"What is it?" said Fardorougha, with a hesitating shrug, "what is it? This is ever an' always the way when you want money; but I tell you I have no money. You wor born to waste and extravagance, Honour, an' there's no curin' you. What is it you want? an' let me go about my business."

"Throw that ould threadbare Cothamore off o' you," replied Honour," and beg of God to give you grace to sit down, an' have common feeling an'

common sense."

"If it's money to get cloes either for yourself or Connor, there's no use in it. I needn't sit; you don't want a stitch either of you."

Honour, without more ado, seized the coat, and flinging it aside, pushed him over to a seat on which she forced him to sit down.

"As heaven's above me," she exclaimed, “I dunna what'll come over you at all, at all. Your money, your thrash, your dirt an' filth, ever, ever, an' for ever more in your thought, heart, and sowl. Oh Chierna! to think of it, an' you know there's a God above you, an' that you must meet him, an' that widout your money too!"

"Ay, ay, the money's what you want to come at; but I'll not sit here to be hecthor'd. What is it, I say agin, you want ?"

"Fardorougha ahagur," continued the wife, checking herself, and addressing him in a kind and affectionate voice, maybe I was spakin' too harsh to you, but sure it was an' is for your own good. How an' ever, I'll thry kindness, and if you have a heart at all, you can't but show it when you hear what I'm goin' to say."

"Very well, may be I do, and agin may be I don't; there's times when the one's betther than the other; but go an; may be I do grant it."

"Now tell me where in this parish, ay, or in the next five parishes to it, you'd find sich a boy for a father or mother to be proud out of, as Connor, your own darlin' as you often called him?"

66 Divil a one, Honour; damnho to the one; I won't differ wid you in

that."

"You won't differ wid me! the divil thank you for that. You won't, indeed! but could you, I say, if you wor willin'?"

"I tell you I could not.”

"Now there's sinse an' kindness in that. Very well, you say you're gatherin' up all the money you can for him."

"For him-him," exclaimed the unconscious miser, "why, what do you mane-for-well-ay-yes, yes, I did say for him; it's for him I'm keeping it-it is I tell you."

"Now, Fardorougha, you know he's ould enough to be settled in life on his own account, an' you heard last night the girl he can get, if you stand to him, as he ought to expect from a father that loves him."

"Why, last night, thin, didn't I give

my

"Whist, ahagur! hould your tongue awhile, and let me go on. Truth's best-he dotes on that girl to sich a degree, that if he doesn't get her, he'll never see another happy day while he's alive."

All feasthalagh, Honour-that won't pass wid me; I know otherwise myself. Do you think that if I hadn't got you, I'd been unhappy four an' twenty hours, let alone my whole life? I tell you that's feasthalagh, an' won't pass. He wouldn't ate an ounce the less if he was never to get her. You seen the breakfast he made this mornin'; I didn't begrudge it to him, but may I never stir if that Flanagan wouldn't ate a horse behind the saddle; he has a stomach that 'd require a king's ransom to keep it.”

"You know nothing of what I'm spakin' about," replied his wife. "I wasn't Una dhas dhun O'Brien in my best days; an' be the vestment, you war n't Connor, that has more feelin' an' spirit, an' generosity in the nail of his little finger, than ever you had in your whole carkass. I tell you if he doesn't get married to that girl he'll break his

Why, it's not unpossible," said the wife, immediately changing her tactics, "it's not unpossible, but I can tell you it's very unlikely."

"The best way, then, in my opinion, 'ud be to spake to Connor about breaking it to the family."

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Why, that's fair enough," said the wife, "I wondher myself I didn't think of it, but the time was so short since last night."

"It is short," replied the miser, "far an' away too short to expect any one to make up their mind about it. Let them not be rash themselves aither, for I tell you that when people marry in haste, they're apt to have time enough to repint at laysure."

"Well, but Fardorougha acushla, now hear me; throth it's thruth and sinse what you say; but still, avourneen, listen; now set in case that the Bodagh an' his wife don't consint to their marriage, or to do any thing for them, wont you take them a farm and stock it bravely? Think of poor Connor, the darlin' fine fellow that he is. Oh, thin, Saver above, but it's he id go to the well o' the world's end to ase you, if your little finger only ached. He would, or for myself, and yet his own father to trate him wid sich

It was in vain she attempted to proceed; the subject was one in which her heart felt too deep an interest to be discussed without tears. A brief silence ensued, during which Fardorougha moved uneasily on his seat, took the tongs and mechanically mended the fire, and peering at his wife with a countenance twitched as if by tic doloureux, stared round the house with a kind of stupid wonder, rose up, then sat instantly down, and in fact exhibited many of those unintelligible and uncouth movements, which, in persons of his cast, may be properly termed the hieroglyphics of human action, under feelings that cannot be deciphered either by those on whom they operate, or by those who witness

him as, I sed, about lettin' the matther be known to Una's family out of hand." "And, thin, if they refuse, you can show them a ginerous example, by puttin' them into a dacent farm. Will you promise me that, Fardorougha? If you do, all's right, for they're not livin' that ever knew you to break your word or your promise."

