You are too much disturbed," said John, "to perceive the way, but I will show you."

". I suppose I thought it was at home I was," he replied, "bekase at my own house one must turn aither to the right or to the left, as, indeed, I'm in the custom of doin'."

Whilst Fardorougha was engaged upon this ill-managed mission, his wife, who felt that all human efforts at turning the heart of her husband from his wealth must fail, resolved to have recourse to a higher power. With this purpose in view, she put on her Sunday dress, and informed Connor that she was about to go for a short time from home.

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Why, dear, I'm goin' to get a couple o' Masses sed, for God to turn his heart from that cursed airaghid it's fixed upon. Sure it houlds sich a hard grip of his poor sowl, that it'll be the destruction of him here an' hereafther. It'll kill him afore his time, an' then I thrimble to think of his chance above."

"The object is a good one, sure enough, an' it bein' for a spiritual purposc, I suppose the priest won't object to it."

Why would he, dear, an' it for the good of his sow). Sure, when Pat Lanigan was jealous, his wife got three masses sed for him; and wid the help o' God, he was cured sound an' clane. Connor could not help smiling at this extraordinary cure for jealousy, nor at the simple piety of a heart, the strength of whose affection he knew so well. After her return she informed the son, that in addition to the masses to be said against his father's avarice, she had some notion of getting another said towards his marriage with Una.

"I was goin'," she proceeded, "to slip it in along wid your father's business, but I thought it wouldn't be fair or honest to trick his reverence that way upon the bare price of the two he is to say; for aldhough it 'ud be killin' two birds wid one stone, still it mightn't bring about the match in regard o' the roguery on my part."

"God help you, mother," said Connor, laughing;" for I think you're one of the innocentest women that ever lived;

but whisht!" he added, "here's my father-God grant that he may bring good news!"

When Fardorougha entered he was paler or rather sallower than usual ; and, on his thin, puckered face, the lines that marked it were exhibited with a distinctness greater than ordinary. His eyes appeared to have sunk back more deeply into his head; his cheeks had fallen farther into his jaws; his eye was gleamy and disturbed; and his whole appearance bespoke trouble and care, and the traces of a strong and recent struggle within him.

"Father," said Connor, with a beating heart, "for heaven sake, what news what tidings? I trust-I trust in God it's good.”

They have no bowels, Connorthey have no bowels, thim O'Briens." "Then you didn't succeed."

"The father's as great a bodagh as him he was called after-they're a bad pack-an' you mustn't think of any one belongin' to them."

"But tell us, man dear," said the wife, "what passed-let us know it all."

"Why they would do nothin' they wouldn't hear of it. I went on my knees to them-ay to every one of them, barrin' the colleen herself; but 'twas all no use-it's to be no match."

"And why, father, did you go on your knees to any of them," said Connor; I'm sorry you did that."

an'

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I did it on your account, Connor, I'd do it agin' on your account, poor boy."

Well, well, it can't be helped." "But tell me, Fardorougha," inquired Honour, "was any of the fault your own-what did you offer to do for Connor?"

"Let me alone," said he, peevishly; "I wont be crass questioned about it. My heart's broke among you allwhat did I offer to do for Conuor? The match is knocked up I tell you— and it must be knocked up. Connor's young, an' it'll be time enough for him to marry this seven years to come."

As he said this, the fire of avarice blazed in his eyes, and he looked angrily at Honour, then at the son; but while contemplating the latter, his countenance changed from anger to sorrow, and from sorrow to a mild and serene expression of affection.

"Connor, avick," said he, "Connor, sure you'll not blame me in this business? sure you won't blame your poor,

heart-broken father let thim say what they will, sure you wont, avilish?"

"Don't fret on my account, father," said the son; "why should I blame you? God knows you're strivin' to do what you would wish for me."

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No, Honor, I knew he wouldn't ; no," he shouted, leaping up, he would'nt make a saicrefize o' me! Connor, save me, save me," he shrieked, throwing his arms about his neck; "save me; my heart's breakin'-somethin's tearin' me different ways inside; I can cry, you see; I can cry, but I'm still as hard as a stone; it's terrible this I'm sufferin' terrible all out for a weak ould man like me. Oh, Connor, avick, what 'ill I do? Honor, achora, what 'ill become o' me-am'nt I strugglin', strugglin' aginst it, whatever it is; don't yees pity me? Don't ye, avick machree, don't ye, Honor? oh don't yees pity me ?""

