the deep and shaded river; or when hastening homewards in the twilight, she would encounter her lover, and then instead of passing on as Nelly was always resolved to do, they would stop and talk, and at last wander off together through the dark and dewy vallies, and never think of returning till the lights in the distant cabins had, one by one, disappeared; and woe to poor Nelly if her father was, by chance, awake, as she gently unlatched the door, and stole in with a beating heart, and trembling, probably, from the damp night air. Thus their courtship went on, more cautiously than heretofore; for these night rambles seldom oceurred and were hardly ever discovered; but from this very caution, as well as from the circumstance that the dreamy time of youth was now past, their attachment had assumed a deeper and more serious character. But there was yet another stage in the history of Nelly's love, and it was occasioned by an event, which wrought an important change in her mind, or rather brought to sudden maturity all its best and strongest principles. Her mother died; but shortly before her departure, she took her daughter's hand, who sat beside her, pale and broken-hearted at this first calamity of her life.

"Nelly," she said, "afore I lave you darlint, will you make me one prowise ?"

"I will, mother,” replied the girl, with a momentary firmness of voice, which she could with difficulty command.

“Well achora, this is what I want you to promise me. I spoke to your father about Willy O'Brien, and I tould him, Nelly, of the hardship of biddin' a young crathur never hope to follow the ways of her own heart. Now, Nelly, from the time I seen the sort you were, I never passed a day or night without thanking God on my bended knees for the threasure he sent me. You have a dyin' mother's blessin' on you this mornin' acushla, as you had her livin' prayers; and take my word for it, whatever throuble's afore you, God in his own time will bring about what's for your good; but till then, darlint, you'll promise me never to go again your father's will, nor to lave him broken-hearted in his ould age, when he'll have none but you and my poor little Tommy there to comfort him."

Nelly's white lips moved, and she made the sign of the cross on her breast, as if praying for strength to ac

complish this sacrifice. She then looked in her mother's face; and with dilated eyes, and a beautiful solemnity of countenance she said, "I promise you before God, mother, never to disobey your dyin' words."

"God bless you!" cried the mother; "God for ever bless and guard you my darlint child;" and the tears were streaming down Nelly's cheeks, as she embraced her dying parent, and she felt no pain at that sacred moment in a Vow which she was assured had sealed her earthly doom. From that day to the period in which she is first introduced to our notice she had but one regular interview with her lover, and had avoided, as far as it was possible, any accidental meetings. In this interview she acquaintad the young man with the fatal vow which separated them for ever; for in the first transport of their despair, the probability of her father's relenting never occurred to either. Willy earnestly but vainly remonstrated against the obligation incurred by this act. For a long time the girl languished in hopeless sorrow, but she was young and of a naturally buoyant temper; and she at length in some degree recovered her wonted spirits. When she reflected, too, on the consoling words of her mother she occasionally felt half convinced that her filial piety would, sooner or later, receive the only reward she could desire on earth. More than a year had now elapsed, and she still adhered to her resolution of avoiding all intercourse with her unhappy lover. This she knew was not included in her promise; but she saw the cruelty of keeping alive in his bosom a fevered passion, for there was nothing in reason to justify the slight glimmering of hope, which was now the cold but cherished light of her own poor heart.

It was some time after Jack's last visit at her father's cottage, that Nelly wandered away, one evening, along the banks of the river, thinking of the happy times that were gone, and wondering if such hours with all their hopes and rapture would ever return. It was a soft and delightful evening, and Nelly's thoughts being of an interesting character, she was astonished at finding herself all at once in a wild and solitary place which she knew to be nearly two miles from her own dwelling. She was alarmed at this, and was about to return, when-suddenly, as if he had risen out of the earth, her lover stood before her.

She

was struck with something unusual in his appearance, and the expression of his face; and for the first time in her life she felt a painful uneasiness from his presence. The darkness was gathering fast, the place was lonely, and said to be haunted, and Nelly, it is to be presumed, was not altogether divested of superstition,

Bless us all, Willy," she cried; "what brings you here at this time o' night?"

If Willy had not been too much occupied with his own thoughts he might have been surprised, in his turn, at the doubtful and earnest look which accompanied these words.

"And where would I be, alanna, but where you are?" he said. "Where would the likes of me be wanderin' but where the river's deep and the current strong; but though you scorn me, acushla, you'll break your vow!! Wont you? wont you?" he shouted and laughed in the girl's face.

