedding gave general 
satisfaction. It was some what remarkable, however, that the two 
principal dramatis personae were almost entirely lost sight of.
	"Where is Ned?" Mat asked, looking around in every 
direction for the bridegroom.
	"Smokin' at the kitchen fire wud Phil Morris," replied his 
sister. "An' there's herse'f in the corner beyand, an' not a stir in 
her."
	"Bring a glass of this to her," said Mat.
	"Wisha, faith I won't," returned Nelly, who was under the 
impression that the bride slighted her as a poor relation. "His 
mother tould me to have an eye about me, and lend a hand to keep 
things to rights; but the new misthress, I'm thinkin', thinks I'm 
makin' myse'f too busy. If she knew but the half uv id!" added 
Nelly, with a toss of her head.
	The white muslin jacket flitted by while Nelly was 
speaking, and Mat gazed after it; and, catching the eye of its owner 
he beckoned to her.
	"Come over here," said he, "an' bring a glass of wine to 
Mrs. Ned, an' talk to her; and if anything will put her in humour 
that will."
	Four young men rushed after the white jacket with a view 
of getting possession of it for the next dance.
	"Here, be off wud ye!" exclaimed Mat. "'Tis the laste I can 
have her for a minute to myse'f. How do you think she can hould 
dancin' always?"
	The "boys" laughed; and scratching their heads in their 
disappointment, went in search of partners elsewhere.
	"I didn't taste a dhrop uv anything to-night," said Mat; "an' 
here, now, sweeten this for me."
	She took the glass, and, with her eyes laughingly raised to 
his, put it to her lips.
	"A little sup," he continued.
	She took a sip and handed back the glass to him.
	"Here is luck," said Mat Donovan. "An' that we may be all 
alive an' well this day twelve-months," he added, laying the empty 
glass on the table.
	There was something in his tone which brought that 
serious, inquiring look we have before noted, into Bessy Morris's 
eyes.
	"Is there anything the matter with Mat?" she asked in a 
whisper, turning to Nelly.
	"No; why so?" Nelly replied, looking surprised.
	"He's not so pleasant as he used to be," said Bessy Morris. 
"Why then, as you spoke uv that," returned Nelly, "I noticed the 
same thing myse'f this while back. He's gettin' careless about 
diversion an' everything. All he wants is an excuse not to go to the 
hurlin' or a dance, or fun uv any soart. Thanks be to God 'tisn't his 
health at any rate," she added, turning round to look at him, "for I 
never see him lookin' betther."
	Bessy Morris looked at him, too, and thought that he was 
not only looking well, but that he was the finest and honestest 
looking fellow in the world. But why that scrutinizing, and at the 
same time melancholy glance with which she regarded him? Did 
she think that she herself had anything to do with the change she 
noticed in him?
	"How do you like Ned's wife?" Nelly asked.
	"I on'y spoke a few words to her," replied Bessy. "She 
seems in bad spirits."
	"I wondher is id Ned's story wud her?" said Nelly.
	"What is that?"
	"Well, I think he had an ould grá for Nancy Hogan."
	"Oh, I see," said Bessy Morris, thoughtfully, as she looked 
earnestly at the bride, who was sitting alone near the bed room 
door. "After all, Nelly, marrying for money is a queer thing."
	"Bring her the glass uv wine," said Nelly, "an' thry an' 
cheer her up. If any wan can get good uv her 'tis yourse'f."
	The compliment was really deserved, for it could be easily 
seen that Bessy Morris was a universal favourite. The only 
exception to this rule, so far as the present company were 
concerned, was a stout young lady, chiefly remarkable for yellow 
kid gloves, which she did not take off during dinner. This young 
lady regarded Bessy with sulky looks because a certain young man 
from the mountain would keep gadding after the white jacket, 
though the yellow-gloved hand and four hundred pounds were at 
his service for the asking. But Bessy Morris had had experience 
enough of the world to en able her to estimate the "warring sighs" 
and amorous glances of the young man from the mountain at their 
true value. They simply meant that the young man from the 
mountain was sorry -- all but heart-broken indeed -- that it wasn't 
she had the four hundred pounds; and if it was, etc., etc., etc.
	"Well, we must try what we can do for Mrs. Ned," said 
Bessy.
	Mrs. Ned took the glass of wine and folded her hands 
about. it, but showed no symptom of any intention to drink it.
