(_
 
 3{ 11 o c ft a n g o in ; 
 
 THE HOMES OF TfPPERARY. 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES J. KICKHAM, 
 
 Autlwr of 
 : SALLY CAVAXAGH : OR. THE UXTEXAXTED GRAVES," ET>: 
 
 Yet meet him in his cabin rude, 
 
 Or danciii'j; with his dark-haired Mary, 
 
 You 'd swear they knew no other mood, 
 But mirth and love in Tipperary.'' 
 
 S DAVIS. 
 
 THIRTEENTH EDITION. 
 
 Copyrighted in Ireland, America, and Great Britain. 
 
 Dublin: 
 
 JAMES. DUFFY AXD CO., LTD., 
 15 WELLINGTON* QUAY
 
 DEDICATION, 
 
 Uttiratr tfjis Book 
 
 ABOUT THE HOlfES OF TIPPER ARY 
 
 TO 
 MY LITTLE NIECES, ANNIE AND JOSIE, 
 
 WITH MANY REGRETS AND APOLOGIES 
 THAT IN SPITE OF ALL THEIR ENTREATIES I \VA3 OBLIGED TO 
 
 "LET POOR NORAH LAHY DIE." 
 
 C.J. K.
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 KXOCKNAGOW has been out of print for a consider- 
 able 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 " TJie 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 establish- 
 ment 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 
 Cashcl. But the Author of KNOCKNAGOW was pro- 
 bably 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 Confede- 
 rate Club, in Mullinahone, which he was chiefly in- 
 strumental in forming ; and after the failure of the 
 rising at Ballingarry, which was not far from his
 
 Vlll INTRODUCTION. 
 
 home, he 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 
 iight by an accident in a shooting party ; yet in spite 
 of this misfortune (the more distressing because his 
 lather's hand fired the shot), Fawcett contrived to 
 work on, to ride, to skate, to fish, to become a suc- 
 cessful University professor, an active and influential 
 Member of Parliament, and a most efficient Post- 
 master-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 hear- 
 ing. 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 con- 
 ducted 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 express- 
 ing his sympathy for the prisoner, and respect for his
 
 INTRODUCTION. IX 
 
 intellectual attainments, sentenced him to penal ser- 
 vitude 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 ?" * 
 
 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 Pen- 
 tonville 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 de- 
 meanour, 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." 
 
 * 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 
 Uosary of the Blessed Virgin.
 
 X INTRODUCTION. 
 
 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 ringers ; 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 per- 
 sonality 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 remem- 
 ber 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 en-
 
 INTRODUCTION. xi 
 
 treaties, 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 " Sail} 7 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." 
 Mis 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 inter- 
 mingled. 
 
 Charles Kickham's poems are very few and short, 
 those at least which he 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 pur- 
 pose 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 
 gray, grew in soft curls ; a large forehead, keen, pierc- 
 ing 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
 
 xii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 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 disposi- 
 tion, 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 he 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." 
 
 M. R. 
 
 Dublin, 2-fth Feb. 1887.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 L Mr. Henry Lowe becomes the Guest of his Uncle's 
 
 principal Tenant . . . . 9' 
 
 II. "My eldest Daughter, Sir" . .15 
 
 III. Mat the Thrasher .... .22 
 
 IV. The Tracks in the Snow . . . .29 
 
 V. The Doctor makes himself comfortable . . 34: 
 
 VI. The Station. Barney Brodlierick's Penance. 
 
 Mrs. Slattery creates a Sensation . . 42 
 
 VII. Xorah Lahy. The old Linnet's Song . . 50 
 
 VIII. Honor Lahy's good luck . . . 5S 
 
 IX. Billy Heffernan and his Flute . . .63 
 
 X. "A little Nourishment" . . . . 6S 
 
 XT. Father Hannigan's Sermon . . .74 
 
 Xil. Matrimony and "Marriage -money ."-The Widow's 
 
 last Wish ...... 78 
 
 XIIL The Doctor in a Fix . . . .85 
 
 XIV. Mount Tempe and its Master . . .90 
 
 XV. A Day's Shooting lost . .97 
 
 XVI. An Uninvited Visitor . . . .101 
 
 XVIL Lory 107 
 
 XVIII. Miss Lloyd's Foibles .... 112 
 
 XIX. Will Sir Garrett Rencv/ the Lease ? . . 117- 
 
 XX. Mr. Lowe gets a Letter of Warning . . 123 
 
 XXL Five Shillings' worth of Dance . . .130 
 
 XXIL The Blue Body-Coat with gilt Buttons. Absence 
 
 of Mind." Auld Lang Syne " . . . 13S 
 
 XXIII. Mat Donovan at homo . . 149-
 
 ^IV CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XXIV. "God he with ye! :) . . . .158 
 
 XXV. Phil Lahy in the bosom of his family . - 168 
 
 XXVI. A Bridegroom who couldn't describe his Bride . 174 
 
 XXVIL The Jay 182 
 
 XXVIII. Barney wins a Bet ; and loses much precious time 189 
 
 XXIX. The Hauling Home." Is Norah Lahy strong ?" 198 
 
 ,' XXX Ned Brophy's Wedding . . . .209 
 
 XXXI. Mr. Lloyd does what Irish Landlords seldom do . 220 
 
 XXXII. An old Croppy's notions of Security of Tenure . 22S 
 
 XXXIII.-Billy Hefiernan's Triumph . . . .239 
 
 XXXIV. Lonely 251 
 
 XXXV. On the Road to the big Town with the Cloud 
 
 over It . . . . . 259 
 
 XXXVI. Home to Knocknagow. A Tenant-at-will . 268 
 
 XXXVII. Discontent and Resignation . . . 281 
 
 XXXVIII. "Are you in Love, Mary?" . . . 2SS 
 
 XXXIX The hook-nosed Steed . . . .295 
 
 XL. The Dragoon's present. The Beauty Race . 312 
 
 XLI. Miss Kathleen Hanly thinks it advisable to be 
 
 "doing something" .... 325 
 
 XLIL A Haunted Farm . . . .332 
 
 XLIIl. Tom Hogan boasts that he never fired a Shot . 338 
 
 .XLIV. Hpgh Kearney thinks he will get his Fishing- 
 rod Repaired ..... 345 
 
 XL V. Tom Cuddehy bids his old Sweetheart Good-bye . 351 
 XLVL " Mat Donovan is Killed!" . . .355 
 
 XLVII. Billy Heffernan wonders what is "coming-over" 
 
 Norah . > . . 364 
 
 XLVIIL The "Dead Past" and the "Living Present." 
 
 Mrs. Donovan's sad face . . 374 
 
 XLIX. In the lonesome Moor Meditating Murder. 
 Darby Ruadh thinks himself badly used. 
 Tom Hogan has an argument against Phil Laliy 3S3
 
 CONTEXT.?. XV 
 
 OHAPTEB PAGE 
 
 L. Tom Cuddehy feels "Someway Quare." A 
 glance backwards to clear up the Mystery of 
 the Tracks in the Snow . . . 397 
 
 I--!. Mat Donovan in Tramore. Mrs. Kearney and 
 
 her "Own Car." The"C'oulm" . . 4.08 
 
 LIL The Bull-bait. The Carriek-man and his Dog, 
 "Trueboy." Lory punishes Beresford Fender, 
 and Rides home behind Mr. Bob Lloyd, on the 
 grey hunter. Miss Lloyd involuntarily sits 
 down ...... 427 
 
 LTIL The Hurling in the Kiln-field. Captain French 
 throws the Sledge against Mat the Thrasher. 
 Barney in trouble. Father M'Mahon's 
 'Proud Walk" . . . . .447 
 
 LIV. Bob Lloyd in Danger. Mat Donovan's opinion 
 of "Desaving" People in the way of Court- 
 ship ...... 407 
 
 LV. Billy Heffernan makes Dr. Kiely a present. 
 
 "As a friend of Phil Lahy's" . . . 4Si 
 
 LVL The White Jacket . . . . .497 
 
 LVII. A Great. Event. Tommy Lahy's Accomplish- 
 ments. Arthur O'Connor . . . 503 
 L VIII. Father Carroll's Hoardings . . .514 
 LIX Another eventful Day. "Magnificent Tipper- 
 
 ary" . . . . .523 
 
 LX. Burglary and Robbery. Mat Donovan a Prisoner. 
 Barney disappears. Mr. Somerfield and 
 Attorney Hanly apply for Leases, and old 
 Isaac dreads the Consequences . . . 529 
 
 LXL Barney is Captured. His Account of himself. 
 Mat the Thrasher in Clonmel Jail, and the Big 
 Drum Silent . . . .537 
 
 LXIL Sad News from Ballinaclaeh . . .547 
 
 LXI1I. Ejected. The Bailiffs in the old Cottage. Billy 
 Heffernan plays "Auld Lang Syne "again; and 
 the old Linnet Sings in the Moonlight . . 538
 
 XVI CONTENTS. 
 
 CUAPTEB PAGE 
 
 LXIV. A Conspiracy. The "Coulin." Miss Lloyd 
 wants to know all about It. Visions of 
 happy Days ..... 565 
 LXV. Mat Donovan follows Grace's advice ; but Bessy 
 Morris is gone. Honor and Phil Lahy in 
 their new Home ..... 577 
 
 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 ..... 598 
 
 L 7v VII. Good-bye. The old Room. Mrs. Heffernan's 
 Troubles. " Magnificent Tipperary." A 
 Gleam of Sunshine. But Knocknagow is Gone 611
 
 KNOCKNAGOW; 
 
 OR, 
 
 The Homes of Tipperary, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 MR. HENRY LOWE BECOMES THE GUEST OF HIS UNCLE'fc 
 PRINCIPAL TENANT. 
 
 t\\ T is Christmas Day. 
 
 """I | V Mr. Henry Lowe has just opened his e'yes, 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 7 shutters of his room. He has slept 
 soundly, as well he might, after a journey the 
 day hefore of some eighty miles on the outside of the mail- 
 coach, from the metropolis to the town of ; supple- 
 mented hy an additional drive of a dozen miles in his host's 
 gig to his present not uncomfortable quarters. 
 
 The young gentleman knows little of^Jreland from per- 
 sonal 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 prin- 
 cipal 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, 
 
 B
 
 10 KNOCKNAGOW; 
 
 owned at least nominally extensive landed property in tho 
 South of Ireland ; and the prudent mother was trying to in- 
 duce 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 he 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 hand- 
 some, 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 oc- 
 curred 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 blunder- 
 buss 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, qwing to his position and the non-elasticity 
 of a feather-bed, must be pronounced a failure. The repeti- 
 tion 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
 
 OR, THE HOMES OP TIPPERARY. 11 
 
 his hand. He held the light above his head, and looked con- 
 siderably 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 de- 
 scribing 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 ?" 
 
 " JS"ot 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.
 
 12 KNOCKNAGOW; 
 
 The first thing that struck him was, that it would be im- 
 possible 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 inspec- 
 tion, 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 an- 
 swered 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, scratch- 
 ing 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 wrap, in a frieze great-coat. 
 
 The master had evidently been "pitching into" the man; 
 for Barney exclaimed, as he placed the visitor's boots on the 
 floor: 
 
 " Blur-an-agers, havf. sinse, sir have sinse." 
 
 "Have sense yourself and that's what you'll never have, 
 you ninny-hammer," retorted the master, in an apparently
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPE11ARY. 13 
 
 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 Gallows- 
 hill 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 Knocknagowan 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
 
 14 KNOCKNAGOW; 
 
 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 de- 
 corated with flowers and ever-greens. Three branches, sus- 
 pended 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 sur- 
 plices, 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 astonish 
 inent upon the swaying sea of upturned faces till it settled 
 into stillness as the clergyman turned to address the con- 
 gregation. 
 
 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 of gor- 
 geous 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
 
 OR, THE HOMES OP TIPPERART. li> 
 
 looked down upon, if he had not witnessed the effect it pro- 
 duced. And he was surprised to find that it was the figura- 
 tive 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 tlie 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 atten- 
 tion 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.
 
 16 KNOCKNAGOW; 
 
 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 '11 bring you to hunt the wran," said Barney. 
 
 " I can go with Tom Maher," the boy replied. 
 
 " I '11 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 '11 I '11 show you a thrish's nist !" 
 exclaimed Barney, in a sort of stage whisper. 
 
 The boy looked from the cake to the tempter, and hesi- 
 tated. 
 
 "With five young wans in id," 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 Brod- 
 herick'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 ar- 
 rival. "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.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERAttY. 17 
 
 " \Yiiere 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 courtesying 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 rind 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 
 ven 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 
 understood the look, and said with a smile : 
 
 " Mr. Lowe, let me introduce you to my friend, Miss Gracie 
 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 :
 
 18 KNOCKNAGOW j 
 
 " Come, Grace, sit here near me. 'Tis a long time since 
 you and I had a taDt 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 beau- 
 tiful." 
 
 " 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 explana- 
 tion of this extraordinary testimony to Miss Grace's powers 
 of pleasing.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OP TIPPERART. 19 
 
 Mr. Kearney, however, rubbed his whiskers, contempla- 
 tively, 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 confidentially to 
 Grace, who nodded, and evinced by her look that the con- 
 cerns 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 Coolin' 
 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 hap- 
 pened to be connected with her Uncle Dan, or, indeed, with 
 any of the great O'Carrols 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
 
 20 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 had never heard before, " 'twas my Uncle Dan that trans- 
 lated 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 Avork. 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 con- 
 duct was quite unjustifiable. There was nothing so extra- 
 ordinary 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.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPrERAUY. 21 
 
 " 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 dis- 
 position to be more openly complimentary than she thought 
 quite agreeable, and to divert his attention to something 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 '11 show him to you. Tell Wattletoes," he continued, turn- 
 ing 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 remark- 
 ing 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 '11 see enough of it." 
 
 We 11 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 sentimen- 
 tal 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."
 
 22 KNOCKNAGOW; 
 
 " 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. 
 
 As the party approached the avenue gate, on their way to 
 the fort, a tax-cart was seen coming from the direction of tho 
 village. 
 
 " Oh ! 'tis Richard," Grace exclaimed ; " I 'm so glad." 
 
 She evinced her joy by a series of little bounds as sho 
 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 com- 
 panion's look of surprise : 
 
 " They are going round to the back gate. Grace will bring 
 them out immediately, you may be sure."
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPKKARY. 23 
 
 "Is she a relative of yours 1 ?" he asked. 
 
 " Her mother's sister is married to an uncle of mine," she 
 replied. " Her father, Doctor Kiely, is a very eminent physi- 
 cian, 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 wield- 
 ing 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 diffi-
 
 24 KNOCKS AGOW ; 
 
 culty 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, "whore 
 do you want to run it?" 
 
 " From this bush," his employer replied, laying his walk- 
 ing-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 suc- 
 cess 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 colleen dhas cruiteen amo." 
 
 "There it is for you," he exclaimed, as he folded his arms,
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 25 
 
 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 proceed- 
 ing), firmly clutched his spade with both hands, and eyeing 
 his hero from head to foot, devoutly wished " bad luck to thfc 
 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 daugh- 
 ter, 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 Consta- 
 bulary, 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 perfec- 
 tion 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 head- 
 
 c
 
 26 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 strong, 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 " unprofi tably 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 '11 
 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 ov '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 swallow- 
 ing 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 :
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 27 
 
 " 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 proceed- 
 ings. 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 towards 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 indiiferent 
 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
 
 28 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 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. 
 
 Kichard 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 qrashed 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 protornartyr, 
 sven 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,
 
 OR, THE HOMES OP TIPPERARY. 29 
 
 except Mary's, were fixed upon the sloe-bush, a scream of 
 delight from Grace surprised her into looking round. When, 
 lo ! 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 had 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
 
 30 KNOCKS AGOW ; 
 
 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 looking-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 Eichard is to be dis- 
 carded 1 ?" 
 
 " Oh, Eichard 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." 
 
 Eichard here called to his sister, saying : 
 
 " Can you tell us anything about these tracks in the snow ? 
 We are puzzled by them ?" 
 
 "N"o," Mary replied, opening the window, and looking 
 down with surprise. 
 
 " The puzzle is," said Eichard, " that there are no tracks
 
 OR, THE HOMES OP TIPPERARY. 31 
 
 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 his false vows came.' 
 
 Is there a lord of the valley in the case 1 ?" 
 
 " 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
 
 32 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 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 con- 
 fess 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.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 33 
 
 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 Eobinson 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 him- 
 self 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,
 
 34 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 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 1 ?" he exclaimed. 
 " Tare-an-'ouns, I'll be kilt." And Barney "made 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 ietcer in hei 
 hand, gazing towards the distant mountains. 
 
 "And now," she said abstractedly, "he is gone." 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE DOCTOB 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 1 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."
 
 OR, THE HOMES OP TIPPERARY. 35 
 
 " 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"
 
 36 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 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 trimmins to id like 
 Miss Mary and the mistress." 
 
 During the Eosary 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 con- 
 siderable; 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 '11 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 HanlyT' 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 1 ?" Mr. Lowe asked.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPER ART. 37 
 
 "The prettiest girl in the country," replied the doctor, 
 " I '11 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 Kath 
 leen 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 ot 
 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?" s:xid 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 icsuming 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.
 
 38 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 " 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 dis- 
 engaged 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 vigor- 
 ously 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 soforth?" 
 
 "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 '11 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.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 39 
 
 " 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?" Kichard asked, as he took the kettle from 
 the fire, and poured the boiling water carefully on the lumps 
 of sugar in his tumbler. "Why should they not be 
 supremely blessed 1 ?" 
 
 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 insur- 
 mountable obstacles may be in the way 1 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 s<? 
 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 be turned over the leaves. " But do you really
 
 40 
 
 KNOCKNAGOW : 
 
 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 buttei 
 maker?" 
 
 " And a manufacturer of arable land," said Hugh. 
 
 " That 's nonsense," said the doctor, who had a dim recol- 
 lection 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 '11 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
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERART. 41 
 
 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 '11 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 compar- 
 ing 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 Fender, 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 Fender 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 con- 
 cluded was the death-shriek of an unlucky goose. Keynard 
 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.
 
 42 KNOCKNAGOW j 
 
 "D n it!" he 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 sugges- 
 tion 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,
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 43 
 
 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 him- 
 self 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 
 hand, and seemed to 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.
 
 44. KNOCKNAGOW ', 
 
 "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 1" Eichard 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, sur- 
 rounded 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 Knock- 
 nagow 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 im- 
 portant 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. 
 
 Eichard let down the window softly, to try and catch their 
 Conversation. 
 
 After looking at the instrument, Mat said : 
 
 " I '11 reg'late that. I '11 put a new ferl on id." 
 
 He handed back {he 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
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 45 
 
 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 Avere riveted 
 on 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 care- 
 fully, 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 " blue- 
 rag" 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.
 
 46' 
 
 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 " That 's thrue, BiUy," 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 '11 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 sho6 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.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 47 
 
 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 Bichard, 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.
 
 48 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 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" find- 
 ing 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 sup- 
 pressed 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 bhe 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,
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 49 
 
 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, 
 * baking his head and compressing his lips, muttered a pro- 
 verb 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 Han- 
 nigan. "And now go and say your prayers and take the 
 world aisy like a Christian. Sure I '11 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
 
 50 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 unable to settle the question whether she was "killed" or 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 NORAH LAHY. THE OLD LINNET'S SOXG. 
 
 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 com- 
 fortless 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
 
 OR, THE HOMES OP TIPPERARY. 51 
 
 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 wist- 
 fully 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. Her 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
 
 52 KXOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 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 sus- 
 pected 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
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 53 
 
 last 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 con- 
 cealed 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.
 
 54 
 
 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 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." 
 
 Eichard 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 Avas 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?" Kichard asked. 
 
 "No, sir; only two wran-boys an' an aeneen." 
 
 "What have you your trap baited with?" Mr. Lowe in- 
 quired. 
 
 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." 
 
 Eichard explained that the " biled pueata" meant a boiled 
 potato, the shillig-a-booka a snail in its shell, and the skhe- 
 hoshies 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. 
 
 Eemembering his promise, however, that he would not
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 55 
 
 leave his sister till his mother returned from the Station, 
 he 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. Wicked- 
 ness of every kind seemed doubly wicked when Norah was 
 
 t>y. 
 
 " 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 crea- 
 ture 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
 
 56 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 Tommy felt that his peace was made. We should mention 
 that Wat Corcoran was a bailiff 'who had received somu 
 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. 
 
 " Ko, '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 '11 see what made him call. Don't lean your head 
 that way. Wait, an' 1 11 turn the chair." 
 
 He turned her chair round till she faced the window. 
 Then with his chin resting on the back 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 beam- 
 ing 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 '11 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 '11 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
 
 OR, THE HOMES OP TIPPERARY. 57 
 
 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 '11 
 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, how- 
 ever, 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 hh 
 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
 
 58 KNOCKNAGOW , 
 
 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 
 Che 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 VIIL 
 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
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 59 
 
 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 Bally- 
 mullin, 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 " admira- 
 tion" how fast and sure gale days did come round in Knock- 
 nagow "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 
 them that she could see Xorah from where she sj;ood, sitting 
 in her straw chair under the beech tree, reading a book, with 
 "Friskey" on his haunches "grng" was the Avord 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
 
 60 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 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. 
 