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"Oh my God!" cried Nelly, shrinking back, as a horrible fancy suggested itself, are you Willy O'Brien, at all?" She looked round-there was no help-no living being near. "Holy Mother save me this night," groaned the poor girl as she clung to a tree to sustain her sinking form.

Willy, whose strongly excited feel ings gave way, at once to alarm for Nelly's safety, sprang forward to her support.

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Nelly, Nelly adheelish!" he cried, looking into her face with all the fondness and anxiety he had ever evinced; "sure I am Willy, your own Willy achora; and is it afeared of me you'd be? Oh ahone oh! me that loves you beyant the world!"

"Oh Willy," cried the girl, reassured by his fondness, "I'm not afeared of you. In troth I know you love me well; but I'm easily frightened and not thinkin' to meet you here-that's

what it was."

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'Well," replied the youth, I'm sorry I frightened you, but I didn't think it alanna. I was meandherin' along here with a friend of my own, when I seen you all by yourself, and I thought it would be no offence to come and ax you how you were, just for the sake of ould times, Nelly."

"No," replied the girl, "it's no offence; but I'm greatly obleeged to you instead of that. Howsomdever," she added, sorrowfully, “there's no use in talkin' of ould times-they're past and gone, Willy, and if the gloss of

both our hearts is gone with them, sure we're only the fitter for the world's troubles."

"Ay," replied the young man, eagerly; "but they're not past and gone; for it's what I think, them days was never sent to be a heart-break to us all through life. Is it them ould and happy days? Ah, Nelly, it would be a cryin' sin to think the like, or to say after all it was a dark hour that we first met."

Nelly had nothing to answer to this natural logic. She cast her eyes on the ground, and her lover's arm closely encircling her waist, she never reflected that she was now in the very circumstances she had so long and constantly avoided.

"What can we do?" she said, in a low and faultering voice.

"I'll tell you what we can do," replied her lover; "remember, Nelly, what was the first promise them lips ever spoke; and if you talk of not breakin' the vow that was the beginnin' of all our troubles-tell me how will you break the oath that bound you afore the holy stars to be mine?"

Willy, Willy," cried the girl, "don't spake to me of that. I tell you now what I tould you then, that I'll never give hand or heart to another but yourself; but you wouldn't ax me to go again' the word I gave a dyin' mother! and sure it was as good as an oath," she added hastily; "for our two hands were locked together when I spoke, and they were never loosened, Willy, till her's was stiff and could.”

Well," said the other, a little shaken from his purpose of directly urging the breach of so solemn an engagement," but you never think of what's to become of me. You never think that the man that loved you so long, is not like to go on quiet and easy through life when he laves you for ever. Nelly M'Evoy, there's dark days afore me, and I only hope it's far away from this I may be when the time comes that I'll be a sorrow and disgrace to my people."

"Ah Willy, darlint," cried the girl, "don't say the like. I know it's a hardship och it's a cruel hardship; but we must only bear whatever it's His will to send us.'

She had hardly uttered these words when she clung trembling to her lover's

Nelly was dreadfully alarmed; for this person, as we have seen, entertained the most hostile feelings towards her father, and the thought naturally occurred to her of the possibility of his satisfying his resentment by some immediate act of violence. The young man, however, did not evince either surprise or uneasiness at this disagreeable intrusion. When the girl urged him to hasten homeward, he hesitated for a moment, and she thought she observed him making some kind of signal as he looked back once or twice to where the robber sat. On their way home he urged, with greater earnestness than ever a compliance with his wishes. Nelly, however, continued inflexible; and when they were within a little way of her father's cottage, O'Brien stopped.

"I ax "Nelly M'Evoy," he said, you, for the last time, do you mane that all the love that ever was between us is over and forgotten ?"

"No, Willy," she replied, "it will never be forgotten by me."

Then will you promise me," he said, "what you promised once on this very spot, afore we knew what throuble was?"

His manner was solemn-it overawed the maiden.

Willy darlint," she said, "you may depend the ould man will give in."

Bah!" cried her lover, "don't be

talkin' folly, woman. You dont know what's afore us! By the light that shines, Nelly, it's to save yourself and me from ruin I spake; and I ax you now, on my bended knees, for the last time in life-will you marry me afore a twelvemonth goes round, whether the ould man gives in or no?"

"Willy," cried the girl, bursting into tears," I tould you my mind." The youth cast on her a look of the wildest despair.

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Then God be with you, Nelly, till we meet again."