	"This is a pleasant night we have," said Bessy, sitting down 
next the bride.
	Mrs. Ned looked straight before her, and made no reply.
	"Ah," thought Bessy, "I fear it is Ned's story with her."
	"You'll like this place very much," she continued, "when 
you become acquainted with the people. They are very nice and 
neighbourly."
	Mrs. Ned said nothing.
	"To be sure one cannot help feeling lonely after leaving 
one's own home," said Bessy. "But it must be a great comfort to 
you to have your family so near you."
	"What soart is the cows?" said Mrs. Ned, turning round 
suddenly, and looking straight into Bessy Morris's face.
	"Oh," she stammered, quite taken by surprise, "I really 
don't know."
	Because," rejoined Mrs. Ned, "I never see such miserable 
calves as them two that was in the yard when we wor comin' in. 
Maybe 'tis late they wor," she added, after a short silence, and 
looking anxiously at Bessy again.
	"Perhaps so," Bessy replied, not well knowing what to say.
	"I'd be long sorry to rear the likes uv 'em," said Mrs. Ned.
	"Won't you drink the wine?" said Bessy.
	Mrs. Ned did drink the wine; and hazarded a hope that the 
two-year olds were not the same breed as the two angishores she 
saw in the yard.
	"There's no fear of her," said Bessy Morris to herself, as 
she took the empty glass back to the table. "She won't die of a 
broken heart."
	In fact, Mrs. Ned Brophy was a very sensible young 
woman. Matches innumerable had been proposed and rejected, and 
"made" and "broke off" for one reason or another, in her case; 
which gave her very little concern, as she knew there was 
wherewithal in the old saucepan to secure her a husband -- or 
rather "a nice place" -- sooner or later. There were two competitors 
in the field this Shrovetide; and, in the difference, she was better 
pleased that Ned Brophy was the one "settled with"; though the 
fact that the other "had an uncle a priest" gained him the favour of 
her mother. But Ned's lease carried the day with old Larry Clancy. 
The circumstance which made the young woman herself incline 
more to Ned Brophy than to the priest's nephew, was, that Ned 
wore a cravat, and was more respectable-looking than his rival. 
Strange to say, however, the rejected wooer of the old saucepan 
actually fell in love afterwards with a young lady -- we use the 
word advisedly --  in his uncle's parish, who had been educated in 
a convent, and married her. And though she did not bring him a 
single sovereign, her husband was wont to declare that she was 
worth her weight in gold -- which he persisted in pronouncing 
"goold," in spite of all she could say to the contrary.
	"Nelly, will you be home wud Phil Lahy, an' have an eye to 
him?" said Billy Heffernan to Nelly Donovan, who was busy 
preparing tea -- or "the tay," as Nelly herself was pleased to call 
that pleasant beverage.
	"Why so?" she asked, rather sharply, "won't you be wud 
him yourse'f?"
	"I must be goin'," he replied. "I ought to be on the road an 
hour ago."
	"You'll be kilt," returned Nelly, in a softened tone, "wudout 
gettin' a wink uv sleep. Couldn't you put id off for wan day?"
	"Well, as they're reg'lar customers I wouldn't like to 
disappoint them."
	"Well, you won't go till you're afther takin' a sup uv this, at 
any rate," returned Nelly. "You that never dhrank a dhrop uv 
anything."
	She filled out a cup of tea, and, after tasting it and 
pronouncing it, "hot, strong, and sweet," presented it to Billy 
Heffernan.
	"The old woman," she continued, while Billy was drinking 
his cup of tea, "wants me to stop a day or two, and help to put the 
place to rights, an' pack up the borrowed things. But I'll warn Mat 
not to lose sight uv Phil till he laves him safe at home."
	"I won't take any more," said Billy, stopping her hand as 
she was about filling his cup again.
	"Now, Billy, don't be makin' an omadhaun uv yourse'f," she 
replied, pouring out the tea at the risk of scalding his hand, with 
which he attempted to cover the tea-cup.
	"Don't you be lonesome," she continued, sitting down near 
him, "thravellin' be yourse'f this way every night?"
	"I don't mind id," he replied. "'Tis some way uneasy I do be 
when I'm comin' near the town, an' I think every minute an hour till 
I'm out uv id agin."
	"But sure 'tis lonesomer in the summer time," she 
continued, "in the bog by yourse'f from mornin' till night."