 "Eead it," she said at last calmly, and sat down again 
 after handing him the letter. 
 
 Phil put oil 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, Avud 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 Avail, 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.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OP TIPPER ART. 61 
 
 "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 '11 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 
 he 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 pro- 
 found respect for his erudition. 
 
 "Put that in your hussif," said Phil, handing her the 
 cheque. 
 
 She did so ; and set about preparing Korah'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, an' as soon as I finish this speech 
 uv the counsellor's I '11 go with you." 
 
 During the afternoon of that day Mat the Thrasher ob- 
 served 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 pro- 
 ceeded with his work. But when he saw the same thing 
 occur at every house they passed, his curiosity was excited ;
 
 62 
 
 KKOCKNAOOW ; 
 
 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 dis- 
 cussing 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 fol- 
 lowing it. 
 
 "I'll talk to Mat Donovan to-morrow," said she, "an' 
 he '11 tell me what things '11 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
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERART. 63 
 
 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 "barnek," 
 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. 
 
 CHAPTEE 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.
 
 64 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 " 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 ans^e: the call." 
 
 She pulled off her worsted mittens, and throwing back 
 the hood of her cloak, thereby displaying a snow-white cap, 
 a little crushed and crumpled by the weight of the hood, 
 with a gorgeous broad ribbon as a band over the crown of 
 her head and tied in a bow-knot under her chin, she sat on a 
 low stool in front of Norah. 
 
 " Give a guess what I have for you," she said, taking one 
 of Norah's wasted hands between her own. 
 
 "I don't know, mother." 
 
 " Somethin' Miss Mary sent you for a Christmas-box." 
 
 She put her hand into her ample pocket and took out a 
 pair of handsome embroidered slippers. 
 
 Norah's large eyes expressed the utmost surprise; for such 
 a pair of slippers she had never seen before. 
 
 Her mother slipped the wasted hand into one of them. 
 
 "Isn't id cosy an' warm?" she asked, looking fondly in 
 Norah's face, "lined with beautiful fur." 
 
 She ran to the fire and held the slippers close to the 
 blaze which was purely a matter of form, for, even if they 
 required warming, she allowed no time for the least heat to 
 be imparted to them. 
 
 Gently removing Norah's shoes, she put on the embroidered 
 slippers, and looked up with a smile of delight. But the smile 
 quickly vanished, giving place to a look of amazement and 
 alarm. Norah's lips trembled and the tears gushed from her 
 eyes. 
 
 Surprise kept the poor woman passive for a moment ; but 
 recovering herself, she put her arm round her daughter's 
 3houlder. 
 
 " What is id, Norah?" she asked. " What ails my darlinT' 
 
 But it was after a long struggle Norah was able to answer. 
 
 " Oh, mother," said she, " she is too good." 
 
 And, pressing her face against her mother's breast, she 
 sobbed so violently that the poor woman became quite 
 alarmed.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TITPERARY. 65 
 
 Phil Lahy hastened in from the shop door, where he had 
 stopped to repeat his promise to Mat Donovan that he would 
 not " disappoint him." 
 
 "What ails her?" he asked. 
 
 " Oh, wisha, what but she 's so thankful to Miss Mary for 
 the slippers," Honor replied. "I don't know what in the 
 world to do wud her." 
 
 "Have sense, Norah, have sense," said her father, gently. 
 
 She recovered herself by an effort, and resumed her usual 
 position with her head leaning against the back of her chair. 
 
 " 'Twill do me good, mother," said she. 
 
 "Maybe so, wud the help uv God. An' Miss Mary toulc 5 
 me Doctor Kiely '11 be out next week, an' she '11 bring hin 
 over to*see you; an' who knows, wud the blessin' uv God. 
 but he might be able to do somethin' for you. An' now," 
 she continued, resuming her usual cheerful manner, " I '11 go 
 and get the breakfast ready. Sit down on that chair, Phil, 
 an' talk to her, an' tell her all Father Hannigan said ; and 
 'tis he 's the dhroll Father Hannigan. He 'd have you 
 Jaughin' wan minit an' cryin' the next. I wish we had Billy 
 Hetfernan to play a tune for her. That 's what 'd rise her 
 heart. An', be all the goats in Kerry, but here he is him- 
 self. Sit down there in the corner, Billy, an' play a tune for 
 Norah. She was so lonesome all the mornin', wud no wan 
 but Tommy and Friskey to keep her company, a tune '11 do 
 her all the good in the world." 
 
 Billy sat down on a bench near the window under the 
 linnet's cage, and taking the joints of an old flute from his 
 pocket, commenced screwing them together, without utter- 
 ing a word. Norah preferred "the soft complaining flute" to 
 "the "ear-piercing fife;" and because she did, Billy Heffernan 
 though he never said so invested the proceeds of a load 
 of turf in the purchase of this one, and patched up his old 
 brogues to make them last another winter; to which last- 
 mentioned circumstance an occasional hiatus in his perform- 
 ance on this occasion caused by a hurried application of 
 the coat cuff to the nose is, we think, to be attributed. 
 
 "Billy, a chora," Mrs. Lahy exclaimed, remonstratively, 
 laying down her cup without tasting it for she and Phil 
 were now at breakfast " Billy, a chora, stop that ! Her 
 heart is too full to-day, for thim grievous ould airs. Play
 
 66 KXOCKXAGOW ; 
 
 *I buried my wife an' danced o' top uv her' or somethin' 
 lively." 
 
 The musician took the hint, and delighted his audience 
 with a succession of jigs and planxties that might " cure a 
 paralytic." 
 
 So captivated were they all that Father M'Mahon was 
 actually standing with folded arms behind Norah's chair 
 before any one was aware of his presence. A sudden break- 
 off in the middle of a bar of "Paudheen O'Rafferty," and a 
 sheepish dropping of the musician's under-jaw made Phil and 
 Honor look around. 
 
 Father M'Mahon at once relieved them from their evident 
 embarrassment, by saying in a kindly way : 
 
 "So, Billy, you are playing for Norah. That 'I right; 
 that 's right. I hope she '11 soon be able to come to Mass and 
 hear the organ." And he laid his hand softly on her head. 
 She trembled as he did so, and in order to set her at ease he 
 sat down on the chair which Honor carefully wiped with her 
 apron, and said : 
 
 "Come, Billy; 'Paudheen O'Rafferty' is a favourite of 
 mine, so go on with it." 
 
 Billy Heffernan, turning his head towards the wall, gave 
 his troublesome nose a vigorous tweak, and obeyed. 
 
 "Thank you, Billy. Thank you. Very good, indeed,"' 
 said the priest. 
 
 And with a gratified, though by no means cheerful, smile, 
 and another assault upon his troublesome nose, Billy Heffer- 
 nan left the house as silently as he entered it. 
 
 " And now, Phil," said Father M'Mahon, " I want to have 
 a serious word or two with you. After the promise you 
 made me I was exceedingly sorry to hear that you were under 
 the influence of drink on Thursday at the fair." 
 
 "An' you were tould I was under the influence of drink 
 at the fair?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "An' would it be any harm to ax who tould you?" 
 
 " Oh, I am not bound to give you my authority. But it 
 was a person on whose word I can rely." 
 
 " An'* a person on whose word you can rely tould you that 
 Phil Lahy was at the fair on Thursday and that Phil Lahy 
 was drunk ?"
 
 ORj THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 67 
 
 " Yes," said the priest, for Phil paused for a reply. 
 
 "An' now, will you tell me, did that person who tould 
 you that Phil Lahy was at the fair and that Phil Lahy was 
 dhrunk, tell you that Phil Lahy bought two pigs?" 
 
 " Well, no ; he did not mention that." 
 
 " I '11 be bound he didn't ; for the devil a thing these 
 people, on whose word you can rely, ever think of telling but 
 the bad thing." 
 
 Father M'Mahon rubbed his hand over his face and tried 
 to look very grave. But thinking it best not to pursue the 
 argument further, he turned to Honor and said : 
 
 "I think, Mrs. Lahy, I had better hear Norah's confes- 
 sion now." 
 
 Phil and Honor left the kitchen, and Father M'Mahon put 
 on his stole and drew his chair close to the sick girl to hear 
 her confession. 
 
 "Phil," said his wife, when the priest was gone, "you 
 may as well cut out that coat for Mat. 'T would be too bad 
 to disappoint him, an' he goin' to be such a decent b'y's 
 sidesman." 
 
 " I won't disappoint him," Phil replied. " But I feel too 
 wake to do anything to-day. I think I must take a stretch 
 on the bed." 
 
 " Well, if you don't like the work, go out an' take a walk, 
 an' 'twill do you good." 
 
 " I can't do anything when this wakeness comes over me." 
 And Phil did manage to look so faint, that a stranger would 
 never have suspected that he had just eaten a very hearty 
 breakfast. 
 
 "Tommy," he continued, "reach me the looking-glass." 
 
 Tommy brought him a small looking-glass with the frame 
 painted a bright red, and a brass ring in it to hang it up by ; 
 and after surveying his visage for some time, and pulling up 
 his shirt collar, which was of the highest and stiffest, Phil 
 exclaimed with his eyes still fixed on the glass : 
 
 " Honor, I look very bad." 
 
 " Now, Phil, don't be makin' a fool uv yourself. I never 
 see you lookin' better in my life. Ax Norah." 
 
 " You don't look bad at all, father," said Norah. 
 
 " I feel very wake," said he, making a movement to rise, 
 but looking as if he could not do so without assistance.
 
 68 KNOCKNAGOW J 
 
 "Wisha, wisha, what am I to do wud him at all at all?" 
 Honor muttered to herself. " If wance he lies down there, 
 he '11 stay till Sunday mornin', at any rate. An' I don't 
 like to sind for Miss Mary the day uv the Station, an' all 
 an' moreover a strange gintleman in the house." 
 
 Honor had found from experience that no one but Miss 
 Kearney could talk Phil out of his "weaknesses," and on 
 Critical occasions she was in the habit of sending for her 
 unknown to the patient. Mary would come in, as it were, 
 accidentally, and after a chat with Phil about " Columbkill's 
 Prophecies," or some other interesting subject, she always 
 succeeded in convincing him that he was perfectly well, that 
 it was only his nerves and that even the "inward pain" 
 was imaginary. 
 
 " I think, Honor," said Phil, " I '11 try the spirits o' tur- 
 pentine. This pain is comin' at me." 
 
 This decided Honor, and she whispered Tommy to his 
 great delight to run and ask Miss Mary to take a walk over 
 in the course of the day if she could at all. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 "A LITTLE NOURISHMENT." 
 
 MARY, accompanied by her sister Ellie and Grace, soon made 
 her appearance ; and Phil jumped up from his chair with 
 wonderful alacrity for a man who, a few minutes before, 
 seemed quite unable to rise without help. 
 
 Poor Borah's eyes beamed with pleasure and gratitude 
 and admiration as her beautiful friend bent over her and 
 hoper 1 , in her low, sweet voice, that she was better. 
 
 " I am, Miss," was all Norah said. But she was so fasci- 
 nated as to be unconscious of the little bunch of monthly 
 roses which Ellie had silently placed in her hand. 
 
 Grace cast a supercilious glance around, and seemed to
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 6 
 
 think the conduct of her friends quite absurd. But when 
 Mary moved aside and let the light from the window fall 
 full upon the sick girl's face, Grace's haughty look gave place 
 to one of pity. Unlike Mary or Ellie, however, her impulse 
 was to shrink away from that pale face, and forget that she 
 had ever seen it. 
 
 When Mary turned round to speak to Phil Lahy, he sud- 
 denly remembered his weakness and dropped languidly back 
 into his chair. 
 
 Mrs. Lahy exchanged glances with her visitor, and placing 
 a chair at a convenient distance from the rapidly sinking 
 patient, said : 
 
 "He's only poorly to-day. Miss. Maybe you could spare 
 time an' sit down and talk to him for a start. I know he 'd 
 be in the better uv id." 
 
 " I hope, Mr. Lahy," said Mary, " it is nothing serious. 
 I thought you looked remarkably well this morning; and 
 Father M'Mahon made the same remark." 
 
 " I J d want a little nourishment," said Phil. 
 
 Mary looked at his wife for an explanation ; but Honor 
 only shook her head. 
 
 "Perhaps I could send you something," she remarked, 
 still looking at Honor. 
 
 But another shake of the head was the only reply. 
 
 "He says," said Mary, "he requires nourishment." 
 
 " That 's what I want," said Phil, turning round and look- 
 ing earnestly in her face. " A little nourishment." 
 
 Mary again looked at Honor, evidently surprised that he 
 should not have proper nourishment. 
 
 "God help you, Miss," said Honor, at last, "don't you* 
 know the nourishment he wants? Nourishment!" she re- 
 peated. " I never heard him call anything but the wan 
 thing nourishment." 
 
 Mary now understood the state of the case, and changed' 
 the subject. 
 
 "You asked me some time ago, Mr. Lahy," she said, 
 "if I could lend you Moore's ' Lai la Rookh.' I hadn't it. 
 at the time, but I can give it to you now any day you come 
 up." 
 
 " Thank you, Miss," Phil replied. " 'Tis goin' on twenty 
 years since I read id ; an' I was wishin' to see id. What put
 
 70 
 
 KNOCKNAGOW j 
 
 id into my head was seein' some lines the counsellor brought 
 into wan of his speeches, an' I knew I seen ; em somewhere 
 before : 
 
 'Rebellion, foul, dishonouring word, 
 
 Whose wrongful blight so oft has stained 
 The holiest cause that tongue or sword 
 Of mortal ever lost or gained.' 
 
 I disremember if them lines isn't in ' Lalla Rookh.' " 
 
 "Yes," said Mary, smiling, "those lines are from 'Lalla 
 Pcookh."' 
 
 "The Fire Worshippers," added Grace, sententiously. 
 
 "Sure enough, 'tis the Fire Worshippers," said Phil, 
 looking at her with surprise. 
 
 " But," he added, turning to Mary, " is the wan you have 
 ,ge-nu-ine?" 
 
 " Oh, I suppose it must be." 
 
 " 'Twas your Uncle Dan, God be good to him, that lint me 
 the wan I read. An', by the same token, 'twas the same 
 day he gave me the ' Coravoth.' I was the fust that ever 
 sung id in those parts. But I wouldn't give a pin for them 
 little 'Lalla Rookhs' that's goin' now. That wan was as 
 big as a double spellin' book." 
 
 Mary, who did her best to keep her countenance, said she 
 feared hers was one of the little ones ; but, as her brother 
 Hugh had all her uncle's books, she would see whether the 
 genuine edition of "Lalla Rookh" was among them. 
 
 Phil was by this time quite cured of his weakness, and 
 Mary rose to take her leave. 
 
 During their conversation, Tommy was exhibiting the 
 .goldfinch's accomplishments to its new mistress. 
 
 When the bird, after much coaxing, moved sideways along 
 its perch, now coquettishly advancing, now timidly holding 
 back, at length picked hurriedly at the bunch of groundsel 
 which Tommy held temptingly against the wires of its cage, 
 Ellie's delight was only second to that of Honor Lahy her- 
 self, who gave much more attention to the little by-play at 
 the window than to the conversation about " books and 
 larnin' " between her husband and Miss Kearney. 
 
 Mary, too, stopped for a moment to contemplate the 
 scene
 
 OR, THE HOMES OP TIPPERARY. 71 
 
 Ellie's bonnet was hanging on her back, and her hair 
 fallen loose over her face and shoulders ; while the boy, 
 who was on his knees, looked up at her with a triumph- 
 ant smile, as the goldfinch snatched the groundsel through 
 the wires, and, placing its foot on it, commenced pulling it 
 to pieces. 
 
 Mary thought the group would be a good subject for a 
 pleasant picture. 
 
 But how sad was the contrast when she turned to the 
 straw chair, and the dark, melancholy eyes met hers. And 
 ivhen she felt the love the almost worship for herself 
 that filled those melancholy eyes, Mary found it hard to 
 keep back the emotion that swelled up from her heart. She 
 turned her face away, and pulled down her veil before 
 bidding Norah good-bye. 
 
 "Oh, Mary," said Grace, when they had got into the open 
 air, "wouldn't it be well for that poor girl if she were dead 
 and for her mother, too V 
 
 "Oh, Miss!" 
 
 Grace started and looked around. 
 
 It was Honor Lahy who had followed them with Ellie's 
 gloves, which she had forgotten. The poor woman's hands 
 were stretched out as if begging for her child's life, and the 
 tears stood in her eyes. 
 
 " Oh, Miss, sure 'tis she brings all the luck to me !" 
 
 This woman would snatch her child from the grave merely 
 because "'twas she brought all the luck to her !" 
 
 Ah, if that old house were built upon crocks of gold 
 enough to purchase the fee-simple of broad Tipperary 
 Honor Lahy would have flung it all into the sea, and been 
 content to "beg the world" with her child, if by doing so 
 she could keep the light in those languid eyes a little longer. 
 
 Remonstrate with the heart-broken woman who paces the 
 floor in wordless agony from morning till night, and often 
 from night till morning. Tell her it is flying in the face of 
 Providence ; that it is time she should be reconciled to her 
 loss; and she will reply : It is so sad a case. She had just 
 settled her in the world ; encroached upon the portions of 
 her other children, perhaps, in order to place her her 
 darling in a home worthy of her. And now she is gone 
 the best and beautifulest of them all and what a loss that
 
 72 KNOCKNAGOW; 
 
 money is ! And she will try to make the wretched dross 
 she had lost with her child the excuse for her sorrow. But 
 if her darling's death had brought a queen's dowry to every 
 other child of hers, the sorrow at her heart would be no 
 lighter. 
 
 Say to this other one : " You should let your child go 
 where she can better herself. Do you want to keep her a 
 drudge all her life 1 ?" And see, the tears are in her eyes, 
 and she answers : " If she goes I won't have anyone to do 
 jnything for me." But give her a train of attendants to 
 anticipate her every wish, and the tears will be in her eyes 
 all the same. 
 
 So, again, this other one, who has lighted upon a tiny 
 pair of red woollen stockings at the bottom of an old drawer. 
 The little feet they encased grew tired, and a sweet, sweet 
 little voice said : " Carry me, mamma," and a little silky 
 head drooped like a flower, and two violet eyes grew, first 
 brighter and brighter, and then heavy, and fixed, and 
 glazed twenty years ago. And when she sees you shake 
 your head she dries her eyes, and says, with a sigh : " If I 
 had her now how useful she 'd be to me." You foolish 
 woman ! Look at those four healthy, blooming girls. Are 
 they not good, and careful, and affectionate, and all that a 
 mother's heart could wish? On the mere score of utility 
 you have more help than you require, more hands than you 
 can find employment for. And yet you would cheat us 
 with : " How useful she would be to you." But we are 
 forgetting our story. 
 
 " Oh, Miss, sure 'tis she 's bringin' all the luck to me," 
 said Honor Lahy. 
 
 Grace turned away, with her brows knit into something 
 very like a frown. 
 
 Mary was greatly moved, and felt at a loss for something 
 to say that might soothe the poor woman, when Tommy's 
 appearance relieved her from her embarrassment. 
 
 Miss Ellie is certainly an untidy girl. She forgot her 
 gloves, and now Tommy comes running, breathlessly, up to 
 them with a woollen ruff held high above his head. 
 
 "I hope, Mrs. Lahy," said Mary, " that Tommy continues 
 to be a good boy." 
 
 " He is, then, Miss," she replied, wiping the tears from
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPEKARY. 13 
 
 her eyes with the corner of her apron, " very good at his 
 books. An' every way on'y for the climbin'." 
 
 Ellie looked laughingly at the delinquent, who scratched 
 his curly poll, and returned her smile with a shrug of his 
 shoulders and a glance of his merry blue eyes. 
 
 " Oh, but as he is so good, you must not be too strict with 
 him," said Mary. 
 
 " But 'tis on'y the mercy uv God, Miss," Honor exclaimed, 
 as if her patience were tried beyond endurance, " that he 
 don't make smithereens uv himself. An' besides, I can't 
 keep a stitch on him." 
 
 She turned round to survey the culprit, whose bones and 
 habiliments she considered in such constant jeopardy. 
 
 " Oh, oh, what am I to do wud him at all, at all ? Look 
 at him, 1 ' she cried, catching Tommy by the shoulders and 
 spinning him round. "How did you tear that piece out uv 
 your breeches ? An' where is it ?" 
 
 Tommy looked considerably surprised ; but guided by the 
 spectators' eyes and even Grace honoured him with a side- 
 long glance he clapped his hand behind and discovered 
 that a pretty large piece was missing out of his corduroys. 
 
 It could be seen by his puzzled look that he was trying to 
 remember where or how the accident occurred. His mind was 
 divided between Tom Hogan's gate and Mat the Thrasher's 
 whitethorn hedge, when casting his eyes upwards, as people 
 will do under like circumstances (meaning no reference to 
 Tommy's mutilated garment, but only to the operation of 
 his mind), a ray of light seemed to break upon him from 
 the beech-tree. To Grace's profound astonishment he rushed 
 suddenly to the tree, and, clasping his arms round it, began to 
 ascend. Mary, too, seemed taken by surprise. But the 
 proceeding was evidently nothing new to Ellie, who was 
 indebted to Tommy's climbing propensities for an extensive 
 collection of birds' eggs. 
 