"God pity you!" said the wife, bursting into tears; "what will become of you? pray to God, Fardorougha, pray to him. No one alive can change your heart but God. I wint to the priest to-day, to get two masses said to turn your heart from that cursed money. din'nt intind to tell you, but I do, bekase it's your duty to pray now, above all times, an' to back the priest as well as you can."

I

"It's the best advice, father, you could get," said the son, as he helped the trembling old man to his seat.

"An' who bid you thin to go to lavish money that way ?" said he, turn ing snappishly to Honour, and relaps ing again into the peevish spirit of avarice; "Saver o' Heaven, but you'll kill me, woman, afore you have done wid me. How can I stand it, to have my hard-earned. an' for what? to turn my heart from money! I don't want to be turned from it-I don't wish it! Money!-I have no money-nothin'-nothin'-an' if there's not betther decreed for me, I'll be starved yetan' is it any wondher? to be robbin' me the way you're doin'!”

His wife clasped her hands, and looked up towards heaven in silence, and Connor, shaking his head dispair ingly, passed out to join Flanagan at his labour, with whom he had not spoken that day. Briefly, and with a heavy heart, he communicated to him the unsuccessful issue of his father's interference, and asked his opinion as to how he should conduct himself under circumstances so disastrous to his hap

piness and prospects. Bartle advised him to seek another interview with Una, and for that purpose, offered, as before, to ascertain, in the course of that evening, at what time and place she would see him. This suggestion, in itself so natural, was adopted, and as Connor felt, with peculiar acuteness, the pain of the situation in which he was placed, he manifested little tendency to conversation, and the evening consequently passed heavily and in silence.

Dusk, however, arrived, and Bartle prepared himself to execute the somewhat difficult commission he had so obligingly undertaken. He appeared, however, to have caught a portion of Connor's despondency, for, when about to set out, he said "that he felt his spirits sunk and melancholy; just," be added, "as if some misfortune, Connor, was afore aither or both of us; for my part, I'd stake my life that things will go ashaughran one way or other, an' that you'll never call Una O'Brien your wife."

"Bartle," replied the other, "I only want you to do my message, an' not to be prophesyin'ill—bad news comes too soon, without your tellin' us of it aforehand. God knows, Bartle dear, I'm distressed enough as it is, and want my spirits to be kept up rather than put

down."

No, Connor, but you want somethin' to divart your mind off of this business altogether, for a while; an' upon my saunies it 'ud be a charity for some friend to give you a fresh piece of fun to think of so keep up your heart, how do you know but I may do that mueb for you myself? But I want you to lend me the loan of a pair of shoes; divil a tatther of these will be together soon, barrin' I get them mended in time; you can't begrudge that, any how, an' me wearin' them on your own business."

Nonsense, man-to be sure I will; stop an' I'll bring them out to you in half a shake."

He accordingly produced a pair of that if he had no objection to accept of shoes, nearly new, and told Bartle them as a present, he might consider

them as his own.

This conversation took place in Fardorougha's barn, where Flanagan always slept, and kept his small deal trunk.

He paused a moment when this good-natured offer was made to him, but as it was dark no particular ex

"Yes, faith, sure enough—well, ay, the shoes!-don't think of it, Connor I'm hasty; too much so, indeed, an' that's my fault. I'm like all good natured people in that respect; how ever I'll borry them for a day or two, till I get my own patched up some way. But, death alive, why did you get at this sason o' the year three rows of sparables in the soles o' them ?"

"Bekase they last longer, of coorse; and now, Bartle, be off, and don't let the grass grow under your feet till I see you agin."

Connor's patience, or rather his impatience that night was severely taxed. Hour after hour elapsed, and yet Bartle did not return. At length he went to his father's sleeping room, and informed him of the message he had sent through Flanagan to Una.

"I will sleep in the barn to-night, father," he added; "an' never fear, let us talk as we may, but we'll be up early enough in the morning, plase God. I couldn't sleep, or go to sleep, till I hear what news he brings back to us; so do you rise and secure the door, an' I'll make my shake down wid Bartle for this night."

The father, who never refused him any thing un-pecuniary, (if we may be allowed the word,) did as the son requested him, and again went to bed, unconscious of the thundercloud which was so soon to burst upon them both.

Bartle, however, at length returned, and Connor had the satisfaction of hearing that his faithful Una would meet him the next night, if possible, at the hour of twelve o'clock, in her father's haggard. Her parents, it appeared, had laid an injunction upon her never to see him again; she was watched too, and unless when the household were asleep, she found it altogether impracticable to effect any appointment whatsoever with her lover. She could not even promise with cer

tainty to meet him on that night, but she desired him to come, and if she failed to be punctual, not to leave the place of appointment for an hour. After that, if she appeared not, then he was to wait no longer. Such was the purport of the message which Flanagan delivered him.