	"That's what I do be longin' for," said Billy Heffernan. "I'm 
King uv Munster when I'm in the bog, an' the phillibeens whistlin' 
about me. No, begor," continued Billy, smacking his lips after 
emptying his cup; "when I'd sit on a bank uv a fine summer's 
evenin', and' look about me, I wouldn't call the queen my aunt."
	"But why wouldn't you sell your turf in Kilthubber, an' not 
be goin' all the ways to Clo'mel, in the hoighth uv winther?"
	"The divil a betther little town in Ireland to buy turf," 
replied Billy, "but there's too many goin' there."
	"I'm looking for you this hour, Nelly," said a voice that 
made her start. "I'm after tiring them all down. Come and have 
another dance."
	"Oh! Mr. Lory, I thought you wor gone home wud Mr. 
Kearney two hours ago."
	"What a fool I am," replied Lory. "Come."
	"Sure I'm goin' to get the tay," replied Nelly.
 	"Leave that to the old woman," he exclaimed, catching her  
hand and pulling her off to the barn.
	"Come, Mr. Lloyd," said Lory, "get a partner."
	But just then he discovered that the dancing was suspended, 
and that Mr. Lloyd, who had a good voice as well as a correct ear, 
was in the act of favouring the company with a song. Mr. Lloyd's 
song was the "Soldier's Tear," and on coming to the refrain, "and 
wiped away a tear," at the end of each verse, Mr. Lloyd suited the 
action to the word, by seeming to pluck out his left eye with his 
finger and thumb, and fling it on the floor, in a most moving 
manner.
	Mr. Lloyd's song was so highly appreciated that the 
cheering and clapping were kept up for several minutes, during 
which the vocalist untied his hunting-whip, and in the calmest 
manner possible commenced attempting the feat of snuffing a 
candle at the other end of the table with the lash.
	"Well, will you dance now?" said Lory, whose knees were 
beginning to work involuntarily.
	"Another song, Lory. Sit down near me here, Nelly."
	Nelly Donovan sat down near him and Mr. Lloyd sang "My 
Dark-haired Girl," casting admiring glances at her as he went on, 
particularly at the lines -- .

"Thy lip is like the rose, and thy teeth they are pearl, 
And diamonds are the eyes of my dark-haired girl";

which really applied very well to Nelly Donovan.
	A still louder storm of applause followed this effort, and 
Nelly exclaimed:
	"Faith, 'tis no wondher that so many are dyin' about you, 
sir," as she jumped up to rejoin her partner.
	The bridegroom sat all this time in the corner by the 
kitchen fire, listening to old Phil Morris's reminiscences of '98, and 
quietly smoking his pipe. But as the guests began to leave, and 
came to bid him good morning, he would start up suddenly to 
shake hands with them; and after scratching his head with a 
puzzled look, Ned Brophy would seem to remember that he was at 
his own wedding, and then sit down again and forget all about it, 
till another "Good mornin', Ned, I wish you joy," would recall the 
circumstance to his mind.
	At last, old Phil Morris himself thought it time to go home, 
and striking his stick against the hearthstone, he said:
	"Mat, will you see about my ass, and tell that little girl uv 
mine to get ready. She ought to have enough uv the dancin' by this 
time, at any rate."
	And to be sure, how Mat Donovan did start off, and how 
soon the ass was put to the cart, and what a quantity of fresh straw 
-- oaten straw, too, for which he had to run to the haggard -- was 
packed into the said cart, and then shaken up loosely, and patted 
and smoothed, till a sultana might have reclined on it.
	Bessy soon appeared in her cloak and bonnet, looking, if 
possible, more captivating than ever. Half-a-dozen "boys" 
contended for the honour of handing her into the car; one of whom 
contented himself with placing a chair for her to step upon, which 
he held firm with all his might, as if the slightest shake would 
endanger her life. Mat handed the reins to old Phil, and led the ass 
out of the yard, and a little way along the narrow boreen.
	"Why don't you ever come to see us, now?" Bessy asked, 
when he stopped to say good night.
	"I don't have time," he replied, "except uv a Sunday. And 
the days are so short yet."
	"Well, they'll soon be getting long," said she, clasping his 
hand very warmly; "and I'm sure grandfather would like to have a 
shanahus with you."
	"Well, I'll shortly take a walk over."