 His mother shook her head, as if she had just made up 
 her mind that Tommy's case was quite hopeless, and that 
 reclaiming him was an utter impossibility. 
 
 Grace's eyebrows became more and more elevated as he 
 mounted higher and higher. 
 
 But on reaching one of the highest boughs he stretched out 
 his hand and the object of his ascent was visible to them
 
 74 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 all ; for there was the missing piece of corduroy fluttering 
 in the breeze. Thrusting it into his pocket, he descended 
 with a rapidity that caused Mary to put her hands before 
 her eyes, as if she thought the catastrophe which his mother 
 considered so imminent was at hand, and that Tommy was 
 then and there determined to " make smithereens of himself." 
 It was greatly to her relief, if a little to her surprise, that 
 when she looked round, the cause of her anxiety was nowhere 
 visible he having scampered into the house the moment his 
 foot touched terra firma, as if he were quite unconscious of 
 the presence of the little group who had watched his per- 
 formance with so much interest. 
 
 Mary said good-bye again to Honor Lahy, and went a little 
 further up the hill to pay a visit to Tom Hogan's handsome 
 daughter Nancy, who she suspected was pining in thought 
 in consequence of an approaching event in which it was con- 
 jectured that one Ned Brophy was to play an important 
 part. 
 
 Perhaps there was something in Mary's own heart, which, 
 unknown to herself, made her sympathise with pretty Nancy 
 Hogan. 
 
 CHAPTEE XI. 
 
 FATHER HANNIGAN'S SERMOX. 
 
 IT is right that we should follow the two gentlemen with 
 whom we parted some hours ago on their way back from the 
 old castle. Mass was nearly over when they arrived at 
 the cottage ; and Richard quieted his conscience for losing 
 it, by persuading himself that his absence was a case of 
 necessity. 
 
 A table in the hall, raised to sufficient height by means 
 of two chairs, upon the backs of which it rested, served the 
 purpose of an altar. 
 
 Mr. Lowe was again struck by the fervoiir of the people, 
 who filled the hall and kitchen, while not a few knelt on the
 
 OR, THE HOMES OP TIPPERAKY. 75 
 
 frozen ground outside the hall-door. He was not a little 
 surprised to see Hugh Kearney, officiously assisted by Phil 
 Lahy, " serving Mass." 
 
 Piloted by Richard, he got into the hall, the people making 
 way for them as they went on, into the parlour, when; 
 Father O'Neill was still hearing confessions. 
 
 Mr. Lowe sat in the window seat next the door, where he 
 could see the altar and the officiating clergyman. He saw 
 that he was too late for the sermon he Avas so anxious to 
 hear, as Father Hannigan was in the act of taking off his 
 vestments. 
 
 But though Father Hannigan had delivered his regular 
 discourse after the first gospel, it was his habit to address a 
 few homely words to the people at the conclusion of the 
 Mass, upon what we may call local and individual topics. 
 He now turned round and began, in his deep big voice, with: 
 
 "Now, what's this I was going to say to ye?" 
 
 He pressed the fore-finger of his left hand against his 
 temple, as if trying to recall something that had escaped his 
 memory. Mr. Lowe thought he was about giving up the 
 attempt in despair, when he suddenly jerked up his head, 
 exclaiming 
 
 " Ay ! ay ! ay ! D' ye give up stealing the turf in the 
 name o' God?" 
 
 " Every one," he continued after a pause, " must steal turf 
 such weather as this that hasn't it of their own. But sure if 
 ye didn't know it was wrong, ye wouldn't be telling it to the 
 priest. And ye think it would be more disgraceful to beg 
 than to steal it. That's a great mistake. No dacent man 
 would refuse a neighbour a hamper of turf such weather as 
 this. And a poor man is not a beggar for asking a hamper 
 of turf such weather as this Avhen he can't get a day's work, 
 and the Easter water bottles bursting. Ye may laugh ; but 
 Judy Manogue stopped me on the road yesterday to know what 
 she ought to do. Her bottle of Easter water that she had 
 under her bed was in a lump of ice, and the bottle a big, 
 black bottle that often gave some of ye a headache^ an' 
 maybe t\vasn't without giving more of you a heartache 
 before Judy took my advice and gave up that branch of her 
 business : well, the big, black bottle was split in two with 
 the fair dint of the frost under the poor woman's bed. And
 
 76 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 the Lord knows no Christian could stand without a spark of 
 fire to keep the life in him let alone looking at a houseful 
 of children shivering and shaking, and he able and willing to 
 work, and not a stroke of work to be got. But ye all know 
 that stealing is bad, and ye ought fitter make your cases 
 known to the priest, and maybe something might be done for 
 ye. Pride is a good thing dacent, manly pride and 'twill 
 often keep a man from doing a mane act even when he 's 
 sorely tempted. Spent is a good thing. But, take my word 
 for it, there 's nothing like HONESTY. And poverty, so long 
 as it is not brought on by any fault of his own, need never 
 bring a blush to any man's cheek. So, in the name o' God, 
 d'ye give up stealing the turf." 
 
 Here he paused, and Phil Lahy, supposing the discourse 
 ended, advanced with a bowl of holy water with a kind of 
 brush laid across it, for the purpose of sprinkling the con- 
 gregation before they dispersed. But Father Hannigan 
 motioned him back and proceeded. 
 
 "Father O'Neill is against the beagles. He says 'tis a 
 shame to hear the horn sounding, and see ye scampering 
 over ditches and hedges on the Lord's Day. Well, I don't 
 know what to say to that. 'Tis the only day ye have for 
 'diversion of any sort. And as long as ye are sure not to lose 
 Mass, I won't say anything against the beagles. The far- 
 mers tell me they don't mind the loss to them to let their 
 sons keep a dog or two. And if ye meet after Mass mind, 
 I say, after divine service I don't see much harm in it. I 'm 
 told, too, the gentlemen of the neighbourhood that is, such 
 of them as are gentlemen don't object to it, as ye are 
 honourable sportsmen and spare the hares. But then there 's 
 the hurling. There 's a deal of bad blood when ye hurl the 
 two sides of the river. If there 's any more of the work that 
 was carried on at the last match, ye '11 be the disgrace of the 
 country, instead of being, as ye are, the pride of the barony. 
 'Tis given up to the Knocknagow boys to be as spirited and 
 well-conducted as any in the county. Didn't I point ye out 
 to the Liberator himself the day of the Meeting, and he said 
 a finer body of men he never laid his eyes on. Such men, 
 said he, are the bone and sinew of the country. Some of 
 the best boys ye had are gone sinco that time, short as it 
 is "
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 77 
 
 Here there was a murmur amongst the women ; and a low, 
 suppressed wail from two or three whose sons had. but lately 
 emigrated, made him pause for a moment. 
 
 " Well," he continued, shaking his head as the low Avail 
 died away ; " thank God the crowbar brigade didn't pay ye a 
 visit like other places ; and I hope there is no danger of it, 
 as the landlords here are not exterminators like some I could 
 mention. I was in Cloonbeg the other day at a funeral I 
 was curate there six years ago 'twas the first parish I was 
 sent to after being ordained, and it broke my heart to see the 
 change. I could hardly believe 'twas the same place. The 
 people swept away out of a whole side of a country, just as if 
 'twas a flood that was after passing over it. I married some 
 of 'em myself and christened their children, and left 'em happy 
 and comfortable. 'Tis little I thought I 'd ever pass the same 
 road and not find a human face to welcome me. "Well, please 
 God, there 's no danger of ye that way, at any rate. And yet, 
 sure, 'tis little security ye have but I won't say anything 
 that might discourage ye." 
 
 Father Hannigan turned toward the altar, and Phil Lahy 
 was again advancing with the holy water ; but after taking a 
 pinch of snuff he resumed his address : 
 
 " I want ye to keep up the good name ye have. And talk- 
 ing of funerals reminds me of your conduct at the berrin' of 
 that poor man ye brought to Kilree the week before last. 
 'Twas a charitable thing to carry him thirteen long miles 
 through the teeming rain, and I know ye had pains in your 
 shoulders next morning afcer him. 'Twas a charitable thing 
 to lay his poor old bones alongside of his wife and children, 
 as it was his last wish though he hadn't a chick or child 
 living belonging to him. I say that was a charitable, Chris- 
 tian, Irish act and may God reward ye for it. But that 
 was no excuse for the way ye behaved. The parish priest 
 of Kilree said such a set never came into his parish. And 
 ould Peg 'Naughton, that keeps the shebeen house at the 
 church, declared to myself that, though she is there goin' on 
 fifty-two years, 'twas the drunk enest little funeral she ever 
 laid her eyes on. Isn't that a nice cha-rac-ter ye 're aiming 
 for yourselves? But I hope now ye '11 remember my words. 
 And now I have one request to ask of you. I want ye to 
 promise me that ye '11 dig the Widow Keating's stubbles for
 
 78 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 her. She hasn't a sowl to do a hand's turn for her since her 
 boy lost his health. "Will ye promise me now that as soon 
 as the weather is fitting ye '11 dig the Widow Keating's 
 stubbles ? 'Tis short 'twill take ye if ye all join together." 
 
 "We'll do id, sir," "We will, sir, never fear," was 
 answered all round. 
 
 "That's right, boys. And now any of ye that's very 
 badly off, come to Father M'Mahon or myself and tell 
 your story, and don't be ashamed. There 's a little money 
 collected for cases of distress in the town. And as the 
 Major has subscribed ten pounds, and we 're writing to Sir 
 Garrett Butler for a subscription and 'tisn't easy to know 
 where to write to him" glancing towards the parlour win- 
 dow " 'tis only fair that cases of hardship on their own 
 property should be looked after. I may as well tell ye, too, 
 the Major sent Father M'Mahon a quarter of beef for Christ- 
 mas. There's not a finer quarter of beef in Munster this 
 minute. 'Twould do your heart good to look at it." 
 
 And abruptly seizing the brush, he dipped it in the holy 
 water, and swung his arm round so vigorously and dexter- 
 ously in all directions that even the gentleman at the parlour 
 window came in for a share. 
 
 The people now dispersed, and Mr. Lowe was conducted 
 to the breakfast room, and formally introduced to the three 
 clergymen. 
 
 CHAPTEE XII. 
 
 MATRIMONY AND "MARRIAGE MONEY." THE WIDOW'S LAST WISH. 
 
 IN the matter of breakfast, Mrs. Kearney came out in full 
 force on the occasion of a Station. Even Mr. Lowe could 
 not help taking notice of the display on the table. The 
 antique silver coffee-pot was particularly conspicuous, and. 
 it was quite affecting to see the reverential gentleness 
 with which the good woman handled this relic of the 
 O'Carrolls. Her fingers would sometimes play softly on
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 79 
 
 the lid in a manner that caused her husband visible 
 anxiety ; for the coffee-pot had been her grandmother's, and 
 was presented to herself at the time of her marriage by 
 her Uncle Dan. A tall urn was equally an object of 
 dread to honest Maurice ; and when she was heard to ask 
 Father M'Mahon did he remember the day long ago, when 
 he was a young student, that the urn was upset by Annie 
 Cleary's sleeve being caught by the deer's horns on the lid, a 
 full and true history of Ballydunmore was looked upon as 
 inevitable. But, fortunately, the housekeeper whispered into 
 her ear that a certain cream-jug, which, by right, should have 
 attended the coffee-pot, was forgotten ; and the announce- 
 ment so startled Mrs. Kearney as for the time to put Bally- 
 dunmore and the tea-urn completely out of her head. 
 
 Father M'Mahon spoke little, and seemed to the stranger 
 reserved, and even haughty. 
 
 The reserve of the young curate was of a different sort, 
 and evidently arose from bashfulness. 
 
 But Father Hannigan had something to say to every one ; 
 and Mr. Lowe was not long in discovering that, with all 
 his peculiarities, Father Hannigan was a scholar and a 
 gentleman. 
 
 On finding that the stranger had taken his degree in one 
 of the English universities, Father Hannigan engaged him 
 upon some knotty points of classical learning, and the young 
 A.B. soon began to feel not quite at his ease with so able an 
 antagonist. 
 
 Grace paid great attention to this learned encounter, and 
 looked so exceedingly wise with her elbow on the table and 
 her chin resting on the little finger of her left hand, that 
 Mary was in doubt whether she did not really understand 
 every word. 
 
 " Really, Grace," said she, speaking so low as not to be 
 heard by the gentleman, " one would think you are a? 
 familiar with Homer and Virgil and the rest of them as 
 you are with Longfellow and Sidney Smyth, to say nothing 
 of Robinson Crusoe." 
 
 "Indeed, no," she replied, with a half-displeased look, 
 and dropping her hand on the table ; " but I was remarking 
 that Mr. Lowe pronounces Latin like papa, and Father 
 Hannigan like the ' Brehon.' "
 
 80 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 " He picked up that in Trinity College," said Father 
 Hannigan, who sat next her, and heard part of her remark. 
 " That 's not the way he pronounced it when he and I read 
 Virgil together in Larry O'Kourke's mud-wall seminary in 
 Glounamuckadhee." 
 
 " Oh, perhaps so," replied Grace, not at all pleased that 
 her papa had read Virgil in a mud-wall seminary, and in a 
 place with such a name as Glounamuckadhee. 
 
 "Ay, then," continued the priest, with a twinkle in his 
 eye, as if he took pleasure in teasing her ; " and every one 
 of us brought a sod of turf under his arm to school during 
 the winter." 
 
 Grace looked quite offended, and made no reply. 
 
 "I am told," said Mr. Lowe, "that Doctor Kiely is at 
 present writing a work on Irish antiquities." 
 
 The eyes of the offended young lady sparkled with plea- 
 sure as she fixed them with a look of pleased surprise on the 
 speaker. 
 
 "Yes," said she, in a softened tone, "he devotes nearly 
 all the time he can spare from his professional duties to it." 
 
 " It is a very interesting subject," he added. " I have 
 heard Dr. Kiely 's articles spoken highly of." 
 
 Grace was so delighted, that Larry O'Rourke's mud-wall 
 seminary and the sods of turf vanished from her mind and 
 left not a trace behind. 
 
 "Will you have many weddings this Shrove?" Maurice 
 Kearney asked, turning to the parish priest, who was so ab- 
 sorbed in thought that this sudden address made him start. 
 
 " Well," he replied, in his clear, silvery voice, " I fear not. 
 All my boys seem bent upon going elsewhere for wives. I 
 have already given half-a-dozen certificates, while as yet I 
 have heard of no one returning the compliment." 
 
 "Ned Brophy is getting a fine fortune," said Mr. Kearney. 
 
 "So I'm told," replied Father M'Mahon; and Mary 
 thought she could see a look of displeasure in his face, which 
 she could not help connecting with the tear she noticed on 
 Nancy Hogan's pale cheek as she was leaving the drawing- 
 room after confession an hour or two before. 
 
 " Two hundred gold sovereigns," continued Mr. Kearney, 
 " out of an ould saucepan." 
 
 This piece of information regarding Ned Brophy's good
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPEKARY. 81 
 
 luck caused a general laugh; the more readily perhaps, 
 because it was given with a look of perfect gravity. 
 
 "And you would not miss it out of it," he continued, 
 seeming quite unconscious of their mirth. 
 
 "Out of what, sir?" Eichard asked. 
 
 " The saucepan," replied his father ; " Xecl himself told 
 me so." 
 
 "Do you approve of this fortune-hunting, Miss Kearney?" 
 Father M'Mahon asked, turning to Mary. 
 
 " Xo, sir," she replied, blushing deeply, " I don't like it 
 at all." 
 
 "And what do you say, Miss Kiely?" 
 
 " I really have not thought much on the subject," Grace 
 replied. "But it is by no means unpleasant to be rich. 
 And I'm rather inclined to think there is a good deal of 
 truth in the proverb : ' When poverty enters the door, love 
 flies out at the window.' " 
 
 Father M'Mahon leant back in his arm-chair, and laughed 
 a low and somewhat satirical laugh. 
 
 "I fear." he said, "there is not much love in some of 
 these cases. I am as much opposed as anybody to im- 
 prudent marriages. But this buying and selling is a bad 
 business." 
 
 "Sure you don't want them to be like the Protestants?" 
 Mrs. Kearney observed reproachfully. 
 
 "The Protestants!" Father M'Mahon replied with sur- 
 prise. "How is that?" 
 
 "I never knew a Protestant," she replied, "that would 
 not live with a husband on a lough of water." 
 
 Father M'Mahon opened his eyes and seemed to want 
 more enlightenment. 
 
 " There are the three Miss Armstrongs," continued Mrs. 
 Kearney; " the youngest, to be sure, made a very good 
 match though she hadn't a penny for they were after 
 losing the property before her marriage. But the two 
 eldest girls, with their fine fortunes, married poor men 
 though they were respectable, I know, and sensible, too. 
 One of them, I 'm told, is doing well in Dublin ; and Mr. 
 Armstrong tells me Fanny said in her last letter from 
 Australia that they expected to come home and purchase an 
 estate in Ireland yet, they are making a fortune so rapidly."
 
 82 KNOCKNAGOW j 
 
 "Mr. Lowe," said Mary, "you ought to make mamma a 
 DOW. She has complimented" both the ladies and gentlemen 
 of your religion at our expense." 
 
 "And look at the Miss O'Dwyers," continued Mrs. 
 Kearney, not heeding the interruption ; " the fact is, I 
 believe they 11 never get married, as they can find no 
 suitable matches." 
 
 " It might be better for them to be doing well in Dublin, 
 or even making a fortune in Australia," said Father 
 M'Mahon. 
 
 " Is it a fact," Mr. Lowe asked, turning to Hugh, " that 
 Protestants are less hard to be pleased in the choice of 
 wives and husbands than Catholics in Ireland?" 
 
 " It does really seem they take the plunge more coura- 
 geously," replied Hugh. "I have noticed instances of it 
 even among the humbler classes." 
 
 "Yes," said his mother, "there is George Hardford, who 
 gave his daughter to Henry Johnson, the pensioner's son, 
 though he hadn't a trade or anything. Took him into his 
 house and kept him till he got a situation in the jail." 
 
 " Ah, that throws some light upon the matter," said 
 Father M'Mahon ; " situations of all kinds, high and low, 
 are reserved for the professors of the favoured creed ; land- 
 lords, too, will give farms at lower rents to Protestants than 
 to Catholics." 
 
 "And leases," said Mr. Kearney. "I don't know a Pro- 
 testant that hasn't a good lease." 
 
 "Yes," Father M'Mahon rejoined, "and it would seem 
 the rule will soon be that Catholics will have no leases. 
 And it is this state of dependence, this uncertainty of being 
 able to keep a roof over their heads, that has made mar- 
 riages the mercenary bargains they often are among us." 
 
 " It was not always so," Father Hannigan remarked. " I 
 remember a time, myself, when the man looked more to the 
 woman and less to the fortune than now." 
 
 "That is true," said Father M'Mahon. "Leases were 
 general then, and the people were consequently more inde- 
 pendent. Emancipation has done us harm in this respect. 
 The sacrifice of the Forty-shilling Freeholders was a great 
 injury to the country." 
 
 " Maybe," said Maurice Kearney, " the marriage money
 
 OR, THE HOMES OP TIPPERARV. 83 
 
 has something to do with keeping people from getting mar- 
 ried. !N"ed Brophy tells me the priest will charge twenty 
 pounds for marrying him." 
 
 " Well," replied Father M'Mahon with a laugh, "that is 
 not 'so much, bearing in mind that old saucepan you told us 
 of. But another parishioner of mine tells me his match is 
 broken off altogether on account of the exorbitant demand 
 of the priest. The father of the girl had only fifteen acres 
 of land, and the priest wanted fifteen pounds for marrying 
 his daughter." 
 
 '/I know all about that case," said Father Hannigan. 
 <r He went against the priest at the election." 
 
 " That makes the matter worse," rejoined Father M'Mahon. 
 " Such practices will have the effect of making the people 
 look upon the priest as a tyrant. But in the parish to which 
 I refer, I am assured, as a rule, the farmer must pay half-a- 
 year's rent to the priest for marrying his daughter." 
 
 "What do you think of the old system of public wed- 
 dings'?" asked Father Hannigan "when friends and neigh- 
 bours were invited, and the priest went round with a plate 
 for his collection." 
 
 "I liked it," replied Father M'Mahon. "Indeed I was 
 looked upon as singular because I did my best to encourage 
 the people to keep up the old system. It made them more 
 social and neighbourly. The priest, too, felt that what he got 
 was given cheerfully. And besides," added Father M'Mahon 
 laughing, "he went home with a heavier purse." 
 
 " I remember what you said at the last public wedding we 
 had in this parish," said Mr. Kearney. -"Twas at Tom 
 Donnelly's. The collection was larger than you expected, and 
 when you were thanking them, you said no matter how 
 small the sum might be, they could say, ' Go home now, sir, 
 you are paid;' but that if.it was a private wedding yov 
 could charge what you liked." 
 
 " I dare say some of the bridegroom's friends have of tei\ 
 thought of my words since. But I fear we are becoming 
 more genteel and more selfish every day ; so perhaps it is 
 as well to make people pay for their gentility." 
 