Flanagan was the first up the next morning, for the purpose of keeping an appointment which he had with Biddy Neil, whom we have already introduced to the reader. On being taxed with meanness by this weak but honest creature, for having sought service with the man who had ruined his family, he promised to acquaint her with the true motive which had induced him to enter into Fardorougha's employment.

Their conversation on

this point, however, was merely a love scene, in which Bartle satisfied the credulous girl, that to an attachment for herself of some months' standing, might be ascribed his humiliation in becoming a servant to the oppressor and destroyer of his house. He then passed from themselves and their prospects to Connor and Una O'Brien, with whose attachment for each other, as the reader knows, he was first made acquainted by his fellow servant.

"It's terrible, Biddy," said he, "to think of the black and revengeful heart that Connor bears to Bodagh Buie and his family, merely bekase they refuse to let him mairy Una. I'm afeared, Biddy darlin', that there'll be dark work about it on Connor's side; an' if you hear of any thing bad happenin' to the Bodagh, you'll know where it comes from."

"I don't b'lieve it, Bartle, nor I won't b'lieve it-not, any way, till I hear that it happens. But what is it he intends to do to them?"

Flanagan then got tender, and after pressing his suit with all the eloquence he was master of, they separated, he to his labour in the fields, and she to her domestic employment, and the unusual task of watching the motions of her master's son.

Flanagan, in the course of the day, suggested to Connor the convenience of sleeping that night also in the barn. The time of meeting, he said, was too late, and his father's family, who were early in their hours both night and morning, would be asleep even before they set out. He also added, that lest any of the O'Briens or their retainers should surprise him and Una, he had made up his mind to accompany him, and act as a vidette during their interview,

Connor felt this devotion of Bartle to his dearest interests, as every grateful and generous heart would.

"Bartle," said he, "when we are married, if it's ever in my power to make you aisy in life, may I never prosper if I don't do it; at all evints, in some way I'll reward you."

"If you're ever able, Connor, I'll have no objection to be behouldin' to you; that is, if you're ever able, as you say."

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And if there's a just God in heaven, Bartle, who sees my heart, however things may go against me for a time, I say I will be able to sarve you, or any other friend that desarves it. But about sleepin' in to-night-of coorse I would'nt be knockin' up my father, and disturbin' my poor mother for no rason; so of coorse, as I said, I'll sleep in the barn; it makes no difference one way or other."

"Connor," said Flanagan, with much solemnity, "if Bodagh Buie's wise, he'll marry you an' his daughter as fast as he can."

"An' why, Bartle?"

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Why, for rasons you know nothin' about. Of late he's got very much out o' favour, in regard of not comin' in to what people wish.”

"Spake plainer, Bartle; I'm in the dark now."

"There's work goin' on in the countbry, that you and every one like you ought to be up to; but you know nothin', as I said, about it. Now Bodagh Buie, as far as I hear-for I'm in the dark myself nearly as much as you Bodagh Buie houlds out aginst them; an' not only that, I'm tould, but gives them hard words, an' sets them at defiance."

"But what has all this to do with me marrying his daughter?"

"Why, he wants some one badly to stand his friend wid them, an' if you were marrid to her, you should on his account become one o' thim; begad as it is you ought, for to tell you the truth there's talk-strong talk too, about payin' him a nightly visit that mayn't sarve him."

"Then, Bartle you're consarned in this business.”

"No, faith, not yet; but I suppose I must, if I wish to be safe in the counthry; an' so must you too, for the same rason."

"And, if not up, how do you know so much about it?"

"From one o' themselves, that wishes the Bodagh well; ay, an' let me tell you, he's a marked man, an' the night was appointed to visit him; still it was put back to thry if he could be managed, but he could n't; an' all I know about it is that the time to remimber him is settled, an' he's to get it, an', along wid other things, he'll be ped for turnin' off-however I can't say any more about that."

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How long is it since you knew

this?"

"Not long-only since last night, or you'd 'a got it before this. The best way, I think, to put him on his guard 'ud be to send him a scrape of a line wid no name to it."

"Bartle," replied Connor, "I'm as much behoulden to you for this, as if it had been myself or my father that was marked. God knows you have a ! good heart, an' if you don't sleep sound, I'm at a loss to know who ought."

