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