 " I 'm told," Maurice Kearney observed, " Tom Brien got 
 the job done in Liverpool for two-and-sixpence. You were in 
 Liverpool, Father O'Neill. How do they manage it there?"
 
 84 KXOCKNAGOW , 
 
 "What you say of Tom Brien is quite true, sir," the 
 young priest replied. "It happened it Avas I myself per- 
 formed the ceremony; for Tom said he 'd like to have the 
 knot tied by a Tipperary man." 
 
 "Ah, then, Father O'JSTeill," said Mrs. Kearney, "did 
 you ever meet any of the poor Skehans while you were in 
 Liverpool?" 
 
 " I did," he replied. " One of the children knew me 
 in the street; and it was I prepared the old woman for 
 death." 
 
 "I knew she would not live long," Mrs. Kearney ob- 
 served ; " she was so heart-broken at leaving the ' ould sod,' 
 as she said horself." 
 
 " Indeed," Father O'Neill rejoined, " that love of the ' ould 
 sod' evinced itself in what some might consider a ludicrous 
 manner at her last moment." 
 
 "How was that?" Father Hannigan asked, seeing the 
 young priest had relapsed into silence. 
 
 "Well," he replied, "when I had administered the Sa- 
 crament to her, and remained some time by her bedside, I 
 thought I noticed that she wished to say something to me, 
 but hesitated to speak. Whenever I moved, as if to go 
 away, I saw her eyes were fixed anxiously on me ; but still 
 she said nothing. So Avhen I was going I asked her was 
 there anything on her mind that was troubling her. 
 
 " ' There is then, sir,' said she ; ' but maybe 'tisn't much, 
 an' I oughtn't to be bothering you with it.' 
 
 " I assured her it was no trouble, and desired her to tell 
 me what it was she wished to say. 
 
 " ' Well, sir,' she said, looking anxiously into my face, * I 'd 
 like to know will my soul pass through Ireland?'" 
 
 Mr. Lowe looked surprised and amused ; and Grace, who 
 honoured him with a good deal of her attention, uttered an 
 exclamation and laughed. But all the rest were silent. 
 
 Mary stole a look at her brother Hugh, who covered his 
 face with his brown hand, and seemed greatly moved. She 
 knew he had special reason to be troubled, and regretted 
 that her mother had introduced a subject which always 
 pained him. 
 
 The fact was the Skehans had been under-tenants of 
 his father's, and, though not exactly ejected, were induced
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 85 
 
 to give up their little holding on receiving a trifling sum for 
 the good-will and being forgiven the arrears of rent. The 
 mere suspicion that the landlord Avished to get rid of them 
 has driven many an Irish family far away from the " old sod," 
 who loved that old sod even as did the widow Skehan, whose 
 last earthly wish was that " her soul might pass through Ire- 
 land" on its way to Heaven. 
 
 " My God !" exclaimed Father M'Mahon, " how they must 
 suffer!" 
 
 He stood up and strode across the room to a window, 
 where he stood gazing at the white hills, with his hands 
 clasped behind his back, for some minutes, and then left the 
 room without taking notice of any one. 
 
 " Father M'Mahon," said Mary, " is pondering over some 
 serious subject now. ; ' 
 
 " How can you tell that ?" her brother Richard asked. " Is 
 it Because he has forgotten his politeness?" 
 
 " Oh, we can all tell that," Grace exclaimed ; " didn't you 
 see the proud walk ? That 's proof positive that his brains 
 are wool-gathering." 
 
 But though Father M'Mahon forgot his politeness, he did 
 not forget poor Xorah Lahy. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE DOCTOR IN A FIX. 
 
 ' COME," said Richard to Mr. Lowe, " let us prepare for the 
 shooting." 
 
 As they passed the lobby window, Mr. Lowe glanced out 
 into the yard, and was astonished to see Barney Brodhericlj 
 in the act of rushing at Father M'Mahon's servant, evidently 
 with the intention of doing him grievous bodily injury; for 
 Barney was as pugnacious as the celebrated tailor who was 
 "blue moulded for the want of a batin'."
 
 86 
 
 KNOCKNAGOW , 
 
 Tom Maher, however, caught the wrathful Barney in his 
 arms and held him fast. 
 
 " Let me at him ! " exclaimed Barney imploringly, after 
 struggling and kicking to free himself. "Let me at him, 
 an', be the livin', I '11 put his two eyes into wan ! " 
 
 The tall servant regarded him with a scowl, in which 
 scorn was largely mingled. 
 
 " Tom, for the love uv heaven, take off uv me, an' I '11 
 brake every tooth in his head." 
 
 Here Phil Lahy appeared with his prayer-book still in his 
 left hand ; and laying his right on Barney's shoulder, he ad- 
 dressed some words to him in a low voice. 
 
 " D n well he knows that," replied Barney, almost tear- 
 fully. " D 11 well the blagard knows I 'm in the state of 
 grace to-day. But," he continued, through his clenched 
 teeth, and shaking his fist at the object of his enmity, " but, 
 please God, I won't be in the state of grace always. You 
 
 Kerry b d," he muttered, as he walked away, " from the 
 
 County Limerick." 
 
 That characteristic bull was received with a shout of 
 laughter from the bystanders. But Mr. Lowe's acquaintance 
 with the geography of Ireland was too limited to enable him 
 to see at once anything ludicrous in calling a man a Kerry 
 anything from the County Limerick. 
 
 Owing to the frost the snipe were not as plenty in the 
 bog as usual, except where there were springs. 
 
 At one of these places half a dozen rose together, but so 
 far off that Hugh didn't fire. Richard, however, whose 
 practice was to use his own words " to blaze away at 
 everything," let fly, and down came a snipe. The success- 
 ful marksman looked from one to the other of his com- 
 panions with a stare of amazement, as if the result of his 
 blazing away on this occasion were something altogether 
 beyond his comprehension. 
 
 "You really have winged him," said Hugh. 
 
 " Yes, I think so," returned the doctor faintly. 
 
 "But," said Hugh, laughing, "you were just pulling the 
 trigger when that one got up ten yards nearer to you than 
 those you fired at." 
 
 But the doctor by this time had realized the fact that he 
 had shot a snipe, and the trifling drawback alluded to by his 
 brother did not abate his elation in the least.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 87 
 
 He rushed forward, bounding over several bog-holes, reck- 
 less of consequences. But just as he reached the stream 
 from which the snipe had risen, the wounded bird sprang 
 several times a few feet from the ground ; and, finding these 
 efforts to get upon the wing vain, it ran quickly, with a look 
 of stealthy cunning, its long bill and neck stretched out 
 horizontally, towards a clump of rushes some yards from the 
 bank where it had fallen. 
 
 In his eagerness to prevent the prize from escaping, the 
 doctor, instead of leaping the stream as he had leaped the 
 bog-holes, rushed through it, sinking to the hips in the black 
 mud. He managed to drag himself through the weeds and 
 cresses to the opposite side. But when he attempted to 
 climb up the bank, he found one of his legs caught in 
 a bog stump at the bottom of the stream. He pulled and 
 pulled, keeping his eyes fixed on the snipe as it made for the 
 rushes, till he had freed his leg, and then jumped upon the 
 firm ground. And now, being sure of his quarry, the doctor 
 waltzed several times round the wounded snipe in a very 
 graceful manner, brandishing the long duck gun over his 
 head. He was rather pleased than otherwise at the loud 
 roar of laughter by which his friends, as he thought, meant 
 to applaud his performance. 
 
 He took up the bird and carefully examined the broken 
 wing, as if hefound initan interesting studyfrom a professional 
 point of view. Then throwing off the professional air, and 
 assuming that of the sportsman, he knocked the bird's head 
 against his gun and put it into his pocket with a look of super- 
 human calmness, as if bagging snipe by dozens of braces were 
 an everyday proceeding with him. 
 
 And now it occurred to the doctor that Hugh was rather 
 overdoing the laughing. He took out his powder-horn to load 
 again, feeling comfortably sure of " tumbling" it is to feath- 
 ered bipeds we apply the word every bird he pointed his 
 gun at during the rest of his life. But, on glancing at his 
 companions, he paused, with his thumb on the spring of his 
 powder-horn, in real surprise, for he saw them still convulsed 
 with laughter. 
 
 "What the devil do they mean 1 ?" he thought, putting his 
 hand in his pocket to make sure that he liad a snipe. 
 
 His stare of inquiry had such an effect on Hugh that he
 
 00 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 was obliged to have recourse to his pocket-handkerchief to 
 wipe the tears from his eyes. 
 
 " Hang it," exclaimed the doctor, " what are ye laughing 
 at 1 Is there anything wrong 1" 
 
 They pointed towards himself ; but after looking all around 
 him he could see nothing unusual. 
 
 At last he glanced at his feet ; and to his utter bewilder- 
 me'nt discovered that one of his limbs was as bare as a High- 
 lander's. 
 
 The fact was, when extricating himself from the bog- 
 stump, he left one of the legs of his trousers behind him. 
 
 "I'd recommend you," Hugh called out, "to find the 
 missing article, and draw it on as fast as you can. I see a 
 car coming this way." 
 
 "Do you want me to dive for it?" he asked, looking rue- 
 fully down among the weeds and cresses. 
 
 " 'Tis Hanly's phaeton," said Hugh. 
 
 The doctor looked towards the road, well nigh petrified 
 with horror. 
 
 Yes, there was the phaeton coming nearer and nearer. 
 A bend in the road would bring it within forty yards of 
 where he stood and not as much as a bush to obstruct the 
 view. 
 
 He turned his back to the road ; but the thought that 
 the view thus presented would be, if possible, more ridicu- 
 lous than any other, made him quickly "about face" 
 again. He tried to hide the undraped limb with the single 
 barrel duck gun ; but the futility of the attempt became in- 
 stantly apparent. Equally hopeless was the idea of wheel- 
 ing slowly round so as to keep the presentable leg towards 
 the carriage as it turned the bend of the road. The sun, 
 too, at that moment burst through its covering of clouds, 
 which had the effect of bringing him out in bolder relief 
 before the eyes of the wondering spectators. He would 
 have sworn he could see the bewitching Kathleen's dark 
 orbs open till the white was visible all round. And then, 
 what was still worse, the pearly teeth flashed from between 
 the rosy lips, and the fair Kathleen's head was thrown back 
 in a manner which placed it beyond all doubt that she was 
 laughing at him. 
 
 He thought of flinging himself upon his face ox his back ;
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 69 
 
 but the bank on which he stood was just sufficiently elevated 
 to render such a proceeding useless. The wild notion of 
 divesting himself of what remained of the unlucky garment 
 crossed his mind ; it would be less excruciatingly ridiculous 
 if his legs were matches. But there was no time for even 
 chis. There was the phaeton, there were the ladies, passing 
 at the nearest point ; and that mischief-loving Rose "in- 
 fernal," we regret to say, was the epithet he coupled with 
 her name bowing to him with fiendish politeness. And 
 there was Doctor Richard Kearney with the nude limb 
 stretched backwards as far and raised as high as possible 
 like a gander with the cramp returning the salute with the 
 grace for which he was famous among the young ladies of 
 his acquaintance. He actually forgot to drop his hat upon 
 his head, or change his position till the phaeton was out of 
 sight. 
 
 And then he cursed his stupidity for never having thought 
 of taking a "header" into a bog-hole, and remaining there 
 with only his nose above water till they had passed. 
 
 He might have escaped in that way if he had thought of 
 it in time. 
 
 He wiped the perspiration from his brow, and, as he 
 glanced fiercely at his companions, he formed the dreadful 
 wish that his gun were a double instead of a single barrel, 
 that he might share the contents between them. They were 
 still laughing at him. 
 
 Becoming more calm, the doctor made his way back to 
 them, and Hugh, in the most unfeeling manner, suggested 
 the advisability of getting home as fast as he could. 
 
 " Home!" exclaimed the doctor, "and perhaps meet the 
 Lord knows who on the way. No, I'll run over to Bob 
 Lloyd's and borrow a trousers. Come with me," he con- 
 tinued, turning to Mr. Lowe, "and we'll have pleasanter 
 shooting than here." 
 
 " Pleasanter shooting," remarked Hugh, drily. " I hope 
 so." 
 
 "Will you come?" the doctor asked. 
 
 "Xo. I'll follow the stream," said Hugh, who was a keen 
 sportsman, and was glad to get rid of them for the rest of 
 the day.
 
 90 KNOCJvNAGOW 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 MOUNT TEMPE AXD ITS MASTER. 
 
 BOB LLOYD'S domicile was close to the bog, and rejoiced in 
 the name of Mount Tempe. Why Mount, it would be hard 
 to tell, for it was in the middle of a flat, dreary tract of 
 country; and why Tempe, was a still greater puzzle. Either 
 taken singly might be accounted for on the "locus a non" 
 principle; but, joined together, they are too much for us. 
 We must content ourselves with the fact that Bob Lloyd's 
 residence was known by the style and title of Mount Temple. 
 Bob Lloyd was a bachelor we cannot add, " by no choice 
 of his own." For if ever mortal man had the enviable pri- 
 vilege to pick and choose among the fair ladies of the neigh- 
 bourhood, that man was Bob Lloyd, of Mount Tempe. Many 
 and ingenious were the snares laid to catch him, and many 
 and miraculous were his hair-breadth escapes. Mammas 
 manoeuvred for him ; papas palavered him ; daughters ex- 
 hausted all their arts and their patience to capture him. 
 But there he was safe and sound, and free as the wind that 
 seemed to recognise in him a congenial spirit, and took a 
 peculiar delight in rushing down the chimneys of Mount 
 Tempe House, or flinging the slates off the roof into the yard 
 behind, and upon the gravel plot, and out on the green lawn 
 in front and particularly and especially through the roof of 
 what was once a conservatory at the south side, to the terror 
 and misery of an unhappy fox that dragged out a life of 
 wretchedness chained among the empty flower-pots. It wa? 
 in keeping with the genius of incongruity which presided over 
 Bob Lloyd's establishment bhat the fox should be domiciled, 
 of all places in the world, among the flower-pots. And the 
 odour that assailed the nostrils on approaching the conser- 
 vatory was, to speak mildly, of a kind for which strangers 
 were unprepared, and was usually greeted with an exclama- 
 tion indicative of a surprise the reverse of agreeable.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 91 
 
 Mr. Lowe, on passing this delectable concern, stopped 
 short and clapped his hand to his nose, as if he had received 
 a violent blow on that feature; but Eichard, being prepared 
 for the assault, passed on to the hall-door without wincing. 
 
 He knocked loudly, and while waiting for the door to be 
 opened, occupied the time in rubbing his leg, which was fast 
 becoming numbed. No one answered to his knock ; and, 
 knowing the ways of the place, instead of knocking a second 
 time, he raised one of the windows and put in his head. 
 
 " Morrow, Dick," said the gentleman of the house. " Come 
 in." 
 
 Richard laid his hand on the window-sill and vaulted into 
 the parlour. 
 
 " I have Mr. Lowe with me," he remarked, as he walked 
 out to the hall to admit that gentleman by the door. 
 
 Mr. Lowe looked at the owner of the house and around 
 the large room ; and then turned to his friend as if seeking 
 instructions as to how he ought to act, or what was the 
 custom of the country under such circumstance. 
 
 Mr. Lloyd was stretched on a sofa playing two jews-harps. 
 
 Richard walked deliberately to a cupboard, and taking a 
 tall, square bottle and a couple of glasses from it, laid them 
 on the table having first swept a shot-belt, a bridle, a pair 
 of horse girths, and two pair of boxing-gloves off the table on 
 the floor. 
 
 Having filled the glasses, he tossed off one, and beckoned 
 to Mr. Lowe to do likewise; which he did. 
 
 The gentleman of the house at length wheeled slowly 
 round, let his feet drop to the floor, and, sitting upright, con- 
 templated his friend with a look of complacent admiration. 
 
 " Ton my soul, Dick," he said, very seriously. " you look 
 well." 
 
 He put the jews-harp in his left hand to his mouth, and 
 twanged it with the little finger of the same hand. Then 
 putting the jews-harp in his right hand to his mouth, he 
 twanged that too. Mr. Lloyd then put both jews-harps to 
 his mouth, and played a tune, always keeping his eyes fixed 
 on Richard's leg, as if there were some extraordinary fasci- 
 nation about the cap of the knee. 
 
 " 'Tisn't the latest fashion ? The newest style from the 
 city, you know? Eh, Dick?"
 
 92 KNOCKNAGOW j 
 
 " No. I sank in a bog-hole and tore it off with a stump 
 or something. I want to borrow one from you. Of course 
 I can get it?" 
 
 "Ay, faith," said Mr. Lloyd. 
 
 " And dry stockings ? " 
 
 "CallJer." 
 
 Richard desired Mr. Lowe to sit near the fire, and went in 
 search of the last-named individual. 
 
 The musician on the sofa applied himself to his instru- 
 ments, and the listener began to wonder at the sweetness of 
 the melody. 
 
 ; Kno\v the name of that tune?" he asked. 
 
 'No; I can't say I ever heard it before," was the rep!y. 
 
 'Listen again." And he repeated the tune. 
 
 'Know it now?" 
 
 1 Well, I don't. But it seems a pleasing little air." 
 
 Mr. Lloyd extended one hand, and swinging it gracefully 
 in time to the air, sang : 
 
 " Oh, my breeches full of stitches, 
 Oh, my breeches buckled on, 
 Oh, my breeches full of stitches, 
 Oh, my breeches buckled on." 
 
 " This is a character," thought Mr. Lowe. " I suppose," 
 he said aloud, "our friend's mishap has suggested it to 
 you?" 
 
 " Dick is a bloody clever fellow," was the not very relevant 
 reply. " He has words at will." 
 
 The subject of this flattering remark here came to the 
 door and called to Mr. Lowe to come with him upstairs. 
 
 The first thing that struck Mr. Lowe on entering Bob 
 Lloyd's bedroom was, that a faded horse-rug did duty for a 
 counterpane on the bed. 
 
 Jer appeared with the dry-stockings, with a half-dozen 
 dogs of various kinds at his heels. Ov?r the yellow-striped 
 waistcoat usually worn by servants, he wore a cast-off green 
 coat of his master's, which was sadly out of keeping with his 
 tattered corduroy small clothes and heavy brogues. Jer was 
 a person of importance, particularly in his own estimation, 
 and looked upon himself as a sort of senior partner in the 
 establishment. His influence over his master was such that
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 93 
 
 his good word was deemed indispensable whenever it was 
 sought to make Bob Lloyd a party to any transaction, 
 whether it might be the buying or selling of a horse, the 
 granting of a lease, the paying of a bill, or the bringing about 
 of a matrimonial alliance between the owner of Mount Tempe 
 ind any one of the many fair damsels who sighed to make 
 him happy. For it was well known this in reference to the 
 fair damsels that, though Bob Lloyd had a genius for never 
 allowing both ends to meet by any chance, his rent-roll showed 
 the receipt of a good eight hundred pounds a year ; and it 
 was remarked that there " wasn't a better lot of tenants in 
 Ireland" than his. 
 
 "Well, Jer," said Richard, "any chance of a wedding this 
 time 1 ?" 
 
 "We're goin' on wud a couple, sir," replied Jer, "but I 
 don't say they '11 come to anything. Everything was settled 
 wud Miss Jane; an', begor, there was no fear at all of the 
 fortune they wor givin' her. She was tryin' on her weddin 1 
 dress on Saturday, when I went to tell her he couldn't marry 
 her ; an' she tuck on terrible intirely." 
 
 Richard laughed, but evinced no surprise. 
 
 " The ould mistress an' the young ladies is tryin' to bring 
 it on again. But," added Jer, solemnly, and as if he himself 
 were the principal party concerned, " 'twon't do." 
 
 Richard explained to his friend that Mrs. Lloyd and her 
 daughters lived in Kilthubber. "Devilish nice girls they 
 are," he added ; " particularly the second." 
 
 "They're anxious to have him settled," Jer continued 
 with a sigh, as if the settling were a great weight on his mind. 
 "An' sure God knows so is myself. But 'tis so hard to meet 
 a shoo table woman. I'm after promisin' Tom Otway," he 
 continued, " that \ve '11 run down to the County Carlow in 
 the course of the week to see his cousin. Himself is for 
 goin' by the coach ; but I 'm thinkin' 'twould look better to 
 drive tandem. What do you think 1" he asked, as if he found 
 it hard to decide. 
 
 " Oh, the tandem, by all means," said Richard. 
 
 " That 's what I think myself," rejoined Jer, as he left the 
 room, followed by his dogs, except two that had got into the 
 bed for a nap. 
 
 "Is this all a joke?" Mr. Lowe asked.
 
 94 KN'OCKKAGOW ; 
 
 "No. Bob's wooings are always carried on in this way, 
 and Miss Jane can hardly have been taken by surprise, for 
 she had examples enough to warn her." 
 
 "And how does he escape the consequences?" 
 
 "Do you mean why is lie not called out? The idea of 
 such a good-natured fellow as Bob Lloyd shooting anybody or 
 being shot at ! But he will tell you ' the heaviest cloutin' 
 match' to use his own phrase he ever had, was with young 
 Allcock for refusing to marry his sister, who declared that he 
 had popped the question and been accepted in the most for- 
 mal manner." 
 