He sprung to his feet, wrung her hand violently as he spoke, and the next moment she was standing alone on the scene of this mournful interview.

The next evening Willy O'Brien was loitering for a long time about the heathy common, which lies beyond the bills at the upper end of Glen Foyle. It was towards the close of autumn, and the wind was sweeping through the mountains with the mournful sound

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"are

"In troth, what?" cried the robber, with some astonishment.

"Och nothin', said Willy, "only I wisht it was well over."

"Why, what do you mane, man? sure it isn't afeared your gettin'."

"No," said the other, firmly; "the man's not livin' can ever say he seen me cowed yet."

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Well, and what are you musin' about?"

"Why, then, Barney, I may just tell you. I'd as lieve now we hadn't taken the job in hands good or bad."

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"You would," cried the ruffian, with a scowl, at once fierce and scornful. Well, it's never too late-we can do bravely without you, Willy, never fear."

"Oh, I'm obliged to you," said the other, drily; "but what is it you have to say to me, Barney ?"

"Why, if that's the notion you're in, I have nothin' to say to you, but to wish you safe home, and that no young woman may run off with you on the way."

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Oh, Barney Cumeskey, you needn't be so ready with your jeerin' now; you know rightly it isn't for myself I'm afeared."

"Faith, then, it isn't for me I'll take my oath."

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Faith you may take your oath of that, Barney, sure enough. But it's too late, now," he muttered, in a low and melancholy tone.

Oh, the divil a one taste," said Barney; "it's just the hoight o' good time. Go home, and never fear we'll not lave Nelly without a sweetheart; and maybe," he added, "one she'd as lieve put up with as yourself, if a body might judge by her likin' for your company. Faix, it's the divil's way of coortin' yees have, meetin' once in the twelve

month, and then frightnin' the lives out of other."

Barney Rua," cried his companion, with much impatience, "do you want to spake to me? If you have any thing to say, say it out and no more o' your jaw."

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Troth and Willy, afore I say it I'll know whether you're a thrue man or no."

"There's my hand," replied the other; "I'll stand by you through death and danger-that's for as far as I tould you at first."

"Oh, by my song, that'll not do, you must let me have my own way."

"Your own way, is it?" said Willy, with a bitter laugh. "Faix, Barney, dear, I know you too well for that."

Well, but it's what I mane you're to give me my own way, only I'm not to meddle with any one barrin' the girl, if it ben't in self-defence."

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Well, well, have it so," cried the other, "and I'll trust to yourself, Barney, that you'll not lave Nelly without a portion."

"Oh, lave that to me; never fear, I'll do the dacent thing; so now here's what I want to say to you. I'll bring out the boys just as the moon goes down, and you'll meet us at the ould ash with the horse; and be sure you take a rattlin' baste, for yees'll have a hard ride you may depind; but there's a light-footed chap of mine will bring yees a short cut through the hills, where not a man in Ireland, barrin' one of ourselves, could folly you. So, off wid you now, and take care and have a dhrop of somethin' in to keep up your heart, for, in troth, the divil a bluerlookin' chap ever I seen at gettin' a girl with a stockin'-full of guineas."

"Well, maybe it's no wondher," muttered the conscience-stricken lover; and if Barney could not sympathise with his feelings, he was at least convinced that no apprehensions of personal danger disturbed his mind.

"Hut man!" he cried, "cheer up! sure the hangin' comes last of all, and that cant be these six months anyway" and with this soothing reflection the conspirators parted. Barney Ruadh descended to his occasional retreat in the glen, while Willy went to prepare on his part for the night's adventures, with as heavy a heart and as dissatisfied a conscience as ever oppressed a novice

in crime.

Willy O'Brien had long endeavoured to justify to his own mind the measure he had at last adopted. He thought