"I'll make no promise, Honour; I'll make no promise; but let the other plan be tried first. Now don't be pressin' me; he is—he is a noble boy, and would, as you say, thravel round the earth to keep my little finger from pain; but let me alone about it now→→ let me alone about it."

This, though slight, encouragement, was still in Honour's opinion quite as much as, if not more than, she expected. Without pressing him, there fore, too strongly at that moment, she contented herself with a full-length portrait of their son, drawn with all the skill of a mother who knew, if her husband's heart could be touched at all, those points at which she stood the greatest chance of finding it ac cessible.

For a few days after this the subject of Connor's love was permitted to lie undebated, in the earnest hope that Fardorougha's heart might have caught some slight spark of natural affection from the conversation which had taken place between him and Honour. They waited consequently with patience for some manifestation on his part of a better feeling, and flattered themselves that his silence proceeded from the struggle which they knew a man of his disposition must necessarily feel in working up his mind to any act requiring him to part with that which he loved better than life, his money. The ardent temperament of Connor, however, could ill brook the pulseless indifference of the old man; with much difficulty, therefore was he induced to wait a whole week for the issue, though sustained by the mother's assurance, that in consequence of the impression left on her by their last conversation, she was father, if not urged beyond his wish, would declare himself willing to provide for them. A week, however, elapsed, and Fardorougha moved on in the same hard and insensible spirit which was usual to him, wholly engrossed by money, and never either directly or indirectly appearing to remember that the happiness and welfare of his son were at stake, or depending

certain the

upon the determination to which he might come.

Another half-week passed, during which Connor had made two unsuccessful attempts to see Una, in order that some fixed plan of intercourse might be established between them, at least until his father's ultimate resolution on the subject proposed to him should be known. He now felt deeply distressed, and regretted that the ardour of his attachment had so far borne him away during their last meeting, that he had forgotten to concert measures with Una for their future interviews.

He had often watched about her father's premises from a little before twilight until the whole family had gone to bed, yet without any chance either of conversing with her, or of letting her know that he was in the neighbourhood. He had gone to chapel, too, with the hope of seeing her, or snatch ing a hasty opportunity of exchanging a word or two, if possible, but to his astonishment she had not attended mass an omission of duty of which she had not been guilty for the last three years. What, therefore, was to be done? For him to be detected lurking about the Bodagh's house might create suspicion, especially after their interview in the garden, which very probably had, through the officiousness of the servants, been communicated to her parents. In a matter of such difficulty he bethought him of a confidant, and the person to whom the necessity of the case directed him was Bartle Flanagan. Bartle, indeed, ever since he entered into his father's service, had gained rapidly upon Connor's good-will, and on one or two occasions well nigh succeeded in drawing from him a history of the mutual attachment which subsisted between him and Una. His good humour, easy language, and apparent friendship for young O'Donovan, together with his natural readiness of address, or if you will, of manner, all marked him out as admirably qualified to act as a confidant in a matter which required the very tact and talent he possessed.

Poor fellow," thought Connor to bimself, "it will make him feel more like one of the family than a servant. If he can think that he's trated as my friend and companion, he may forget that he's ating the bread of the very man that drove him an' his to destruction. Ay, an' if we're married, I'm not sure but I'll have him to give me away

100."

VOL. IX.

This resolution of permitting Flanagan to share his confidence had been come to by Connor upon the day subsequent to that on which he had last tried to see Una. After his return home, the disappointment on one hand, and his auxiety concerning his father's liberality on the other, together with the delight arising from the certainty of being beloved, all kept his mind in a tumult, and permitted him to sleep but little. The next day he decided on admitting Bartle to his confidence, and reposing this solemn trust in his integrity. He was lying on his back in the meadow-for they had been ricking the hay from the lapcocks, when that delicious languor which arises from the three greatest provocatives to slumber, want of rest, fatigue, and heat, so utterly overcame him, that, forgetting his love, and all the anxiety arising from it, he fell into a dreamless and profound sleep.