 "But the law," said Mr. Lowe. "Have you no such 
 tiling as breaches of promise in Ireland?" 
 
 "They are not quite unknown, though very rare, down 
 here. But the immunity which Bob enjoys may in some 
 measure be accounted for by the fact that the business is all 
 done through Jer. Bob never writes letters ; and, perhaps, 
 as he would say himself, that saves his bacon." 
 
 It must not be inferred that writing was not among Mr. 
 Lloyd's accomplishments. He wrote a fair, round hand, and 
 iras fond of displaying his caligraphic skill whenever pen, 
 ink, and paper chanced to come in his way particularly, and 
 almost exclusively, in the execution of the words : 
 
 " Command you may 3*0111 mind from play," 
 
 which he was -wont to finish off with a flourish, and seemed 
 to derive great pleasure from the performance. 
 
 "Can we get a shot without going into that infernal 
 bog again?" Richard asked when they had returned to the 
 parlour. 
 
 " Ay, faith," Mr. Lloyd replied. " If I went out to that well 
 beyond ten times a day, I 'd be sure to meet a snipe there." 
 
 "Get your gun and come with us." 
 
 Mr. Lloyd strapped a shot-belt over his shoulder, and was 
 taking up his gun, when the door opened, and a stout, middle 
 sized man, with a round face, unceremoniously walked in. 
 
 "'Morrow, Wat," said Mr. Lloyd. 
 
 "'Morrow, kindly," Wat replied, offering him a slip of 
 paper. 
 
 "How much is it?" 
 
 "Fifteen pounds eleven and sevenpence."
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 95 
 
 I '11 see about it," said Mr. Lloyd. 
 
 " That '11 never do for me," replied Wat. 
 
 "There's not a penny under the roof of the house," said 
 Mr. Lloyd. 
 
 "The devil a foot I '11 stir out of this till I get it," Wat 
 rejoined. 
 
 " Have a drop of this," Mr. Lloyd remarked, filling a glass 
 from the square bottle. 
 
 " No objection," replied Wat, sententiously. 
 
 Mr. Lloyd went to the side-board, and returned, holding 
 a large dish in one hand with as much ease as if it were a 
 small plate, and grasping a loaf of bread with the other. 
 
 "Come, Dick," said he, placing them on the table, "let's 
 have a bite." 
 
 He cut some slices of bread and meat which Richard con- 
 verted into sandwiches for himself and Mr. Lowe. 
 
 "Wat," said Bob Lloyd, with his mouth full, "I'll see 
 about that." 
 
 " Pay me the money, and let me go for the cow ; that 's 
 the seein' about I want." 
 
 "What cow?" Mr. Lloyd asked. 
 
 "A fat cow I 'm afther buyin' from your father," said Wat, 
 turning to Eichard ; " and he won't let me take her wudout 
 the money. So, shell out," he added, turning to Mr. Lloyd, 
 with a sort of humorous sulkiness of voice and look. 
 
 Mr. Lloyd, appearing to pay no attention to this speech, bit 
 a semicircle out of his sandwich, and holding it between him 
 -and the light, seemed to admire its regularity. 
 
 Wat, drawing an old arm-chair towards the window, thereby 
 disturbing the repose of an old setter that had possession of 
 it, deliberately sat down, and crossed his legs with the air of 
 a man who was bent upon taking his ease, and had nothing 
 on earth to trouble him. Mr. Lloyd advanced in silence, 
 and presented a carving knife at him with a substantial slice 
 of cold meat on the top of it. 
 
 Wat took the meat between his finger and thumb, and 
 Acknowledged the civility by uncrossing his legs and sitting 
 upright. 
 
 Mr. Lloyd then presented a carving fork with the other 
 hand, upon which was a chunk of bread. This Wat also 
 accepted, if not graciously, at least without any show of re-
 
 9G KXOCKNAGOW; 
 
 luctance. Having emulated his host in the biting line 
 with the difference that, the hread and meat being each in a 
 different hand, he had to take two bites instead of one Wat 
 remarked oracularly: 
 
 " A pig's head ates very handsome, cowld." 
 
 "Kitty," he called out to a servant girl who was flinging 
 her cloak over her shoulders as she passed the window. 
 
 The girl stopped and looked at him. Whereupon Wat 
 raised the window and asked was she going to town. 
 
 " I am," replied Kitty. " Why so ? " 
 
 " Tell my mother to send me out an ounce of tobaccy," 
 said Wat, in the calmest and most self-satisfied manner 
 imaginable. 
 
 "Xow, Wat, what are you up to?" Mr. Lloyd asked. 
 
 * Don't you know if the money was in the house there 
 wouldn't be a second word about it?" 
 
 "Well, to do you nothin' but justice," Wat replied, "I 
 do know that." But you see two quarters of that cow are 
 oespoke, and I can't disappoint my customers. Moreover, 
 when wan quarter is for a weddin'." 
 
 " Come to-morrow." 
 
 " 'T won't do." 
 
 "Well, what do you want?" 
 
 "D n well you know what I wantj' replied Wat. "An 
 order on Tom Ryan. That's money any day." 
 
 "There's not a pen or a bit of clean paper in the house," 
 said Mr. Lloyd. 
 
 "Ketch me!" was Wat's comment upon this objection. 
 
 I 'm provided against accidents." And he produced an ink- 
 bottle with a leather strap attached to the neck, and unfolded 
 half a sheet of paper which was rolled round a well-worn 
 quill pen. 
 
 Mr. Lloyd, seeing no way of escape, sat down and wrote 
 the letters I and C. The latter turned out such a model of 
 a capital letter that Mr. Lloyd held it up for the inspection 
 of his friends. He then slowly and carefully wrote out the 
 order, which ran thus : 
 
 "I Command you to pay Wat Murphy fifteen pounds 
 sterling Money, which I will allow you out of your rent. 
 
 "ROBERT ORMSBY LLOYD. 
 "To Mr. Thomas Ryan."
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 97 
 
 "All right," said Wat, as he held the document to the fire 
 to dry. After putting it in his pocket, he pointed to the 
 square bottle. 
 
 "Would you have any objection?" he asked. 
 
 Bob Lloyd held up the square bottle, and, laying his hand 
 along it, carefully measured the depth of liquor remaining. 
 Seeming satisfied that he could afford to act on the very 
 broad hint which Wat's question implied, he filled a glass. 
 
 " Healths apiece to ye," said Wat, tossing off the whiskey 
 as he passed the table, without stopping. He was imme- 
 diately heard whistling to his bull-dog, who, with his back 
 against the wall outside the hall-door, was keeping at bay 
 quite a pack of hounds of various descriptions but among 
 which there was not a single " mongrel :/ or "cur of low 
 degree'' by the mere glare of his eye. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 A DAY'S SHOOTING LOST. 
 
 THE snipe was at the well, as Bob Lloyd had foretold, and 
 the moment it rose, the doctor " blazed away." But greatly 
 to his surprise, the snipe did not fall with its wing broken. 
 
 "He's wounded," the doctor exclaimed, on seeing the 
 snipe pitch in the next field. "I'll make sure of him the 
 next time." 
 
 All three blazed away the next time; and when the smoke 
 cleared off they saw the snipe quietly dropping into its old 
 quarters near the well. 
 
 Re-loading their guns they retraced their steps, and 
 another volley woke the echoes of Mount Tempe. The 
 snipe as jack-snipes are wont to do flew a couple of 
 hundred yards, and dropped again among the rushes in the 
 next field. 
 
 The affair now became quite exciting, and volley after 
 volley made the unhappy fox among the flower pots shiver
 
 KXOCKXAGOW ; 
 
 and creep from one corner to the other of its prison for a full 
 hour and more. 
 
 " Hugh is doing business," said Bob Lloyd, on hearing the 
 report of Hugh's gun from the bog. 
 
 "Ay, faith," he added, on seeing him quietly walk forward 
 and pick up his bird. 
 
 " I '11 do that fellow's job," exclaimed Eichard, through his 
 clenched teeth, as he rammed home the charge in the long 
 -duck gun with a very unnecessary expenditure of force. 
 <( Let me alone, if I don't polish him off." 
 
 We trust we need not say he did not mean his brother, but 
 the jack-snipe. 
 
 But just as the doctor had put his gun on full cock, Bob 
 Lloyd laid his hand on his shoulder. 
 
 "Is it a duck?" Richard asked. 
 
 "Ay, faith," replied Bob. " The ice is broken on the pond, 
 and he 's coming about it." 
 
 The wild duck flew round and round in a circle, and so low 
 that the chances of a shot seemed not improbable. 
 
 Bob Lloyd hurried to the corner of the field and stooped 
 behind the fence. Eichard and Mr. Lowe took up a position 
 at some distance, and all three watched the wild duck with 
 breathless excitement as it came nearer and nearer in each 
 round of its flight. The doctor had his long gun to his 
 shoulder at one time, and would have blazed away if Mr. 
 Lowe had not stopped him. 
 
 ""Why don't you let me tumble him?" the doctor asked, 
 in a whisper. " I had him covered just when he was passing 
 the sally-tree." 
 
 " Don't you see," Mr. Lowe replied, " that that tree is fully 
 three hundred yards from us?" 
 
 The duck suddenly changed from its circular course, and 
 shot slantwise like an arrow into the pond. This move took 
 the sportsmen by surprise ; but recovering themselves, all 
 three hurried along the fence, with their heads on a level 
 with their knees. On, on they crept till they reached the 
 part of the fence nearest to the pond. There was the duck 
 quietly swimming among the broken fragments of ice, but 
 not within shot. 
 
 " How are we to manage?" said the doctor. 
 
 " We 're at the end of our tether, Dick," replied Bob Lloyl.
 
 OR, THS HOMES OP T1PPEKARY. 99 
 
 "I'll get over the ditch and take him by surprise," said 
 the doctor. 
 
 And suiting the action to the word he climbed over the 
 fence, and walked quickly towards the pond. The wild 
 duck seemed really taken by surprise, for it remained hid 
 behind a fragment of ice till the doctor reached the brink 
 of the pond. He stood panting for a few seconds, with his 
 gun half raised to his shoulder, but the duck never stirred. 
 He advanced a step or two on the ice, and was beginning to 
 think that the duck had got off in some inexplicable manner, 
 when a tremendous splash and clatter in the water made him 
 start. The duck rose so close to him that his first impulse 
 was to step back. In doing this his feet slipped from under 
 him, and he came down with extraordinary celerity on the 
 end of his spine. The shock caused a queer sensation in his 
 throat, and, in fact, he was much in the same state as Mrs. 
 Slattery when she implored Father Hannigan to inform her 
 whether she was killed. 
 
 "Why the blazes didn't he fire?" exclaimed Bob Lloyd. 
 
 "And why doesn't he get up?" Mr. Lowe asked, as he 
 stood on his toes and looked over the fence. 
 
 " Faith, he 's taking it easy," said Bob Lloyd. " Let us 
 come down to him." 
 
 "What's the matter, Dick?" he asked, on reaching the 
 pond. 
 
 In reply Doctor Richard Kearney informed his friends in 
 a quiet, matter-of-fact manner, and in the fewest and shortest 
 words, that the part of his person upon which he had fallen 
 was " broke." 
 
 " Misfortunes never come alone, Dick," said Bob Lloyd. 
 " Get up, and let us be at the jack again." 
 
 "Yes, 'tis the pleasantest," replied the doctor. "Help 
 me up. For, hang me if I'm quite sure whether I can 
 stand." 
 
 He found, however, that he had the use of his limbs; and 
 then returned to the well in pursuit of the jack-snipe. 
 
 But the jack-snipe was not to be found. In vain they 
 tramped through the rushes, and along the drains and ditches, 
 and everywhere that a snipe would be likely to be found. 
 The invulnerable jack had disappeared from the scene 
 altogether.
 
 100 KNOCKNAGOW; 
 
 " He 's dead," said tlie dcctjr. " I knew I peppered him 
 the last time." 
 
 "But if he was dead," Mr. Lowe remarked, " wouldn't the 
 dogs find him 1 ?" 
 
 They took one more round through the rushes ; and then, 
 as if moved by a single impulse, the three sportsmen grounded 
 arms. 
 
 Bob Lloyd rested his elbow on the muzzle of his gun, and 
 dropped his chin into the palm of his hand. 
 
 " Bad luck to that duck," said Bob Lloyd solemnly. " We 
 lost our day's shooting on account of it." 
 
 "What is Hugh up to?" the doctor asked, pointing to his 
 brother, who was standing on a little bridge on the bog road, 
 and waving his handkerchief to them. 
 
 "I think it is calling us he is," said Mr. Lowe. 
 
 "Let's have another glass of grog," the doctor suggested. 
 
 "Ay, faith," replied Mr. Lloyd. " Come over." 
 
 They returned to the house; and after another application 
 to the square bottle, retraced their steps to the bog road, 
 where Hugh was waiting for them. 
 
 " Ye had good sport it would seem," Hugh remarked. 
 "Game must be plenty in Mr. Lloyd's preserves?" 
 
 " Well, we didn't meet much," replied Mr. Lowe. 
 
 "And we lost our day's shooting on account of that duck," 
 said Richard, putting his hand under his coat-tails with a 
 look suggestive of a disagreeable sensation. 
 
 "If we cross over to the turf-ricks on the high bank," 
 Hugh remarked, " we may get a shot or two at the plover 
 coming into the bog. They are flying low." 
 
 " I vote for going home," replied the doctor. " I have got 
 enough of it for one day." 
 
 "I dare say you will have a good appetite for your 
 dinner." 
 
 "Well, rather; but we had lunch at Bob's." 
 
 "What do you say, Mr. Lowe?" Hugh asked. "Shall 
 we cross the bog and try and add a few grey plover to our 
 bag?" 
 
 " Well, I confess, I m inclined to vote with the doctor for 
 home." 
 
 " Home is the word," said the doctor. And on seeing 
 some country people approaching, he managed to let the
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPER ARY. 101 
 
 head and neck of his snipe hang out of his pocket, and, with 
 the long gun on his shoulder, stepped out at a quick pace, 
 looking as if he had done wonders during the day. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 AN UNINVITED VISITOR. 
 
 f 
 
 GRACE had run to the window a dozen times in as many 
 minutes, to see if the sportsmen were returning ; and though 
 Mary smiled at her impatience, she could not conceal from 
 herself that she shared it in no small degree. 
 
 " Here they are at last," Grace exclaimed, gleefully. 
 
 Mary started from her chair, but sat down again quickly. 
 She blushed, and was glad that no one had seen her. 
 
 Grace ran to open the door ; and there was a little affec- 
 tation in Mary's manner as she said, while passing through 
 the hall : 
 
 "Grace, tell them dinner will be on the table in a few 
 minutes." 
 
 But, as if ashamed of this "acting," she turned back and 
 met the young men on the door-steps. 
 
 " I hope you enjoyed the shooting," she said to Mr. Lowe. 
 
 " Oh, yes," he replied, devoutly hoping that her inquiries 
 would extend no further. 
 
 " Well, dinner will be ready immediately," said Mary. 
 "And I need not remind you we are to have a few friends 
 in the evening." 
 
 "Who are they?" Richard asked. 
 
 " I thought I told you. But I am glad to have an agree- 
 able surprise for you. It is the Miss Hanlys." 
 
 The doctor glanced at Bob Lloyd's unmentionables, and 
 rushed up the stairs like a man bent upon throwing himself 
 out of a window. 
 
 As Maurice Kearney took his place at the head of the table,
 
 102 KXOCKXAGOW; 
 
 his first question, as he looked at the edge of the carving 
 knife, as a matter of course, was 
 
 "Did you shoot much?" 
 
 " Only four or five brace, sir," replied Hugh. 
 
 "Oh, only that much," Grace exclaimed, "after all the 
 firing we heard. I thought at one time there was a brisk 
 skirmish going on, if not a pitched battle." 
 
 "Well, now," said Hugh, who sat next her, "how would 
 you feel if- there was really a pitched battle going on in the 
 bog?" 
 
 "Oh, I'd be delighted. The excitement must be so 
 pleasant." 
 
 "And which side would you wish to win?" 
 
 " The Irish of course. How I should like to bind up the 
 wounds of some gallant young chief like Robert Emmet or 
 Sir William Wallace." 
 
 " That is the Sir William Wallace whose picture you have 
 'drawing the fatal sword' in the 'Scottish Chiefs'?" 
 
 " Yes ; I mean some young chief like that who 
 
 " Fought for the land his soul adored, 
 For happy homes and altars free, 
 His only talisman the Sword, 
 His only spelhvord Liberty." 
 
 "Mr. Lowe says you are a rebel," said Mary. 
 
 "Oh, I don't know that," she replied, looking a little 
 frightened. But observing that Mr. Lowe's smile indicated 
 anything but displeasure, she added: " But I do admire a hero. 
 And who is so great a hero as the patriot who fights and bleeds 
 for the land of his birth?" 
 
 "Will ye go to the bull-bait?" Maurice Kearney inquired. 
 
 This question caused considerable surprise and some amuse- 
 ment. 
 
 Mary, who knew her father's talent for such surprises, 
 could not be sure whether the bull was hauled in after his 
 usual manner of introducing subjects that had not the 
 remotest connection with that under discussion, or whether 
 Irish patriots, fighting for their country, suggested to him 
 the baiting of a bull. 
 
 "A bull-bait, sir? "said Hugh. "Why, the practice has 
 been entirely done away with for years."
 
 OR, THE HOJIE3 OF TIPPERARY. 105 
 
 " Tis to be before the end of the week ; but the place is 
 not decided on. Wat Murphy that told me. He was here 
 for a cow I sold him last Sunday. I gave her to him too 
 cheap." 
 
 And Mr. Kearney rubbed his bald head, and seemed 
 sorry too late for the bad bargain he had made with Wat 
 Murphy. 
 
 " I wonder he told us nothing about it," Eichard remarked. 
 " We saw him over at Bob Lloyd's." 
 
 "Was that the butcher?" Mr. Lowe asked. "I remarked, 
 that he had a very well-bred bull-dog." 
 
 "Are you an admirer of those interesting animals?" Hugh 
 asked, with a slight shade of sarcasm in his tone. 
 
 " Well, not exactly. But some of my English friends set 
 great value on them. That white dog of the butcher's would, 
 I fancy, fetch as high a price as the cow you sold him." 
 
 "I gave her to him for thirteen pounds ten," said Mr. 
 Kearney. " 'Twas too cheap. Wat sold four pups for two- 
 pounds a-piece last year." 
 
 " But what do they want them for," Mary asked, " now 
 that there is no bull-baiting ? Surely it cannot be for their 
 beauty they are kept. A more ill-favoured animal it would 
 be impossible to imagine than that dog of Wat Murphy's, 
 with his crooked legs and frightful grin. I am always quite 
 uneasy when I see him about the place." 
 
 "Don't you see he is always muzzled?" said her father. 
 
 "That only makes him look the more ferocious," she 
 replied. " 'Tis a shame to have such dogs kept by any one. 
 There was a poor beggar woman here the other day, who had! 
 her leg torn in a frightful manner by Fender's dog." 
 
 " I heard papa say," said Grace, " that such accidents 
 are becoming very frequent. He says many farmers keep 
 ferocious dogs now. He called to see one poor child that 
 was attacked by a dog, and though the dog was muzzled, 
 papa feared the child would die." 
 
 "So many robbers," said Mr. Kearney, "are now prowling 
 about the country, people don't know what to do. But it 
 isn't robbers Fender is afraid of, but bailiffs. He was here 
 to-day looking for you," he added, turning to Mr. Lowe. 
 
 " For me ! Oh yes," he added, recollecting himself, " he 
 is my uncle's agent."
 
 104 KXOCKXAGOW J 
 
 "His son," Mr. Kearney replied. "And as cantankerous 
 a cub as ever the Lord put breath in. He drove up to the 
 door with a double-barrel gun at each side of him, and four 
 pistols stuck in his belt. You 'd be talking of bull-dogs," he 
 added, turning to Mary. " But where will you find an uglier 
 bull-dog than Beresford Fender 1 ?" 
 
 " Beresford!" exclaimed Mr. Lowe. " Is he a connection 
 of that family?" 
 
 " His father," replied Mr. Kearney seriously, " was a dog 
 boy to the old marquis." 
 
 This curious sort of connection with aristocracy made the 
 young gentleman laugh. But Hugh, feeling that it was 
 scarcely prudent on his father's part to talk in this way of 
 the agent and his son in presence of the landlord's nephew, 
 changed the subject by remarking 
 
 " But you must not suppose from what my father has 
 said about robbers prowling through the country, that theft 
 is one of our national vices. On the contrary, the honesty of 
 the people, under the circumstances, is most extraordinary." 
 
 " I inferred as much," said Mr. Lowe, " from what the 
 clergyman said the other day about stealing turf. It seems 
 to me a very venial offence for a poor man to take a little 
 turf in that way. And Mr. Hannigan alluded to no other 
 *cts of dishonesty." 
 
 " He had a right to say something about the turnips," 
 said Mr. Kearney. " Only for I got a cabin in every field 
 and had a man minding them, they wouldn't leave me a 
 turnip these two last years, whatever is coming over 'em. 
 And there are gangs of blackguards from the towns, besides, 
 that will take whatever they can lay hands on." 
 