	"Next Sunday," said Bessy, in a distractingly coaxing tone.
	"Well, the b'ys will be expectin' me to hurl o' Sunday," 
replied Mat. "An' besides, Captain French wants to have a throw 
uv a sledge wud me. He's askin' me ever since he came home to go 
over to the castle some week-day; but I couldn't spare time. And 
they're so d--n exact," he added, "about breakin' the Sabbath, that 
he wouldn't agree to appoint a Sunday. But, now, as the regiment is 
goin' abroad, he wouldn't be satisfied wudout havin' a throw wud 
me."
	"Is the regiment going abroad?" she asked, with an interest 
that took Mat by surprise.
	"They're not the same sogers," he replied, "that's in 
Kilthubber. They're dragoons."
	"Oh! I know. I know Captain French's regiment."
	"An' who cares where they go?" old Phil exclaimed under 
his teeth, as he jerked the reins and dealt a blow of his stick to the 
ass -- for which that patient animal had to thank the English army.
	Mat Donovan slowly retraced his steps to the house, feeling 
as if Bessy Morris's departure had suddenly turned the wed ding 
into a wake, and singing, almost unconsciously

Oh! I'd rather have that car, sir,
With B -- ahem! -- Peggy by my side,
Than a coach-an'-four an' goold galore,
An' a lady for my bride."

He turned into the barn, and stood with folded arms leaning against 
the wall.
	"I didn't see Mat dance to-night," said Mr. Lloyd to Nelly 
Donovan, as she sat down after another jig with Lory Hanly.
	"I'll go myse'f and haul him out," returned Nelly, who was 
allowed to be the best dancer among the girls at Knocknagow.
	"Stir yourse'f, you big lazy fellow," she exclaimed, taking 
hold of his arm and leading him out to the middle of the floor.
	This movement was hailed with general satisfaction, and a 
dozen voices at once called upon the musicians to play "The Wind 
that shakes the Barley."
	It was really a sight worth looking at. The athletic, but at 
the same time lithe and graceful form of the Thrasher was set off to 
the best advantage by Phil Lahy's chef d'oeuvre, the blue body-coat 
with the gilt buttons; and his sister was a partner every way worthy 
of him.
	"What is id?" a stranger to the locality asked on finding the 
barn-door blocked up by a crowd of eager spectators.
	"A brother and sister," was the reply; and it could be 
inferred from the tone and look of the speaker that the relationship 
between the great dancer, Mat Donovan, and his equally famous 
partner added greatly to the interest with which their performance 
was regarded. The excitement rose higher and higher as the dance 
went on, and a loud shout followed every brilliantly executed step. 
After each step the dancers changed places, and, 'moving slowly 
for a few seconds, commenced another which threw the preceding 
one quite into the shade, and, as a matter of course, called out a 
louder "bravo!" and a wilder "hurro!" When the enthusiasm was at 
its height, two men carrying a large door crushed their way through 
the crowd. Two more quickly followed bearing another large door. 
And, without causing any interruption, the doors were slipped 
under the feet of the dancers, which now beat an accompaniment to 
the music, as if a couple of expert drummers had suddenly joined 
the orchestra. There was a hush of silence as if the spectators were 
spell-bound, till Mat Donovan joined hands with his sister, and 
both bowed at the conclusion of the dance. And while a Tipperary 
cheer is shaking the roof of Ned Brophy's barn, we let the curtain 
drop on Ned Brophy's wedding.



CHAPTER XXXIV.

LONELY

	BILLY HEFFERNAN took the key of his door from a hole 
under the thatch and let himself into his own house. Removing the 
ashes from the embers on the hearth, he knelt down, and, after a 
good deal of blowing, succeeded in kindling them into a flame. 
Then, taking a slip of bog-pine from one of several bundles that 
hung in the chimney, he lighted it and placed it on a block of 
bogwood in the corner, having first stuck it in a sod of turf in 
which was a hole for the purpose. He recalled the fine summer 
evening, when, out in the lonesome bog, he thrust his thumb into 
that sod of turf while it Was yet soft, and by that simple process 
converted it into a candlestick.