From this state he was aroused after about an hour by the pressure of some thing sharp and painful against his side, near the region of the heart, and on looking up, he discovered Bartle Flanagan standing over him with a pitchfork in his hand, one end of which was pressed against his breast, as if he had been in the act of driving it forward into his body. His face was pale, his dark brows frightfully contracted, and his teeth apparently set together, as if working under some fearful determination. When Connor 'awoke, Flanagan broke out into a laugh that no language could describe. The character of mirth which he wished to throw into his face, jarred so terrifically with its demoniacal expression when first seen by Connor, that even unsuspecting as he was, he started up with alarm, and asked Flanagan what was the matter. Flanagan, however, laughed on-peal after peal succeeded-he tossed the pitchfork aside, and clapping both his hands upon his face, continued the paroxysms until he recovered his

composure.

66

wake as a child wid laughin'; but, Oh," said he, "I'm sick, I'm as Lord bless us, after all, Connor, what is a man's life worth whin he has an enemy near him. There was I, ticklin' you wid the pitchfork, strivin' to waken you, and one inch of it would have

baked your bread for life. Didn't you feel me, Connor?"

"Divil a bit, till the minute afore I ris." "Then the divil a purtier jig ever

T

you danced in your life; wait till I shew you how your left toe wint."

He accordingly lay down and illustrated the pretended action, after which he burst out into another uncontrollable fit of mirth.

""Twas just for all the world," said he, "as if I had tied a string to your toe, for you groaned an' grunted, an' went on like I dunna what; but Connor, what makes you so sleepy to-day as well as on Monday last ?"

"That's the very thing," replied the unsuspicious and candid young man, "that I wanted to spake to you about." "What! about sleepin' in the meadows ?"

"Divil a bit o' that, Bartle, not a morsel of sleepin' in the meadows is consarned in what I'm goin' to mintion to you. Bartle, didn't you tell me the day you hired wid my father, that you wor in love?"

"I did, Connor, I did."

putting his hand to his neck, "do you see here?"

"To be sure I do. Well, what about there ?"

"Be my sowl I'm very careful of hut! sure I may as well tell you the whole truth-I sed I was in love; well, man, that was thrue, an',” he added in a low pithy whisper, "I was near— no, Connor, I won't, but go an; it's enough for you to know that I was an' am in love, an' that it'll go hard wid me if ever any one else is married to the girl I'm in love wid. Now that my business is past, let me hear your's, poor fellow, an' I'm divilish glad to know, Connor, that that— why tundher an' ouns, that you're not as I am. Be the crass that saved us, Connor, I'm glad of that.”

"Why love will set you mad, Bartle, if you don't take care of yourself; an' faith I dunna but it may do the same with myself, if I'm disappointed. How

"How the divil, man, could I?" "Well no swearin', Bartle; keep the commandments, my boy. I'll tell you in the mane time, an' that's more than you did to me, you close-mouth-is-asign-of-a-wise-head spalpeen."

"Hard fortune to you, go on, and don't be keepin' me in suspince-who's the girl?"

"Did you ever hear tell of one Colleen dhas dhun, as she's called, known by the name of Una or Oona O'Brien, daughter to one Bodagh Buie O'Brien, the richest man, barrin' a born gintleman, in the three parishes." "All very fair, Connor, for you or any one else to be in love wid her ay, or man alive, for myself, if it goes to that-but, but Connor, avouchal, are you sure that iver you'll bring her to be in love wid you?"

"Bartle," said Connor, seriously, and after a sudden change in his whole manner, "in this business I'm goin' to trate you as a friend and a brother. She loves me, Bartle, and a solemn promise of marriage has passed between us."

"Connor," said Bartle, "it's wondherful, it's wondherful; you couldn't believe what a fool I am-fool! no but a faint-hearted, cowardly villian.”

"What do you mane, Bartle? what the dickens are you drivin' at ?"

Drivin' at! whenever I happen to have an opportunity of makin' a drive that id-hut! I'm talkin' balderdash. Do you see here Connor," said he,

in this business. I struv to see her twiste, but could n't, an' I'm afraid of bein' seen spyin' about their place."

"The thruth is, Connor, you want to make me a go-between-a blackfoot; very well, I'll do that same on your account, an' do it well, too, I hope."