 " Unfortunately that is true," said Hugh. " Unprincipled 
 characters go about plundering under cover of the general 
 distress. But poor, honest people are driven to it, too, by 
 necessity. When their houses are pulled down and they are 
 forced to take refuge in the lanes of the next town, it is not 
 surprising that many become dishonest. The man who 
 would almost lie down and die of hunger in his own poor 
 cabin, among his neighbours, rather than bring disgrace upon 
 his family by turning thief, can easily be tempted when he 
 finds himself in the midst of strangers in some wretched hole 
 in the lanes or outskirts of the town."
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 105 
 
 " I really believe what you say is true," said his mother. 
 " Poor Molly Ryan was out here the other day, and it was 
 heart-breaking to listen to her. Her two boys, that she 
 'reared honest,' as she said, got into bad company, and were 
 in jail for attempting to break into Murphy's store. If they 
 had not been turned out of their little place at the Cross- 
 roads, the boys, I am sure, would grow up honest and 
 industrious, like their poor father, who was a very decent 
 man, and very civil and obliging ; he used to do many little 
 things for us." 
 
 The cloth had been removed during the foregoing conver- 
 sation ; and Maurice Kearney had just mixed his second 
 tumbler, and pushed the decanter to Hugh as his wife con- 
 cluded. 
 
 Richard, after waiting impatiently for a minute or two, 
 and seeing that his brother had no intention of applying to 
 the decanter, reached across the table and quietly filled his 
 own glass. 
 
 Mr. Lowe, we may observe, drank sherry. 
 
 " My goodness ! " Grace exclaimed, in a whisper to Mary, 
 " what can be the matter with Adonis ? He has not opened 
 his lips, except to imbibe whiskey-punch, the whole evening." 
 
 " I really don't know," replied Mary. 
 
 "His silence is positively miraculous," Grace continued 
 "particularly as Father M'Mahon is not present. And he 
 has his dress-coat on. And," she added, opening her eyes 
 with surprise as the doctor wheeled round his chair and 
 stretched his legs towards the fire, " and his patent leather 
 boots. I 'm lost in amazement !" 
 
 "Do you forget that the bewitching Kathleen is coming?" 
 
 Grace frowned awfully; and got into a brown study im- 
 mediately. 
 
 "Are you jealous?" asked Mary, laughing. "What a 
 dreadful coquette you must be. You had quite forgotten 
 Adonis had only ears and eyes for Apollo and yet you 
 are now up in arms against Kathleen." 
 
 " Well, now, Mary, don't talk so foolishly. Let us go to 
 the drawing-room." 
 
 Mr. Lowe opened the door fur them, and they passed out, 
 Grace looking almost too grand to acknowledge the civility 
 by a slight inclination of the head. But before going to the
 
 106 KNOCKS AGOW ; 
 
 drawing-room she went up stairs, aiid returned wearing -a 
 necklace and other adornments, bent, no doubt, upon shining 
 down Kathleen Hanly. 
 
 She first took up a book, and, fixing herself in a becoming 
 attitude, began to read. But her furtive glances towards 
 the door led Mary to suspect that the book had not much 
 interest for her. 
 
 "What are you reading, Grace?" she asked; and Mary 
 laughed on seeing her turn the book round to read the title 
 on the back. 
 
 " I guessed," continued Mary, " that you were not quite 
 absorbed in your studies." 
 
 "You are bent upon teasing to-night. I suppose they will 
 not favour us with their society till those ladies arrive." 
 
 " Well, we shall not have long to wait," Mary replied ; 
 "for here they are." 
 
 The sound of wheels on the gravel was quickly followed 
 by a knock an unusually loud and long knock, Mary 
 thought at the hall-door. 
 
 The door was opened by Hugh before his sister reached 
 the hall, and Miss Hose Hanly was explaining in a hurried 
 and excited manner that they had brought Miss Lloyd with 
 them. 
 
 " She came out from town with mamma in the evening," 
 said Miss Rose ; " and, when she found we were coming to- 
 tea, she said she would come with us ; as her brother, Kobert, 
 she said, knew you all very well." 
 
 This was evidently a matter of tremendous importance in 
 Miss Hanly's eyes ; and, though Hugh took it coolly enough, 
 Mary seemed considerably surprised. But before anything 
 further could be said, the lady in question, accompanied by 
 Kathleen, made her appearance. 
 
 Mary welcomed all her visitors, and conducted them to 
 her own roo:; .
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 107 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 LORY. 
 
 Hugh was closing the door, he felt some slight 
 resistance offered from the outside ; but on looking out 
 he could see nothing, the night was so intensely dark. 
 On attempting to close the door a second time, the same 
 gentle pressure prevented him. 
 
 "Who's there? "he asked. 
 
 There was no reply ; but a rather tall young lad advanced 
 a step or two into the hall, and looked wildly about him. 
 
 He was slight and somewhat raw-boned, and being at that 
 moment almost blue with the cold, he presented the appear 
 ance of anything but a handsome youth. 
 
 Hugh waited, expecting him to speak; and he waited, ex- 
 pecting Hugh would speak. And so they continued to stare 
 at each other for a couple of minutes. 
 
 "I came with my sisters," said the young lad, at last, in 
 a voice so unexpectedly deep and loud that it made Hugh 
 start. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Hanly," said Hugh, "I had quite forgotten 
 
 you." 
 
 " No wonder for you," was the reply in the same voice, 
 and with the same wild opening of the eyes. "I had a 
 petticoat on me the last time you saw me. Huh! huh!" 
 
 He laughed a deep, hollo\\ r laugh, in which Hugh joined 
 not because the laugh was at all infectious, but because the 
 allusion to the petticoat, in which his young neighbour had 
 been kept far beyond the usual age, called up the very 
 remarkable figure which a year or two before he occasionally 
 saw starting from some grove or hedge, or mounted upon a 
 gate pier, or paling, and looking, he used to think, like a 
 young Indian in an early stage of the process of civilization. 
 
 "Come in. This is young Mr. Hanly," he added, on 
 antering the parlour.
 
 108 KNOCKNAGOWJ 
 
 Young Mr. Hanly pulled off his cap, and looked round 
 him as if he intended to bolt immediately, if he could only 
 find an opening anywhere. 
 
 Every one looked at young Mr. Hanly except the doctor, 
 who was so absorbed in his own reflections, or in the shine 
 of his boots, as to seem unconscious of what was passing. 
 
 ".Good-night, Kichard," said the new arrival. And the 
 deep bass of his voice made them all start. 
 
 "Oh, Lory!" Richard exclaimed, extending his hand to 
 him. "How on earth did you manage to grow so fast?" 
 
 " You 're a head over me yet," replied Lory. 
 
 "Have a glass of punch?" said Mr. Kearney. 
 
 Lory made no reply; but the expression of his face as he 
 drew a chair to the table was more eloquent than words. 
 
 He cast a look towards the door as if apprehending 
 opposition from that quarter, and commenced operations 
 in a rather hurried manner. 
 
 Mr. Kearney, who had again introduced the bull-bait, was 
 proceeding to give them some particulars he had learned from 
 "Wat Murphy, when Lory produced another sensation by the 
 simple remark 
 
 "I know all about that." 
 
 Lory gulped down a mouthful of his punch, which was so 
 hot that it brought the tears to his eyes, and hastily pushed 
 his tumbler towards Mr. Lowe, a proceeding which rather 
 astonished that gentleman, who seemed to think that Mr. 
 Hanly intended to share the beverage with him. 
 
 But after looking towards the door, and finding that his 
 sister, whose voice he had just heard in the hall, was not 
 coming into the parlour, Lory took possession of his tumbler 
 again, and looked at Mr. Lowe as if, on the whole, he rather 
 thought himself in clover. 
 
 "How is your father?" Mr. Kearney asked. 
 
 "I couldn't tell you that," replied Lory. "He's in 
 Dublin." 
 
 Mr. Hanly the elder was an attorney ; but the nature 
 and extent of his professional business was something of a 
 mystery to his neighbours. He made periodical visits to 
 the metropolis, during which he was in a manner lost to his 
 family and friends in the country. Some inquisitive people 
 attempted from time to time to find out his whereabouts in
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERAHY. 109 
 
 Dublin, but except that he was once seen dining at a tavern in 
 the neighbourhood of Ormond-quay, these attempts invariably 
 proved unsuccessful. Attorney Hanly came and went like 
 the swallows or rather the swifts that took periodical 
 possession of the crevices in the old castle near his house, 
 and no one was the wiser of where he had been, save in a 
 general way; for a letter to him, addressed "General Post 
 Office, Dublin," usually reached his hands Avhen it suited 
 him. He rented a not very large farm within a mile of 
 Knocknagow, upon which he had built a handsome house, 
 where his family always lived genteely, though somewhat 
 economically. Attorney Hanly was eccentric, and supposed 
 to be rich probably because he was eccentric. 
 
 " Come, let us have a few songs from the ladies," said Mr. 
 Kearney. "That's Miss Hanly rattling at the 'piano, I 
 think." 
 
 The gentlemen followed him to the drawing-room, except 
 the doctor, who sat with folded arms at the fire, and Lory, 
 who waited to finish his punch. 
 
 "What's that I heard Rose and Kathleen talking about 1 ?" 
 Lory asked. " I couldn't get it out of them, they laughed 
 so much. Something about you and the bog?" 
 
 "Shut up, Lory," the doctor exclaimed, starting to his 
 feet and filling out a glass of wine, which he swallowed with 
 a look of distraction. 
 
 "Come," said he, after arranging his shirt-collar at the 
 looking-glass, " finish that and let us go to them." 
 
 " Faith, I 'd rather stay where I am," said Lory, looking at 
 the decanters. 
 
 "On my honour, my dear fellow," replied the doctor, 
 " you are not at all singular in that way of thinking. Rose 
 and Kathleen are here?" 
 
 "Yes, and Miss Lloyd." 
 
 " Whew !" The doctor whistled and walked up and down 
 the room. 
 
 "What the devil brought her?" 
 
 " Faith, I don't know. They were all surprised when she 
 came out with my mother on the mail-car, and walked from 
 the cross." 
 
 " I think I understand it," said the doctor. And it was 
 some consolation to him to reflect that Miss Lloyd's thoughts
 
 110 KNOCKNAGOW; 
 
 were so concentrated upon Sir Garrett Butler's nephew, that 
 she probably had given no attention to his humble self and 
 the misadventure of the morning. 
 
 The doctor stood irresolutely at the drawing-room door, 
 till he heard his father say : 
 
 " Come, Grace, give us ' Who Fears to Speak of 'Ninety- 
 Eight?'" 
 
 And under cover of the song the doctor advanced and 
 shook hands in silence with Miss Lloyd and the two Miss 
 Hanlys. 
 
 Grace sang with spirit, and received the compliments of 
 the company with becoming dignity. She could not, how- 
 ever, conceal her delight when Mr. Lowe came to read the 
 words of the song, and ask her who was its author. 
 
 " I htard papa say," she replied, " that it Avas written by 
 one of the scholars of Trinity College. All those songs 
 appeared originally in the Nation. The airs are nearly all 
 old Irish airs; but the music of that song is original." 
 . Mr. Lowe turned to other songs in the book, and it was 
 with no small share of pride she told him that the writers of 
 some of them were "friends of her papa's." 
 
 " I should like to hear you sing this one," said he, pointing 
 to a song, a stanza of which he had read. 
 
 " Oh, yes ; that is one of Davis's. He was a true poet. 
 At first I did not admire his poetry so much. But I do 
 now. 'Tis so full of heart. He was an irreparable loss to 
 the country," she added solemnly. 
 
 "As a poet?" Mr. Lowe asked. 
 
 " Well, yes ; but more as a patriot. You can have no idea 
 
 of how much he was beloved. I saw Mr. D , who, papa 
 
 says, is a man of powerful intellect, burst into tears one even 
 ing at our house, when speaking of Davis. And O'Connell, 
 when alluding to him after hearing of his death, said, ' I can 
 write no more my tears blind me.' " 
 
 Mr. Lowe looked at her with surprise. 
 
 " Yes," she continued, as if replying to his look ; " these 
 are O'Connell's words." 
 
 But it was at herself he was wondering ; and Hugh and 
 Mary, who sat near the piano, exchanged looks and seemed 
 to enjoy his astonishment. 
 
 Miss Lloyd, however, was both astonished and chagrined
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. Ill 
 
 to find that Mr. Lowe could feel interest in the prattle of a 
 mere child. 
 
 "I'm ashamed to acknowledge," said Mr. Lowe, still 
 addressing himself to the little lady perched upon the stool, 
 " that I know almost nothing about Mr. Davis. He was, I 
 understand, a young barrister whose name seldom figured in 
 the newspapers. But from what you tell me I must believe 
 he was no common man." 
 
 " Papa says," she rejoined, " that his influence on the mind 
 of the country will be felt for ever. And, young as he died, 
 his wish was granted." 
 
 " What was his wish]" 
 
 " His Avish was 
 
 'Be my epitaph writ on my country's mind 
 He served his country and loved his kind !'" 
 
 Mr. Lowe again looked at her with surprise. But when 
 Mary glanced at her brother this time, her glance was not 
 returned. She saw his broad chest heave; and a strange 
 light, half fire, half softness, swam in his dark eyes. 
 
 Mary shook her head as she thought to herself how little 
 they understood him who thought him cold and unsusceptible. 
 Behind that "down look," for which Hugh Kearney got credit, 
 there was, she was sure, a heart and a soul of no common 
 tenderness and enthusiasm. 
 
 Miss Lloyd looked from one to the other of the group in 
 amazement. She really could not understand what it all 
 meant ; but there were many things which Miss Lloyd could 
 not understand. 
 
 And besides, Miss Lloyd liked nothing half so well as tho 
 music of her own voice, which we must admit was musical ; 
 so much so that it took many persons a considerable time to 
 discover that what seemed so pleasant had nothing in it. But 
 ahe had a trick of talking to one person and at another; 
 which was very trying to the latter as Mr. Henry Lowe was 
 destined to learn to his cost.
 
 112 KNOCKNAGOWj 
 
 CHAPTEE XVIII. 
 
 MISS LLOYD S FOIBLES. 
 
 As we have said so much of Miss Lloyd, we shall glance at 
 one or two more of her peculiarities. 
 
 The facility with which Miss Lloyd fell in love with every 
 eligible young man and occasionally with an eligible old 
 one that came in her way, was something marvellous, and 
 a source of great anxiety to her family and friends. Her 
 being still in the land of the living was a matter of daily 
 wonderment to her sympathizing sisters "poor Henrietta" 
 was so often on the point of dying of a broken heart. The 
 defection of a young ensign of nineteen produced such an effect 
 upon her, that she spent twenty-four hours " from one fainting 
 fit into another" we quote the words of her own mother ; 
 and she was known to have taken to her bed for three weeks 
 because of the heartlessness of a widower of sixty-five who 
 had been particular in his attentions on the occasion of 
 his grand-daughter's marriage, Miss Lloyd being one of the 
 bridesmaids. But Miss Henrietta Lloyd's strong point was 
 curiosity an all-absorbing inquisitiveness about other people 
 and their affairs. The passion for with her it amounted 
 to a passion bore down everything before it. All sense of 
 propriety, all fear of consequences vanished like dew, in the 
 intense heat of her desire to know what her neighbours were 
 about. Listening at windows, dropping in uninvited at 
 nnseasonable times, stopping servants in the streets, and 
 catechising butchers' boys, were everyday occurrences with 
 Miss Lloyd. She had been known to rush across the street 
 at eleven at night, and knock at Doctor Cusack's door, merely 
 because her maid had remarked that a car had stopped there 
 from which a man with a travelling bag had alighted. The 
 doctor thinking it was his assistant, whom he had sent
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 113 
 
 with two bread pills to the parson's mother-in-law, who had 
 taken suddenly ill opened the door ; and Miss Lloyd found 
 herself face to face with an elderly gentleman in his night- 
 shirt, and was greeted at the same moment with a cheer from 
 three young gentlemen of the Rev. Mr. Labart's academy, 
 who had been making a night of it at the hotel before 
 resuming their studies after vacation. 
 
 Miss Lloyd would slip into the kitchen for a confab with 
 the cook daring the progres.:. of a dinner-party upstairs, her 
 not being invited to which was meant as a deliberate slight. 
 And we blush to say that even the apartments of single 
 young men had no terrors for Miss Lloyd when her in- 
 quisitiveness was aroused, and could only be gratified by 
 bearding the bachelor in his hall. 
 
 Yet, strange to say, the lady's fair fame never suffered 
 from these peccadilloes. Her immunity in this respect, 
 however, was partly owing to the fact that she belonged to 
 that class of fair ones into whose "lug" the Scottish poet 
 begged leave to whisper 
 
 " Ye 're aiblins nae temptation," 
 
 and partly because she was a very rhinoceros to those shafts 
 which usually wound so deeply, but which are so seldom 
 discharged except when they can wound. 
 
 From these glimpses of Miss Lloyd's character the reader 
 must have anticipated that two of her foibles combined to 
 bring her this evening to Ballinaclash. 
 
 She had been on thorns during the week to get a look at 
 Mr. Lowe ; and when Mrs. Hanly met her in the main street 
 of Kilthubber, and casually remarked that her girls were 
 going to tea to Mr. Kearney's in the evening, Miss Lloyd 
 eagerly offered to accompany her home. This Mrs. Hanly 
 really looked upon as an honour, and thought it a most 
 unfortunate circumstance that she had come to town on the- 
 public car and was to return by the same conveyance. 
 
 "The girls," she remarked, "were returning one or two 
 visits in the morning, and I thought it would be too late to 
 wait for the carriage. So I took a seat on the mail car." 
 
 "Oh, no matter, my dear Mrs. Hanly," returned Miss 
 Lloyd, " it will be quite pleasant. I know the driver of the
 
 114 
 
 KXOCKNAGOW : 
 
 mail car very well. That was Mr. Labart's new servant from 
 Dublin that was on the car with you. I have not seen her 
 yet ; but I 'm told she has excellent discharges from her two 
 last places. So, my dear Mrs. Hanly, come up and I '11 be 
 ready in a minute." 
 
 Mrs. Hanly, in the innocence of her heart, thought it would 
 be necessary to send an apology to Miss Kearney; as, of 
 course, her daughters could not think of leaving so distin- 
 guished a visitor as Miss Lloyd alone with herself during the 
 evening. But Miss Lloyd at once removed that difficulty by 
 announcing her intention of going with them. 
 
 "To be sure," said she, "I'm not personally acquainted 
 with them, but that makes no difference. I know their 
 brother, the doctor, who is a great friend of Robert's : but I 
 believe he is in Dublin." 
 
 " Oh, he is at home," replied Rose Hanly. " We passed 
 him a few hours ago in the bog. I wisli you saw him." 
 
 And Rose glanced at her sister, who, so far from joining 
 in the laugh, looked quite huffed that her admirer should be 
 made sport of in such a manner. 
 
 " He is an elegant young man," Miss Lloyd observed, 
 gravely; "and waltzes admirably. He was at the last race 
 ball. I '11 be delighted to meet him." 
 
 Miss Lloyd was fastening a bracelet on her wrist in a 
 nervous, fidgety manner, and had several pins in her mouth 
 while she was speaking. 
 
 " Oh, I am most unfortunate," she exclaimed, tumbling 
 various small articles out of her bag on the floor. "I fear I 
 have lost my charms." 
 
 "Ton my word, Miss Lloyd, that is a misfortune; and one 
 that few would suspect you in danger of 
 
 " ' Vacuus canted coram latrone viator.'" 
 
 The young lady started, and with a terrified look towards 
 the door, whence the sound proceeded, ran for protection to 
 Kathleen, and grasped her convulsively by the arm. 
 
 "Why do you come up here, sir? What business have 
 you in our room?" exclaimed Rose, quite in a shrewish 
 tone. 
 
 " To tell you that the car is at the door, and not to keep 
 the pony standing in the cold."
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 115 
 
 "Oh!" gasped Miss Lloyd, with her hand pressed against 
 her left side, " what a dreadful voice he has!" 
 
 " I 'm always at him about it," said Rose, " but I can get 
 no good of him. And somehow you never know he 's there 
 till he speaks. He startles ourselves now as much as any- 
 body else, as he has been at school for two years without 
 coming home. But he 's very clever," she added, evidently 
 proud of the fact. " He took first prizes in classics. I believe 
 that's Greek he's after talking now." 
 
 "Oh, I hope he won't talk any more Greek to me," said 
 Miss Lloyd, drawing a long breath. "A few more such 
 shocks would knock me up completely." 
 
 "You'll get used to it," said Rose. "In fact, it wouldn't 
 be half so bad if you were prepared for it. But let us hurry, 
 and not leave the poor pony to be frozen to death." 
 
 " I can't get any good of it," said Miss Lloyd despairingly. 
 
 One side of her hair was so obstinately in curl that she 
 couldn't brush it out, and the other side was so hopelessly 
 out of curl that she couldn't twist it in. ' With Kathleen's 
 assistance, however, she fixed it somehow, and on hearing 
 Lory rushing up the stairs again, they hurried out of the 
 room. 
 
 "We're ready," exclaimed Rose, putting her hand on her 
 brother's mouth, to save Miss Lloyd's nerves from another 
 shock. 
 