"Ma choirp an' diouol but it's hard to tell who has a good heart, Connor; I'd never say any one has till I'd see them well thried."

At length the hour for setting out arrived, and both, armed with good oaken cudgels, proceeded to Bodagh Buie's haggard, whither they arrived a little before the appointed hour. An utter stillness prevailed around the place-not a dog barkednot a breeze blew, nor did a leaf move on its stem, so calm and warm was the night. Neither moon nor stars shone in the firmament, and the darkness seemed kindly to throw its dusky mantle over this sweet and stolen interview of our young lovers. As yet, however, Una had not come, nor could Connor, on surveying the large massy farmhouse of the Bodagh, perceive any

appearance of light, or hear a single sound, however faint, to break the stillness in which it slept. Bartle, immediately after their arrival in the haggard, separated from his companion, in order, he said, to give notice of interruption, should Una be either watched or followed.

"Besides, you know," he added, "sweethearts like nobody to be present but themselves, when they do be spakin' soft to one another. So I'll jist keep dodgin' about, from place to place, wid my eye an' ear both open, an' if any intherloper comes I'll give yees the hard word.”

Heavily and lazily creep those moments during which an impatient lover awaits the approach of his mistress; and woe betide the wooer of impetuous temperament who is doomed, like our hero, to watch a whole hour and a half in vain. Many a theory did his fancy body forth, and many a conjecture did he form as to the probable causes of her absence. Was it possible that they watched her even in the dead hour of night? Perhaps the grief she felt at her father's refusal to sanction the match, had brought on indisposition; and,-oh, harrowing thought! perhaps they had succeeded in prevailing upon her to renounce him and his hopes for ever. But no; their affection was too pure and steadfast to admit of a supposition so utterly unreasonable. What then could have prevented her from keeping an appointment so essential to their future prospects, and to the operations necessary for them to pursue? Some plan of intercourse-some settled mode of communication must be concerted between them, a fact as well known to herself as to him.

'Well, well," thought he, "whatever's the reason of her not coming, I'm sure the fault is not her's; as it is, there's no use in waitin' this night any longer."

Flanagan, it appeared, was of the same opinion, for in a minute or two he made his appearance, and urged their return home. It was clear, he said, that no interview could take place that night, and the sooner they reached the barn and got to bed the better." "Folly me," he added; we can pass through the yard, cross the road before the hall-door, and get over the stile, by the near way through the fields that's behind the orchard."

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Connor, who was by no means so well acquainted with the path as his companion, followed him in the way

pointed out, and in a few minutes they found themselves walking at a brisk pace in a direction that led homewards by a shorter cut. Connor's mind was too much depressed for conversation, and both were proceeding in silence, when Flanagan started in alarm, and pointed out the figure of some one walking directly towards them. less than a minute the person, whoever he might be, had come within speaking distance, and, as he shouted out "who comes there?" Flanagan bolted across the ditch along which they had been going, and disappeared.

In

"A friend," returned Connor, in reply to the question.

The other man advanced, and with a look of deep scrutiny peered into his face. "A friend," he exclaimed; "faith, it's a quare hour for a friend to be out. Who are you, eh? Is this Connor O'Donovan ?"

of

"It is; but you have the advantage me."

"If your father was here he would know Phil Curtis, any way."

"I ought to 'a known the voice myself," said Connor; Phil, how are you? an' what's bringin' yourself out at this hour?"

"Why, I want to buy a couple o' milk cows in the fair o' Kilturbit, an' I'm goin' to catch my horse, an' make ready. It's a stiff ride from this, an' by the time I'm there it 'ill be late enough for business, I'm thinkin'. There was some one wid you; who was it?"

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Come, come," said Connor goodhumouredly, "he was out coortin', and doesn't wish to be known; and Phil, as you had the luck to meet me, I beg you, for heaven's sake, not to breathe that you seen me near Bodagh Buie's tonight; I have various rasons for it.

It's no sacret to me as it is," replied Curtis; "half the parish knows it; so make your mind asy on that head. Good night, Connor! I wish you success, any how; you'll be a happy man if you get her; although from what I hear has happened, you have a bad chance, except herself stands to you."

The truth was, that Fardorougha's visit to the Bodagh, thanks to the high tones of his own shrill voice, had drawn female curiosity, already suspicious of the circumstances, to the keyhole of the parlour-door, where the issue and object of the conference soon became known. In a short time it had gone among the servants, and from them was transmitted in the course of