It was then arranged that Flanagan, who was personally known to some of the Bodagh's servants, should avail himself of that circumstance, and contrive to gain an interview with Una, in order to convey her a letter from O'Donovan. He was further enjoined by no means to commit it to the hands of any person save those of Una herself, and, in the event of his not being able to see her, then the letter was to be returned to Connor. If he succeeded, however, in delivering it, he was to await an answer, provided she found an opportunity of sending one; if not, she was to inform Connor, through Flanagan, at what time and place he could see her. This arrangement having been made, Connor immediately wrote the letter, and, after having dispatched Flanagan upon his errand, set himself to perform, by his individual labour, the task which his father had portioned out for both. Ere Bartle's return Fardorougha came to inspect their progress in the meadow, and, on finding that the servant was absent, he enquired sharply into the cause of it.

66

He's gone on a message for me," replied Connor with the utmost frankness.

"But that's a bad way for him to mind bis business," said his father.

"I'll have the task that you set both of us finished," replied the son, "so that you'll lose nothin' by his ab

sence, at all events."

It's wrong, Connor, it's wrong; where did you sind him to ?"

"To Bodagh Buie's wid a letter to Una."

It's a waste of time, an' a loss of work; about that business I have something to say to your mother an' you to-night, alther the supper, when the rest goes to bed.”

"I hope, father, you'll do the dacent thing still."

"No; but I hope, son, you'll do the wise thing still; how-an-ever let me alone now; if you expect me to do anything, you must n't drive me as your mother does. To-night we'll make up a plan that'll outdo Bodagh Buie. Before you come home, Connor, throw a stone or two in that gap, to prevent the cows from gettin' into the hay; it won't cost you much throuble. But Connor, honomon dioul, did you ever see sich a gut as Bartle bas? He'll brake me out o' house an' home feedin' him; he has a stomach for ten-penny nails; be my word it 'ud be a charity to give him a dose of oak bark to make him dacent; he's a divit at atin', an' little good may it do him!" The hour of supper arrived without Bartle's returning, and Connor's impatience began to overcome him, when, Fardorougha, for the first time, introduced the subject which lay nearest his son's heart.

Coanor," he began, 66 I've been thinkin' of this affair with Una O'Brien; au' in my opinion there's but one way of it; but if you're a fool and stand in your own light, it's not my fault."

What is the way, father?" enquired Connor.

"The very same I tould your mother an' you before-run away wid her I mane make a runaway match of itthen refuse to marry her unless they come down wid the money. You know afther runnin' away wid you nobody else ever would marry her, so that rather than see their child disgraced, never fear but they'll pay down on the nail, or maybe bring you both to live wid 'em."

"My sowl to glory, Fardorougha," said the wife; "but you're a bigger an' cunninner ould rogue than ever I tuck you for. By the scapular upon me, if I had a known how you'd turn out, the

sarra carry the ring ever you'd put on my finger."

"Father," said Connor, "I must be disobedient to you in this at all evints. It's plain you'll do nothing for us, so there's no use in sayin' any thing more about it. I have no manes of supportin' her, and I swear by the blessed sacrayment I'll never bring her to poverty. If I had money to carry me I'd go to America an' thry my fortune there; but I have not. Father, it's too hard that you should stand in my way when you could so easily make me happy; who have you sich a right to assist as your son-your only son, an your only child, too?"

This was spoken in a tone of respect and sorrow at once impressive and affectionate. His fine features

were touched with something beyond sadness or regret, and as the tears stood in his eyes, it was easy to see that he felt much more deeply for his father's want of principle than for any thing connected with his own hopes and prospects. In fact the tears that rolled silently down his cheeks were the tears of shame and sorrow, for a parent who could thus school him to an act of such unparalleled baseness. As it was, the genius of the miser, felt rebuked by the natural delicacy and honour of the son-the old man therefore shrunk back abashed, confused, and moved at the words which he had heard-simple and inoffensive though they were.

"Fardorougha," said the wife, wiping her eyes, that were kindling into indignation, "we're now married goin' an--"

"I think, mother," said Connor, "the less we say about it now the betterwith my own good will I'll never spake on the subject."

"You're right, avourneen," replied the mother; "you're right; I'll say nothing-God sees it's no use."

66

What would you have me do ?" said the old man, rising and walking about in unusual distress and agitation; "you don't know me-I can't do it— I can't do it. You say, Honor, I don't care about him--I'd give him my blood -I'd give him my blood to save a hair of his head. My life an' happiness depinds on him; but who knows how he an' his wife might mismanage that money if they got it-both young an' foolish. It wasn't for nothing it came into my mind what I'm afeard will happen to me yet."

"And what was that, Fardorougha ?" asked the wife.