their mutual attachment, and her own early promise, had given him a right over Nelly's heart, of which no forced and subsequent act of her's could deprive him. He knew she loved him dearly, and that her happiness as well as his was sacrificed to her father's prejudices; and it was not till every entreaty had been exhausted and failed, that he determined on having recourse to the criminal expedient of abduction. He had, however, no intention of forcing her to break her vow, but his object was by carrying her off to the house of a relative of his own, in a distant part of the country, and by keeping her father in ignorance of her retreat, and every thing concerning her, to extort a consent to their marriage, and so ensure their happiness without any violation of that engagement which the girl held so sacred. But notwithstanding all this he felt it was a guilty and dishonorable enterprise. He could not reconcile to himself the idea of being aided by the most abandoned characters in the country, and still less the terms on which it was necessary to purchase their co-operation; for Barney insisted, as a sine qua non, that he should be paid, for his dangerous services, out of the treasury of the wealthy farmer. But there was no alternative. Willy was of course resolved, when he set about the affair, to adopt the surest means of success, and he knew there was none who could so effectually serve him as the Ropairé Ruadh; besides it was a capital felony, and he might have found it difficult to induce any less desperate character to undertake it. When he first proposed the subject to the Red Rapparee, the latter embraced it with the utmost eagerness; for, independent of his natural taste for all achievements in any way connected with his profession, he was now rejoiced at the opportunity of wreaking such ample and terrible vengeance on his old enemy M'Evoy. He accordingly urged forward, by every means in his power, the accomplishment of the design; and frequently when Willy wavered and seemed inclined forego the measure altogether, he was confirmed in his purpose anew by the instigations of his more resolute associate. The former managed to get over some of his scruples about the plunder of Aby's gold, by resolving to accept no dowry with his bride. He did not, however, communicate this resolution to the robber, for he knew that when Barney's hand was once in his enemy's

to

coffer, there was only one consideration which might possibly restrain him, and he therefore appealed to his honour not to leave the bride portionless.

That same evening M'Evoy had occasion to send his little son over the river to his neighbour Cuineskey's; and as there was every prospect of a stormy night, he desired him in case he should be detained any time, not to return till the following morning-an injunction of which Tommy gladly availed himself. The moon had gone down, and left the tempest to rage away in absolute darkness, when Jack Cumeskey was awakened by the plaintive wailing of his goat, which stood outside the cabin door. Now Jack, like my uncle Toby, had a heart that could feel for a fly, so he leaped up at once and admitted the trembling beast to shelter. Having provided for its comfort, he stood for a few moments at the door, as if to enjoy the contrast between his own warm bed and the desolate appearance of all without, when he was surprised at hearing a number of voices mingling with the storm which howled down the glen.

"Them's some of Barney's boys that's out to-night, I'll be bound," muttered Jack, "though he's far away himself if he tould me the truth."

The persons, three in number, now emerged from the obscurity of the glen; and as Jack drew in and held the door closed over, he heard one of them say

"By my song, boys, she'll have a soft night for her journey."

Not a word did Jack say; not a moment did he hesitate to conjecture or to plan a suspicion of their purpose instantly occurred to him, and stealing over to his bed-side he hurried on his clothes with all possible expedition.

"What's the matther, Jack ?" whispered little Tommy, who was his friend's bed-fellow for the night.

there's somethin' wrong up at your place; but lie down there, like a gay fellow, and I'll be back in a jiffey ;" and cautious not to disturb the rest of his unhappy father, he stole quietly out, and through gloom and storm, reached the edge of the river, just as the objects of his suspicion had gained the farther side. He stood on the bank till he saw them joined by a horseman at the blasted ash, when the whole party proceeded, as he thought, in a dif ferent direction from that leading to M'Evoy's cottage. He might have been deceived by the darkness, and the error might possibly have been strengthened by a natural repugnance to ford on chance a midnight torrent; but at all events he soon lost sight of the troop, and between the roaring of winds and waters, it was vain to listen for any sound which might inform him of the course of their progress. Still he stood on the bank, uneasy and doubtful how to act, sometimes suspecting that his apprehensions and his conduct were equally extravagant, but still unwilling to return, while danger was probably impending over that home which the instinct of his loving heart had led him forth to guard. At length, however, he thought he could distinguish figures moving on the hill, and presently after a light appeared in Aby's cottage. Jack hesitated no longer; but dashing through the river, he flew up the hill, altogether regardless of the danger he was about to encounter.

The little family in M'Evoy's cottage had many hours ago retired to rest, but Nelly still lay awake, listening to the tempest raging without, and thinking of the last evening's interview with her lover, and the mysterious and sorrowful words with which it had closed. About midnight her reflections were disturbed, and she listened eagerly once or twice, for she thought she heard footsteps and low whisperings around the house; but while yet uncertain whether there was any real cause for alarm, her attention was attracted to the roof. A portion of the thatch was suddenly torn away. a cold gust swept through the cabin, and the next moment the horrified girl heard the tread of a man on the floor. In a moment the door flew open, and in rushed the remainder of the party.

"Look to the money, boys, afore you mind the girl," shouted the leader, in a feigned voice.

A light was instantly struck, and while two of the men hastened to se