	Everything about Billy Heffernan's house seemed to have 
come from the bog. The walls, from the floor to the thatch  -- 
which was not of straw, but of sedge -- were lined with turf, the 
side-walls with the rectangular "slane" turf, which looked like 
brick-work blackened with smoke, and the end wall with the 
rougher and somewhat shapeless "hand-turf." The table off which 
Billy Heffernan ate his meals was of bog-oak, as was the block 
upon which he sat. The mule's crib and the pegs in the wall upon 
which the mule's harness hung were of the same material. And 
Billy Heffernan's ratteen riding-coat depended from a portion of 
the horns of an elk -- which had bounded through the forest when 
the table and crib were portions of the living tree -- fastened to one 
of the rafters.
	He now took his antediluvian taper from the antediluvian 
seat and laid it on the antediluvian table; and then hung his riding-
coat upon the antediluvian elk's horns.
	"Wo! Kit," said Billy Heffernan And the mule, who had an 
antediluvian look about her, whisked her tail and thrust her nose 
into her antediluvian manger.
	He put the harness on the mule, and after shaking up the 
hay in the crib, walked out and looked at the sky, in which there 
was a half moon that shone with a sickly sort of lustre. Billy 
Heffernan, without being at all aware of the fact, was of a poetical 
and fanciful turn of mind; and the pale moon at once reminded him 
of a pale face. So he walked down the road as far as the beech-tree; 
and, after looking up at the windows and steep roof and thick 
chimneys of Phil Lahy's old house, Billy Heffernan walked back 
again. Taking the linch-pins from the hob, where they were always 
left for safety, he fixed them in the axle-tree; and then led out his 
mule and put her to the car. He returned to the house to take down 
his old riding-coat, and after wrapping it round him, and blowing 
out the light, he locked his door, and set out with his creel of turf, 
upon his long journey to the town of Clonmel.
	"Wisha, begor! 'tis thrue for her," he soliloquised, as he 
plodded up the hill, "'tis lonesome enough. The road is lonesome, 
an' the house is lonesome, an' the bog is lonesome. An', begor, the 
main street uv Clo'mel is the lonesomest uv all. No matther where I 
am, I'm lonesome. So that I b'lieve 'tisn't the road, or the house, or 
the bog, or the town, but the heart that's lonesome. And whin the 
heart is lone some, the world is lonesome. Wisha, Kit, what do you 
want stoppin' there above all the places on the road? You got your 
drink at the lough; but comin' or goin' nothin' will plase you but a 
sup out of that little strame any day in the year."
	While the mule drank, Billy Heffernan placed a foot at each 
side of the little stream that ran across the road, and stretching out 
his hands, as if he were lifting some one over it, he uttered a low 
moan.
	"Oh! oh! oh!" be cried, as his hands closed on the empty 
air.
	The water running over his feet reminded him that he was 
standing in the middle of the stream, but he did not heed it. With 
his head bent down, and his hands pressed over his face, he 
continued to stand there till the mule moved on of her own accord; 
and then, dashing the fast falling tears from his eyes, he plodded on 
again after his creel.
	"I don't know what brought id so sthrong into my mind to-
night," said he. "But somehow I thought I see her before me, 
lookin' at the wather, an' afeard to lep over like the rest uv 'em; an' 
then lookin' up at myse'f wud her eyes laughin' in her head. I 
hardly had the courage to take her up in my arms. An', the Lord be 
praised! 'twas the last time ever she crossed over the same strame. 
She reminded me uv id yistherday, whatever put id into her head. 
But sure I never pass the same spot wudout thinkin' uv her. I gev 
herse'f an' Nelly Donovan a lift home the same evenin'; an' a 
pleasant, good-hearted girl Nelly is. But there's no wan like 
Norah!"
	He plodded on for some time till the mule stopped to take 
breath before commencing the ascent of an unusually steep though 
not very long hill, that rose abruptly from the lowest part of the 
glen or hollow down which they had been gradually descending.
	"Begor, 'tis thrue for ould Phil," said he, as he looked 
around him. "You couldn't redden the pipe from the bridge to the 
quarry. Though I reminder id myse'f when 'twas the pleasantest 
piece uv a road from Kilthubber to Clo'mel. An', faith, if I could 
redden the pipe now I'd like a smoke, as 'tis afther comin' into my 
head."
	He put his pipe into his mouth and looked around him, 
while the mule rested at the foot of the hill.