 And now we find the last-mentioned lady with her elbow 
 resting upon Mary Kearney's piano, and feeling her hair with 
 the tips of her fingers, for the double purpose of displaying 
 her bracelet to the best advantage, and satisfying herself as 
 to how the refractory curl was behaving itself. 
 
 She was losing all patience at seeing Mr. Lowe throwing 
 away so much of his time talking to " that pert little thing," 
 while she, Henrietta Lloyd, was there for the express purpose 
 of talking to him. 
 
 But when Rose Hanly was asked to sing, a'nd Grace made 
 way for her, Miss Lloyd could no longer conceal her ineffable 
 disgust. 
 
 "Oh, really," she exclaimed, "ye are all musically mad." 
 
 To her great relief, however, the tea-tray appeared just as 
 the song had concluded. And her good humour was quite 
 restored when she saw they were to have tea sitting sociably
 
 1 1 6 KNOCKXAGOW ; 
 
 round the table. Miss Lloyd shone with peculiar brilliancy 
 at the tea-table; and she now hastened to take up a positiou 
 from which she could direct her fire on Mr. Lowe through 
 Mrs. Kearney. 
 
 "Where do you get your tea, Mrs. Kearney?" she began. 
 "We get ours at Phelin's," she continued, without waiting 
 for a reply. "Mr. Hemphill recommended us to get it 
 there." 
 
 Poor Mr. Lowe was already beginning to feel quite un- 
 comfortable, for the lady never turned her eyes from his face 
 for a moment. 
 
 "What strange things people will say, Mrs. Kearney?" 
 
 Mr. Lowe looked at her inquiringly, for, from the direct 
 stare with which she regarded him, he expected she was 
 about accusing him of saying strange things. To his great 
 relief, however, she continued: 
 
 "It was said in Phelin's shop that we had no fortunes." 
 
 Mr. Lowe sought relief in the bottom of his tea-cup, but 
 failed to find it, fbr he felt the eyes were upon him. 
 
 " But, Mrs. Kearney, you may tell any one that asks that 
 we have fortunes. I have two thousand, and my sisters a 
 thousand each." 
 
 Mr. Lowe tried balancing his spoon on his finger, but the 
 relief it afforded was only partial and temporary. 
 
 "Mr. Hemphill's son is after coming home. I have not 
 seen him yet; but I 'ni told he is an elegant young man." 
 
 Look sharp, Mr. Lowe! Make your hay while the sun 
 shines ! 
 
 He meditated bolting from the room, but felt as if he 
 couldn't as if she "held him with her glittering eye," like 
 the Ancient Mariner. 
 
 "And Robert tells me," continued Miss Lloyd, " that Mr. 
 Hemphill is extremely intellectual." 
 
 The idea that Bob Lloyd had ever used such a phrase as 
 "extremely intellectual" was so good a joke that both Hugh 
 and Richard found it difficult to refrain from laughing. 
 
 But it must nou be suspected that Miss Lloyd was draw- 
 ing upon her imagination. She merely had recourse to a 
 euphemism, which was her practice when quoting her brother's 
 observations. In this instance Bob did say, in reply to a 
 question of hers, that young Hemphill was a " bloody clever
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPER ART. l!7 
 
 fellow," and this expression Miss Lloyd merely translated 
 into "extremely intellectual." 
 
 "I know his brother," said Lory, from the opposite end 
 of the table. 
 
 Miss Lloyd was in the act of putting her cup to her lips, 
 and staring at Mr. Lowe over the brim, when Lory's re- 
 mark, innocent as it may seem in print, knocked the cup out 
 of her hand as effectually as if he had flung a projectile at 
 it with unerring aim. 
 
 The shock was felt more or less by all present ; but when 
 they saw Miss Lloyd with her hand in the same position as 
 when the cup flew from it, apparently unable to move, and 
 staring at Lory as if he had knocked the wits out of her too, 
 a laugh that could not be suppressed went round the table. 
 And when the nervous lady at length leant back in her chair, 
 and said faintly, " That boy is dreadful," Mr. Lowe blessed 
 Lory in his heart for drawing her eyes upon himself. 
 
 Mrs. Kearney took the broken tea-cup in her hand ; and 
 the good woman was inconsolable. She had not even the 
 melancholy consolation of telling how her uncle Dan admired 
 the pattern of this particular set ; for Eichard suggested a 
 dance at the moment, which caused a general movement 
 among the company, and Mrs. Kearney gently laid the 
 broken cup on the tray with a sigh. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 WILL SIR GARRETT RENEW THE LEASE? 
 
 GRACE was taking her place at the piano, when Mary 
 whispered to her that she herself would play for the dancers 
 an arrangement which Grace liked very well. But she 
 looked quite offended when she saw that Mr. Lowe and the 
 doctor had already engaged the two Miss Hanlys; and Hugh 
 was compelled by the exigencies of the case to offer his arm 
 to the formidable Miss Lloyd.
 
 118 KNOCKN AGO W , 
 
 " Stand up, sir," said Rose Hani}' to her brother. And 
 Lory and Grace completed the set. 
 
 "Are you long here?" Lory asked. 
 
 "Some weeks," she replied, after involuntarily moving 
 half-a-yard away from him. 
 
 "Will you stay much longer?" 
 
 "I can't say." 
 
 "Come with me," said Lory confidentially, "and I'll show 
 you places you never saw before." 
 
 She stared at him with unfeigned astonishment. 
 
 "I'll show you a cave," he continued, "that very few 
 know about." 
 
 " Oh!" was her only reply. And the idea of a cave, taken 
 in connection with her partner's voice, gave her a vague sort 
 of impression that he lived under ground, and only visited 
 his friends during the holidays. She looked at him more 
 curiously than she had yet done, and thought his costume 
 rather strengthened this notion. His coat, for instance, was 
 evidently made for him when he was about half his present 
 size. It was much too narrow in the shoulders ; the sleeves 
 did not reach far below the elbows ; the buttons behind were 
 half-way up his back ; and the skirts fell considerably short 
 of the extremity of the spine. On the other hand, -his 
 trousers, of grey cotton tweed, was distressingly new and 
 shiny, and very much too large; the tailor, warned no doubt 
 by the example of the coat, seeming to have left him " ample 
 room and verge enough" to expand into a colossus, if he 
 were so minded particularly about that portion of his person 
 which the coatskirts seemed to be straining every threa 1 to 
 cover, but only partially succeeded. So that Grace fancied 
 she saw in her partner the upper half of a small boy joined 
 to the lower half of a stout man. 
 
 She was soon struck by another peculiarity, which both 
 surprised and distressed her. When it came near their turn 
 to begin the figure, Lory's legs began bending and straight- 
 ening at the knees. With his neck stretched forward, and 
 staring wildly at the opposite wall, he worked up and down 
 spasmodically to the time of the music. 
 
 Grace thought at first that the soles of his boots had, by 
 some unaccountable means, been glued to the floor, and that 
 he was exerting all his strength to get them free. In fact, it
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPEKARY. 
 
 seemed absolutely necessary that Lory should pump himself 
 for a minute or two before he could set off. And this getting- 
 up of steam was more frequent than usual in consequence of 
 Hugh's ignorance of quadrilles and Miss Lloyd was not the 
 sort of partner to set him right. 
 
 The doctor, who was opposite to his brother and Miss 
 Lloyd, was greatly annoyed by these blunders ; and as he 
 seldom thought of consulting other people's wishes when his 
 own were to be gratified, he coolly took Grace by the hand 
 and transferred her to Hugh, handing back Miss Lloyd to 
 Lory, who, by merely asking "did she like quadrilles 1' r 
 almost precipitated her into Maurice Kearney's lap. 
 
 This exchange of partners so bewildered Miss Lloyd, 
 that the dance was over before she could fully realize her 
 position. 
 
 Grace hung upon Hugh's arm, glad to escape from her 
 late partner; and her quick eye did not fail to observe that 
 the exchange was very welcome to Hugh too. He drew her 
 out about Davis and other kindred subjects ; but she never 
 lost sight of the business in hand, and piloted him. so deftly 
 that there were no more mistakes till the dance was concluded. 
 
 " Wonders will never cease," said she to Mary, as she 
 fanned herself with her handkerchief. " Fionn Macool can 
 make himself agreeable." 
 
 " It would be strange if he could not," Mary replied, with 
 a thoughtful smile. 
 
 The evening passed very pleasantly. Every one who could 
 sing, did sing including Maurice Kearney himself, who 
 gave them the "Cruiskeen Lawn," in excellent style. Other 
 dances followed the first; and a polka with Sir Garrett 
 Butler's nephew made even Miss Lloyd supremely happy. 
 
 When they reached home, the Miss Hanlys and their visitor 
 according to universal custom discussed the merits of the 
 people with whom they had spent the evening. 
 
 Kathleen was outspoken in praise of the doctor; and Mis& 
 Lloyd agreed in all she said in his praise. And Kathleen, 
 as fully shared Miss Lloyd's ecstasies on the subject of Mr. 
 Lowe. 
 
 "Even if you separate his features," said Miss Lloyd,. 
 " he is a singularly handsome man. And what lovely hair 
 he has!"
 
 120 KNOCKNAGOW; 
 
 " Yes," replied Kathleen, " his hair is very nice." 
 
 "And," exclaimed Miss Lloyd, clasping her hands together 
 and turning up her eyes fervently, " did you ever see such 
 feet with mortal?" 
 
 " Ye may talk," said Rose, who leant on the table with her 
 hand pressed against her forehead, as if she were suffering 
 from, headache " ye may talk, but I'd rather have one honest 
 smile from Hugh Kearney than all the blandishments of 
 your elegant young man." 
 
 " Ton my word," replied Kathleen, opening her eyes very 
 wide, "whatever may be thought of your taste, I cannot 
 help admiring your candour." 
 
 "Yes, I am candid," Rose rejoined, rather crossly; "and 
 that's more than other people are." 
 
 The bewitching Kathleen got very red, and an angry look 
 flashed from her eyes; but she only stooped down, and, 
 snatching up her lap-dog from the hearth-rug, began to 
 fondle it assiduously. 
 
 " It really surprises me," said Miss Lloyd, " how some 
 ladies will openly express their preferences for young men." 
 
 " / always do," retorted Rose. " Don't you ?" 
 
 "Well, Miss Hanly, I never forget that I am a gentle- 
 woman" And Miss Lloyd laid great stress on the word 
 gentlewoman ; which was not very ladylike, however gentle- 
 womanly, seeing that she meant to remind her friends that 
 their claims to gentility in her sense of the word were not 
 quite as strong as her own. 
 
 " Well," rejoined Rose, who did not want pluck, " I can't 
 boast of much of your acquaintance. But from all I have 
 heard of you, I am under the impression that you are in the 
 habit of coming out pretty strong with regard to your pre- 
 ferences for young men and old ones too," added Rose we 
 fear in allusion to the widower. 
 
 Miss Lloyd turned away in disdain, and resumed her 
 conversation with Kathleen, who became quite tender and 
 sentimental about " Poor Richard," as she affectionately called 
 the doctor. 
 
 And Miss Lloyd certainly did not practise what she 
 preached, for she did come out very strong indeed in praise 
 of Mr. Lowe. 
 
 The next day, when her sisters inquired how she liked her
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 121 
 
 new acquaintance, Miss Lloyd put her handkerchief to her 
 eyes, and bursting into a flood of tears, declared that she 
 was " as fond of him as she was of her life." 
 
 Before going to bed, Maurice Kearney insisted upon 
 having a comfortable glass by the fire with his guest. 
 
 "Fender is to come again to see you to-morrow," said he. 
 " He had a letter from your uncle." 
 
 "Indeed!" exclaimed the young gentleman, looking rather 
 blank. It flashed upon him that he had already spent he 
 could not, at the moment, remember how many days on 
 his uncle's Tipperary estate, and knew as much about it as 
 the man in the moon. 
 
 "I wonder," continued Maurice Kearney, "did he say 
 anything about the lease?" 
 
 "I really cannot imagine," replied his guest, absently. 
 And, at that moment, Mr. Lowe could imagine nothing except 
 that Mary Kearney was the most angelic being in creation. 
 
 "Times are changed," added the host, thoughtfully. "I 
 expect he will allow me for the drainage. I wish he 'd come 
 to see the place himself. I could show him forty acres of 
 nice land where I found him the day he sprained his knee, 
 with his horse sunk up to the girths in a shaky bog. I lost 
 a hatful of money by it." 
 
 " You lost more than the fee-simple is worth," said Hugh. 
 
 " I don't know how much I lost by it," replied his father, 
 rubbing his head uneasily; "but when I began, I didn't like 
 to stop and throw the men out of employment." 
 
 " I can tell you what you lost by it," said Hugh. 
 
 " Poor Mr. Butler," Mrs. Kearney observed, " suffered a 
 great deal from that accident. We had him here for six 
 weeks. But he was as gentle as a child, and when he began 
 to get ease from the pain he desired me to write for my 
 Uncle Dan ; and sure so I did, and he brought his violin, 
 and Mr. Butler sent for his flute; and 'twas beautiful to 
 listen to them. 'Twas the year after he was shipwrecked 
 coming from abroad. And when the poor dear gentleman 
 went away, the house was quite lonesome after him. Richard 
 was born in the month of March after. And sure, I suppose," 
 added Mrs. Kearney, contemplatively, " that 's the reason he 
 has such a taste for music." 
 
 Hugh had left the room unobserved, and now appeared
 
 122 KNOCKNAGOW; 
 
 with his ledger, and, laying it on the table, he began turning 
 over the leaves. 
 
 " For God's sake shut that book I hate the sight of it," 
 exclaimed his father, with a gesture of impatience. 
 
 " I thought you wanted to know what the drainage cost," 
 said Hugh. 
 
 "I don't want to know it. What good would it do me to 
 know it ? And sure a man couldn't do anything if he was 
 to keep an account of every penny that way." 
 
 Hugh smiled, and put the obnoxious book out of sight 
 
 "Good night, Mr. Lowe!" exclaimed Maurice Kearney, 
 jumping suddenly from his chair in quite a lively manner. 
 " I 'm going to the fair to-morrow, and must be half-way to 
 C before daybreak." 
 
 "All, then," said his wife, "will you try and get a match 
 for that cup Miss Lloyd broke? And I'm afraid you can't. 
 I Avouldn't wish it for anything." 
 
 "I will I will," he replied. "Tell lS T orry to give it to 
 Tom Maher, and let him remind me of it." 
 
 " I 'm surprised she should be so awkward," continued Mrs. 
 Kearney, returning to her grievance. " But it was all that 
 young Hanly 's fault. I declare he frightened the life out of me. " 
 
 Mrs. Kearney remained buried in thought for a minute, 
 and then added, solemnly: 
 
 "Don't be talking; but he has a terrible throat !" 
 
 This allusion to Lory elicited so loud a laugh from Hugh, 
 that the doctor, who had been asleep in an arm-chair, started 
 up and rubbed his eyes. 
 
 "There's eleven striking, Richard," said his mother, "and 
 you are tired, and ought to go to bed." 
 
 "It is time for us all to go," Hugh remarked. 
 
 And he and Mr. Lowe and the doctor retired each to his 
 own room. 
 
 But Hugh hurried on before the doctor, and thrust the 
 second-hand clarionet under the bed, lest the idea of the fair 
 Kathleen operating upon that taste for music which his 
 mother had so satisfactorily accounted for, should interfere 
 with the slumbers of the household. 
 
 And the clarionet not being in the doctor's way, every soul 
 under Maurice 'Kearney's roof was resting in peace and quiet- 
 ness when the clock struck twelve.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERART. 123 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 MR. LOWE GETS A LETTER OF WARNING. 
 
 XEXT day, as the doctor was proposing another walk to the 
 Castle, Barney Brodherick was seen cantering from the 
 avenue gate, mounted upon the little black donkey, Bobby, 
 which he regarded as his own peculiar property. 
 
 "Let us wait," said Hugh, "he may have some letters." 
 
 Barney rode up to the window, and handed in the letters 
 and newspapers he had brought from the crossroads, where, 
 as usual, he had met the mail-car. 
 
 There was a letter for Mr. Lowe. 
 
 " I think," Hugh suggested, as he tore off the cover of a 
 newspaper, "you had better read your letter before going 
 out. You may want to reply to it." 
 
 The letter was from Mr. Lowe's mother, and as the con- 
 tents may help us on with our story, we give a few extracts : 
 
 " I am very uneasy, my dearest Henry," the lady began, 
 "since I have received a letter from young Mr. Fender, 
 in which he speaks of the dreadful state of the country 
 in that locality. He has been fired at three times during 
 the last fortnight, and would have captured one of the 
 assassins on the last occasion only that his horse took fright 
 and ran away with him. The horse, unfortunately, was a 
 borrowed one, and not accustomed to stand fire. But if he 
 had had his own horse, there can scarcely be a doubt but 
 that he would have made prisoners of at least two of the 
 gang. He could not use his pistols, they set upon him so 
 suddenly, but he felled one of the miscreants to the earth, 
 and the other two took to flight after discharging their blun- 
 derbusses at him, but fortunately without effect, except 
 that a slug from one of them lodged in his nose. It has 
 been extracted, and the doctors do not think the wound 
 dangerous. But why do I go on telling you those things 
 when, of course, you know all the particulars of the dread-
 
 1 24: KNOCKNAGOW J 
 
 ful affair. He is a very brave young man, but generous to 
 a fault. He begs me not to tell Sir Garrett, lest he should 
 eject all the tenants from the townland where this shocking 
 outrage occurred. For the Same reason he has only given a 
 very guarded account of it to the local papers. But of 
 course the whole truth must come out at the trial, when the 
 assassins are arrested, which I think they will be, as Mr. 
 Fender has described them minutely to the police. He 
 thinks it a duty he owes to society to prosecute them to 
 conviction 
 
 "Oh, my dear Henry, I have quite changed my mind 
 about the agency. Bad as India is, it is not so bad as a place 
 where such dreadful occurrences could take place in the 
 middle of the noon-day or what is all the same, for it was 
 not long after sunset in the evening. I will never consent 
 to your exposing your life in such a manner 
 
 " Mr. P. speaks of other things which I do not like to allud3 
 to in this letter. What sort of people are the Kearneys 1 
 I mean the younger members of the family. The old man 
 seems good-natured and harmless, and your uncle thinks 
 highly of his wife, at whose hands he says he experienced 
 much kindness long ago ; but then he was always so un- 
 suspicious and unworldly, he is apt to view things in 
 the most favourable light. Have you noticed anything 
 peculiar about his eldest son ? My dearest Henry, be care- 
 ful I understand his daughter is good-looking 
 
 and has got some education. Well, I know something of 
 the world, and, take my word for it, girls of this kind, par- 
 ticularly when they are educated above their rank, are the 
 most designing creatures in existence. Your poor uncle 
 should be a warning to you. But I ought to beg your 
 pardon for supposing you so simple as to require any 
 
 warning Your cousin has not yet returned 
 
 I trust you have written to her from the country. I have 
 discovered that there is nothing she admires so much as 
 daring. So, if you want to interest her, give her an account 
 of the perils by which you are surrounded. She is most 
 anxious that her father should settle in that part of the 
 country ; and as he humours her in everything, it will not 
 surprise me if he gets possession of Woodlands again, after 
 old Mr. Somerfield's death, as his is the last life in the Jease.
 
 OR, THE HOMES- OF TIPPERART. 125 
 
 You ought to call and see if the place is in good repair. It 
 was a lovely place when I was a girl, and it was there that I 
 spent the happiest days of my life. And if those outrages 
 could be put down a Coercion Act is talked of it would 
 be a great pleasure to me to revisit the scenes of my 
 youth. Let me know if Mrs. Lloyd, of Mount Tempe, be 
 alive." 
 
 The young gentleman was considerably bewildered by this 
 production. He did not know what to think of it. He 
 seldom gave himself the trouble of thinking about anything. 
 But the allusion to his host's daughter made his cheek flush ; 
 and between Mr. Beresford Fender's nose and Mary Kearney's 
 eyes, things were becoming mixed in the mind of Mr. Henry 
 Lowe. 
 
 " Unpleasant news," said Grace in a whisper to Mary. 
 
 "What is it?" Mary asked, looking at her anxiously. 
 
 " I 'm sure I tell you ; but look at him." 
 
 " Oh, is it Mr. Lowe you mean? Well, I can see nothing 
 unusual in his look." 
 
 "Well," Hugh asked, "does your letter require an im- 
 mediate answer?" 
 
 "No, no," he replied, with affected carelessness. "'Tis 
 from my mother ; and she wants to know," he added, glancing 
 through the letter to hide his embarrassment, " if Mrs. Mrs. 
 Lloyd, of Mount Temple, is alive." 
 
 " It is Mount Tempe," said Mary. " She is mother of the 
 lady you saw here last night." 
 
 " I ought to have remembered ; we were at Mount Tempe 
 yesterday." 
 
 "And did you meet Mr. Lloyd?" 
 
 " Yes, we spent some time with him, and he joined us at 
 the snipe shooting." 
 
 " Oh, I said you must have been reinforced," said Grace, 
 " the volleys increased so much towards evening." 
 
 He was a little afraid of Grace's ridicule, and thought it 
 wise to turn the conversation from the shooting as quickly 
 as possible. 
 