	"God be wud poor Mick Brien," said he. "That sally three 
always reminds me uv him. 'Tis many's the piggin uv milk they 
made me dhrink, for 'tis little business I'd have axin' a dhrink uv 
wather at Mick's. But sure if every house, big an' little uv 'em, was 
standin'" continued Billy Heffernan as if he caught himself 
reasoning from unsound premises, "I couldn't kindle the pipe this 
hour uv the night. Come, Kit!" and catching hold of one heel of the 
car, and leaning  his shoulder against the creel, he helped the mule 
on in her zig-zag course up the hill. The descent on the other side 
was gradual, and the mule was left to shift for herself till they got 
upon the level, where she showed some symptoms of stopping for 
another rest; a proceeding which Billy Heffernan thought so 
unreasonable that he took down his whip from the top of the load, 
where it usually rested, and, without a word of warning or 
remonstrance, gave Kit a smart lash under the belly, at which Kit 
shook her ears and whisked her tail, and was about running straight 
into the ditch at the left-hand side, that being the deepest and the 
most likely to swallow her up; but changing her mind as she 
reached the brink, Kit set off at a brisk trot along the road. This 
was too much of a good thing, and her master ran forward, and, 
seizing the rein near the bit, gave it a check that made Kit throw 
back her head and open her jaws very wide; and while still 
pressing on the rein, Billy Heffernan let the lash of his whip drop 
into the same hand that held the handle, and laid both lash and 
handle along Kit's back, between the hip and the butt of the tail, 
with a tremendous whack.
	"Maybe you'd go right now?" said he, letting the rein go 
with a jerk.
	And Kit seemed to think it was the wisest thing she could 
do.
	So they jogged on peacefully again, till the light shining 
through the open door of a house surrounded by trees --  which, 
from their size and outline, even a stranger to the locality would 
have known were very old whitethorns --  attracted his attention.
	"Wo! Kit." said Billy Heffernan, and the mule immediately 
stopped.
	"They're up at ould Phil's," said he, looking considerably 
surprised.
	"But that's thrue," he added, as if the mystery were 
suddenly cleared up; "sure they're at the weddin'."
	He was about ordering Kit to go on, when another thought 
occurred to him.
	"Begob!" he exclaimed, "I might as well have the smoke as 
I have the chance."
	He opened the gate that led to Phil Morris's house, and was 
closing it again behind him when he found himself caught by the 
skirt of the coat. He turned round suddenly somewhat frightened, 
but found himself held fast. After remaining still for a moment, 
during which his heart beat very quick, he ventured to pull the skirt 
of the coat, but could not free himself. As nothing stirred, however, 
he concluded he had merely got entangled in a branch of one of the 
old whitethorns blown down by the storm of the morning that blew 
down the end of his own turf-rick. He fried to free himself without 
tearing his riding-coat, when, to his amazement and terror, the long 
skirt was raised up and shook in his face, with which it was almost 
on a level. He retreated backwards but the coat was pulled the 
other way; and after a short tussle, Billy Heffernan got a sharp 
blow on the mouth. Moved by the instinct of self-preservation he 
stretched out his hands, and boldly grappled with his assailant, 
whom he attempted to throttle as quickly as Possible. In the 
struggle both rolled to the ground, and Billy loudly denounced his 
adversary as a coward; for he not only struck at him while down, 
but aimed his blows where any one having the faintest regard for 
fair fighting would have scorned to strike.
	"He wants to murdher me," exclaimed Billy Heffernan, 
"That's what he wants. Can't you spake," he added, "an' tell me 
who you are an' what are you up to?"
	But the only reply was a repetition of the cowardly assault.
	"D--n your sowl," shouted Billy Heffernan, roused to 
madness by a sharp blow that affected him somewhat like the sting 
of a bee, "if you're a man let go my ould coat an' stand up an' see id 
out if you're able."
	This challenge seemed to have the desired effect, for after 
another violent struggle he found his coat skirt free. Scrambling as 
quickly as Possible to his feet, Billy Heffernan flung off the old 
riding-coat and put himself into a pugilistic attitude.
	"Turn out now, if you're a man," he exclaimed.
	But to his horror and consternation there was no one to 
answer the challenge.
	Billy Heffernan's courage oozed out, we should rather say 
through his toes, than the tips of his fingers, for he began to feel 
very weak about the knees, while the strength that was so rapidly 
departing from his limbs seemed in some mysterious manner to be 
communicated to the hair of his head.
	"The Lord betune us an' all