 "My mother also wants to know," he observed, again 
 glancing at the letter, " whether Woodlands is kept in good 
 repair, and she says something about old Mr. Somerfield." 
 ."The old fellow is alive," said Hugh, " and wonderfully
 
 126 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 strong and active for his age. He cannot be far short of 
 ninety, and yet he is never missed from the hunt." 
 
 "And how does he keep the place ? I mean the house and 
 grounds." 
 
 " Oh ! in excellent order nothing could be better. In 
 fact, he has expended a large sum of money on improve- 
 ments." 
 
 "Does he not pay a considerable rent for it?" 
 
 "Well, my father could tell you all about it. Your late 
 uncle was, I think, in want of money, and set the place to 
 Somerfield. I suspect the rent cannot be very high, as I 
 heard my father say there was a large fine given." 
 
 "By the way," said Mr. Lowe, somewhat hesitatingly, 
 "have there been any outrages of a remarkable character 
 lately in this neighbourhood ? I find some allusion to some- 
 thing of the kind in this letter." 
 
 " No," replied Hugh, " there has been nothing of the kind 
 about here. But I find a paragraph in this paper referring 
 to a threatening notice which was found nailed to a door 
 seven or eight miles from here." 
 
 "No one has been fired at?" 
 
 " Not that I know of. There is an unusually large number 
 of ejectments served this year ; and when that is the case, 
 rumours of outrages are always flying about." 
 
 "Are any of my uncle's tenants served with ejectments?" 
 
 "Yes," Hugh replied, gravely, "two very honest and in- 
 dustrious men. I believe they owe some arrears. There is 
 a good deal of anxiety among the other tenants. But," he 
 added, as if he wished to change the subject, " I don't know 
 all the particulars. Perhaps it would be well if you inquired 
 into them. Indeed, I think, the landlord ought to come and 
 see for himself how things are going on here." 
 
 "I believe he places great confidence in the agent," said 
 Mr. Lowe. 
 
 "It would appear so," Hugh replied. "But as he has 
 come to Ireland, it might be no harm for him to see per- 
 sonally how his estate is managed. Things have gone on 
 smoothly enough up to this ; but since the leases given by 
 Sir Thomas have begun to drop, there is considerable un- 
 easiness. My father will tell you that before now leases 
 were renewed as a matter of course ; but latterly there is a
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPEKARY. 
 
 127 
 
 remarkable reluctance on the part of landlords to give leases; 
 and your uncle's tenants are uneasy lest lie should follow the 
 example set by others in this respect." 
 
 "I don't know much about the matter," said Mr. Lowe; 
 " but I should think it very unlikely that my uncle would 
 act unjustly towards any one." 
 
 " That 's just what I say," replied Hugh ; " and that is why 
 I'd like to see him using his own eyes." 
 
 "I should say this is Mr. Fender," said Mr. Lowe, who 
 sat near the window. "At least he answers in some respects 
 to Mr. Kearney's description of him last night. He has a 
 gun on each side of him. Yes," he added, as the person in 
 question alighted from his gig, " and pistols in his belt." 
 
 " It is he," replied Hugh, coming to the window. 
 
 Mr. Beresford Fender, observing that the gentleman he 
 wanted to see had a full view of him from the window, took 
 off his belt and handed it, with the pistols in it, to his ser- 
 vant. Then walking to the hall door, he knocked loudly. 
 
 "Is Mr. Lowe within?" Mr. Fender asked in a mighty 
 voice that seemed to come up from his chest. 
 
 "Ill see, sir," said the servant. 
 
 Mr. Fender faced round, and with folded arms glared up at 
 the tall trees on either side of the cottage, and then looked 
 scowlingly at the top of the mountain in front. 
 
 " This is a nice place Kearney has here," muttered Mr. 
 Beresford Fender to himself. "A nice thing it is to see 
 fellows of this kind in a place like this, and gentlemen in 
 thatched houses without as much as a tree to shelter them. 
 He has a good deal of planting done here. Nice work for 
 
 farmers. By ," exclaimed Mr. Fender, swearing almost 
 
 loud enough to be heard within, "if I had to deal with 
 them they'd have something else to mind besides planta- 
 tions." 
 
 " Yes, sir," said the servant girl, opening the drawing-room 
 door ; and Mr. Fender strode in, glancing round him with a 
 look in which sheepishness and something like timidity were 
 curiously blended. 
 
 In fact, Mr. Fender looked as if he thought it possible that 
 he might be kicked out. But finding there was no one in the 
 room, he got up his fierce look, and brought it to bear on the 
 mountain-top again.
 
 128 KNOCKN AGO W J 
 
 Mr. Lowe came in, and, as he closed the door behind him, 
 the runaway look came back into Mr. Fender's eyes. Re- 
 assured, however, by the polite bow of the gentleman, Mr. 
 Fender said : 
 
 " I called to see you because I wanted to spake to you." 
 
 " Yes," replied Mr. Lowe. " I was told you called yester- 
 day." 
 
 " T suppose you know my father is agent over the pro- 
 perty for the last thirty years?" said Mr. Fender. 
 
 " I 'm aware he is the agent, and I intended calling on him, 
 but have put it off from day to day." 
 
 Mr. Beresford Fender commenced patting the bridge of 
 his nose with his fingers, and Mr. Lowe observed that there 
 was a bit of sticking-plaster adhering to the organ, which, 
 we may remark, was of the flexible order, as if nature in- 
 tended it to be tweaked ; or it may be that it was tweaking 
 made it flexible. 
 
 "Do you think," he asked, dropping his big voice to a 
 sepulchral whisper, "that you are safe here?" 
 
 " Why ? "What danger do you suppose I have to appre- 
 hend?" 
 
 " I don't like to say much," said Mr. Beresford Fender. 
 " But, as a friend, I came to see you." 
 
 The're was something so mysterious in his look, that, 
 between it and the sepulchral whisper, Mr. Lowe began to 
 feel impressed with the notion that Mr. Beresford Fender 
 was a person of consequence. 
 
 " You '11 see my father," continued Mr. Fender, resuming 
 his big voice, which still further impressed Mr. Lowe with 
 the idea that he was talking to a great man, " and spend a 
 few days with him." 
 
 " It is my intention to see him." 
 
 " There 's to be a meeting one of those days," said Mr. 
 Fender. 
 
 "What sort of meeting?" 
 
 Mr. Beresford Fender hesitated, as if in doubt whether 
 Mr. Lowe was a proper person to communicate with on the 
 subject of the meeting. 
 
 " I '11 tell you about it another time ; I '11 be speaking to 
 some of the gentlemen at the road-sessions to-day." 
 
 Mr. Lowe looked at him, and really began to feel uneasy.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OP TIPPERART. 129 
 
 " They're quare times," said Mr. Beresford Pender. "Good 
 morning. I '11 tell my father you 11 call to see him." 
 
 Mr. Beresford Pender walked out ; and it was not till he 
 had watched him for some time as he carefully examined his 
 pistols and buckled the belt around him, that Mr. Lowe dis- 
 covered that Mr. Beresford Pender was not a very large, stout 
 man. In fact, he was under the middle height, and rather 
 lank than otherwise. But, between the big voice and the 
 big look, he really often impressed people with the idea that 
 he was a big man. 
 
 "Good gracious, Mary!" exclaimed Grace, who was ob- 
 serving Mr. Pender 's movements from behind the window 
 curtain, "he is like an alderman in front. But look at 
 him behind, and he 's like a pump. He 'd want to wear a 
 bustle." 
 
 " Oh, fie," said Mary, " what would Mr. Lowe say if he 
 heard you make such a remark?" 
 
 " I suppose it would be quite unpardonable if I remarked 
 also that the servant's coat, with the distressingly large and 
 bright livery buttons, is an old frock-coat of his master's." 
 
 "Xothing can escape you," said Mary, laughing; "I'd 
 never have noticed it if you had not pointed it out." 
 
 It occurred to Mr. Lowe that Mr. Pender had made no 
 allusion to the several attempts upon his life; and he stepped 
 outside the door to satisfy his curiosity before Mr. Pender 
 had got into his gig. 
 
 " You wrote to my mother lately," observed Mr. Lowe. 
 
 " Yes," replied Mr. Pender. " You know she has a rent- 
 charge on Cahirdeheen, and I see to it myself. 'Tisn't aisy 
 to manage them fellows." 
 
 " But you spoke of being attacked by five men V 
 
 " They were hired," replied Mr. Beresford Pender. " But 
 I don't like to transport him." And as he spoke he looked 
 at the parlour window, from which Mary quickly retreated, 
 a little vexed at being seen by him. 
 
 " I '11 tell you all about it another time," he added, " but 
 keep what I'm after telling you to yourself." 
 
 Mr. Lowe did not know what to think, and was about 
 shaking hands with his new acquaintance, when the latter 
 said
 
 1 30 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 Very inoffensive and harmless words in themselves ; but 
 there was something in Mr. Beresford Fender's manner of 
 uttering them, as he glanced at the parlour window, that 
 made Mr. Henry Lowe feel an almost uncontrollable impulse 
 to kick Mr. Beresford Fender then and there. 
 
 " Good morning," said he, turning upon his heel and 
 drawing back his hand before Mr. Beresford Fender had 
 touched it. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 FIVE SHILLINGS' WORTH OF DANCE. 
 
 " WELL, what a contrast ! " Grace exclaimed. " Do come 
 here, Mary, and look on this picture and on this. Apollo 
 is really a divinity near that satyr." 
 
 Mary could see Mr. Lowe and Mr. Beresford Fender from 
 where she sat at the table writing. 
 
 " You are right," said she, with an emphasis that made 
 Grace open her eyes. 
 
 "Ton my honour, Mary, you can be energetic occasion- 
 ally." 
 
 Mary was so absorbed in her own reflections, she took no 
 notice of this observation. She thought to herself that Mr. 
 Lowe was a person to be liked ; and the more she saw of 
 him, the better she liked him. The thought even occurred 
 to her that, if there was no difference of rank or religion 
 between them, she could like him sufficiently well to be 
 happy with him as his wife. There was not one among the 
 young men who honoured her with their attentions whose 
 character she could admire so much that is, assuming her 
 estimate of Mr. Lowe's character to be correct. 
 
 But Mary Kearney felt her heart sinking within her at 
 the thought that there was a hard struggle before her that 
 a victory should be gained over herself before she could 
 think of any one as a husband. 
 
 She took the note Barney had thrown up to Grace in the 
 window, and read it over.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 131 
 
 " I fear," she murmured and the tears welled into her 
 eyes "I fear he thinks I refused to see him." 
 
 She moved away the letter she had been writing, and 
 placed a clean sheet of note-paper in its stead. She wrote 
 the date at the top of the sheet, and then stopped irreso- 
 lutely. 
 
 There was a careworn look in her face as she leant back 
 in her chair, pressing her left hand against her bosom. 
 
 " May God direct me what to do ! " she murmured. 
 
 "Did you speak?" Grace asked. 
 
 "Ifo," she replied, recovering herself, "or if I did it was 
 to myself." 
 
 "To whom are you writing?" 
 
 "To Anna." 
 
 "Oh, really that young lady's head is very full of 
 romance. 'Tis to be hoped she '11 find the beau monde all 
 her fancy painted it. How long is she in Belgium now? 
 I can't remember." 
 
 "Nearly two years," Mary replied. 
 
 "And all that time in the convent ! 'Tis dreadful," re- 
 turned Grace, shuddering. 
 
 " Do you feel it so dreadful yourself ! " Mary asked. 
 
 " Oh, I have a visit from my friends sometimes, and can 
 come home at vacation. But even that is hard enough," 
 she added, with a sigh. 
 
 " I thought you always liked being at school. At least 
 you told me so when I went to see you." 
 
 Grace shuggered her shoulders, but made no reply. 
 
 "Am I to suppose that you only said it to please Mrs. 
 Clare? Is that your sincerity ?" 
 
 " No ; I really was sincere," replied Grace. " I did like 
 being at school then. But, my dear Mary," she added, with 
 a pensive shake of the head, " 'tis quite different since I got 
 notions." 
 
 Though Mary was just then in anything but a laughing 
 mood, she could not help laughing at this ; and the laugh, 
 she felt, did her good. 
 
 " If you got your choice," she asked, " would you remain 
 at home and never go back to school again?" 
 
 Grace remained silent for a moment, and then said, in a 
 low, firm voice :
 
 132 KNOCKS AGOWJ 
 
 " I would go back." 
 
 "And why would you go back if you think it so dread- 
 ful?" 
 
 " Because it would be right." 
 
 "Yes," said Mary, looking at her with surprise, "we ought 
 all to do what is right. Duty before all things." 
 
 " When I am sure it is right to do anything," said Grace 
 "I try to do it, no matter how hard it is." 
 
 "You are a little heroine," rejoined Mary. "But," she 
 added to herself, glancing at the sheet of paper before her, 
 "it is not always easy to know what is right." 
 
 " I think," said Grace, coming to the table, " I '11 write a 
 few lines to Anna." 
 
 " Oh, do ; she will be delighted ; she was very fond of 
 you." 
 
 ""Why do people say that you will be a nun?" Grace 
 asked. " I suspect it is Anna will be the nun, in spite of 
 her fine talk about the beau monde. But why do they say 
 that you will be a nun ? Mrs. Xavier is quite sure that you 
 will." 
 
 " I really don't know," replied Mary, blushing. 
 
 "Oh, 'tis because you are such a mild Madonna, I 
 suppose," said Grace, dipping her pen in the ink. "But, 
 on second thoughts," she added, "I won't write till to- 
 morrow. I must turn it in my head, as I want to let 
 her see that one can do something in the way of rounded 
 periods without going to Belgium. And, besides, I must 
 have a few French phrases. So finish your letter, and 
 I '11 just run out to see what Apollo is going to do with 
 himself." 
 
 " I think you ought to go to Ellie she is all alone." 
 
 " Ellie ! She doesn't want me. Her whole soul is 
 wrapped in her goldfinch." 
 
 " Oh, that reminds me," said Mary, " that we must go to 
 see poor Norah Lahy to-day." 
 
 "I would like to go," said Grace, thoughtfully. "That 
 is," she added, correcting herself, " I know I ought to like to 
 go. But oh ! 'tis saddening to look at her. It so reminds 
 one of dying young. And, besides, I fear I hurt her mother's 
 feelings the other day." 
 
 "You did not do it intentionally."
 
 OR, THE HOMES OP TIPPERARY. 133 
 
 " Oh, indeed, no. But you know 
 
 ' Evil is wrought by want of thought, 
 As well as by want of heart. ' " 
 
 " You do not want either heart or thought, Grace. The 
 remark you made was natural enough under the circum- 
 stances ; and you did not know Mrs. Lahy was listening to 
 you. Now, would you not do almost anything for that poor 
 sick girl?" 
 
 " I would," Grace replied ; " but I 'm ashamed to confess 
 I feel a strong wish to keep away from her, and not even 
 think of her." 
 
 "But if it be right?" 
 
 " I will go," said Grace in the same tone as when she said 
 she would go back to school. 
 
 Grace went to a cupboard, and, getting upon a chair, took 
 something from the upper shelf, and was leaving the room 
 hastily. 
 
 "And where are you going now?" Mary asked, with some 
 surprise. 
 
 "To Ellie," she replied. "I have some sugar for her 
 goldfinch." 
 
 Mary smiled approvingly, and then, resting her forehead 
 upon the back of her open hand, with which she covered the 
 few words she had written on the sheet of note-paper, as 
 if she wished to hide them from herself, she fell into deep 
 thought. 
 
 "Oh, yes," she said, raising her head, "if we could be 
 sure what is right to be done ! But how can there be any- 
 thing wrong in it? I think it is because I so much wish to 
 write that I am afraid to do it. But, though my heart says 
 'Yes,' the 'still small voice' says 'No.' I would consult 
 Hugh only it would add to his trouble. I wonder might 
 Anna meet him before she comes home. But that is a 
 foolish idea ; she is as far out of his way as I am myself. " 
 
 The idea, however, reminded her of the letter she had 
 been writing to her sister, and she took up the pen and 
 resolved to finish it. 
 
 "Is Mr. Fender gone?" Hugh asked, as he came round to 
 the front of the house, from the yard, where he had been
 
 134 KNOCKS AGOW ; 
 
 giving some directions to his workmen ; "I thought his 
 visit would not be so short." 
 
 "Yes, he is gone," replied Mr. Lowe, who was trying to 
 open the gate of the little garden under Mary's window, and 
 thinking of those mysterious tracks in the snow ; which 
 somehow he found himself often thinking of, though the 
 tracks were no longer there, for the snow itself had dis- 
 appeared. 
 
 "There is already," he remarked, "a look of spring in the 
 sky." 
 
 "Yes," Hugh replied, "and the snow is nearly gone from 
 the hills." 
 
 " I am always glad," said Eichard, who had joined them, 
 " when winter is past. The bright summer-time for me!" 
 
 " Why, every one is glad at the approach of spring," replied 
 Mr. Lowe. 
 
 " I never see the snow fading from those hills," said Hugh, 
 " without a feeling of sadness." 
 
 " That's an odd feeling," returned the doctor, " particularly 
 for a farmer." 
 
 " Oh, of course, I see reason to rejoice at the coming of 
 spring. But what I speak of is an involuntary feeling of 
 sadness. 'Tis like parting with an old friend. In fact, I 
 believe there is sadness in all partings. I can fancy a prisoner 
 looking round his dungeon for the last time with a sigh." 
 
 "Who is this coming down the hill?" the doctor asked, 
 pointing to a horseman on the road." 
 
 "I think it is your friend, Mr. Lloyd," replied Hugh. 
 "'Tis his horse, at all events." 
 
 " Yes, 'tis Bob I know him now." And Eichard vaulted 
 over the little gate and got out on the road by the stile in 
 the corner of the garden with the intention of intercepting 
 Mr. Lloyd, and having a talk with him. 
 
 " The harriers are to meet at Somerfield's," said the doctor, 
 after vaulting back again over the gate. " We ought to go." 
 
 " By-the-by, 'twill be a good opportunity for you to see the 
 place," said Hugh. " You can have my horse ; and I think 
 you will like him." 
 
 "And yourself?'' said Mr. Lowe. 
 
 " Well, I find I have some business to attend to, which 
 I cannot put off. You can ride the old mare," he added,
 
 OR, THE HOMES OP TIPPERARY. 135 
 
 turning to his brother. "And you need not fear but she '11 
 be able to carry you but give her head and let her have 
 her own way." 
 
 "All right," said the doctor, "let us go fit ourselves 
 out." 
 
 Mr. Lowe readily assented, glad of the opportunity to 
 display his horsemanship and his new breeches and boots. 
 
 The horses were led round by Barney, and while Hugh 
 was examining the girths and stirrup-leathers, the two young 
 men appeared booted and spurred, and were in the saddles 
 before Barney had time to render them any assistance. 
 
 "0 Mary!" Grace exclaimed, bursting into the parlour, 
 " do come and see Apollo. He looks splendid." 
 
 Mary came to the window and said, with a quiet smile : 
 
 " He really does." 
 
 The horse was a fine one, and the rider seemed to linger 
 longer than was necessary arranging his bridle rein. 
 
 " Do come out," said Grace ; " he expects it." 
 
 Mary followed her out, and dropping her arm round Grace's 
 shoulder, she said gaily : 
 
 " She says, Mr. Lowe, that you look splendid." 
 
 He raised his hat and smiled, as he rode slowly after the 
 doctor, who had set off at a gallop, and was impatiently wait- 
 ing for him at the gate. 
 
 "Mr. Hugh," said Barney, "how much do you think is 
 comin' to me?" 
 
 " Why so ? " Hugh asked, as he watched the paces of his 
 horse up the hill. 
 
 " Begob, I want five shillings," replied Barney. 
 
 "For what?" 
 
 " I 'm afther gettin' two an' sixpence worth of dance from 
 Mr. Callaghan," returned Barney, looking as if, on the whole, 
 he was not pleased with his bargain. 
 
 " Two-and-sixpence worth of dance," Grace exclaimed, 
 laughing. "How is it sold, Barney?" 
 
 " Tuppence-ha'penny a lesson for plain dance, Miss," replied 
 Barney, seriously, " and thruppence for figures." 
 
 "Well, and you want five shillings' worth?" said Hugh. 
 
 " Well, you see, sir," rejoined Barney, scratching his head, 
 " I was purty good at the plain dance ; but Callaghan had 
 such fin P. stp.ps, I said to myself I 'd get a few new wans.
 
 136 KNOCKNAGOW; 
 
 An' then they persuaded me to learn the figures ; but begol\ 
 I couldn't keep 'em in my head. And now, you know, I 
 don't like to see my money goin' for no thin'," Barney added 
 with the air of a man of business. 
 
 "Will you let us see one of Callaghan's steps, Barney?" 
 said Grace. 
 
 "An' welcome, Miss," replied Barney, throwing care to 
 the winds for the idea of his money going for nothing 
 seemed to have quite a crushing effect upon his spirits 
 " I '11 do a step or two in a double for you." 
 
 And Barney, after going round gracefully in a circle to his 
 own music, commenced battering the gravel with those 
 remarkable feet which procured for him the soubriquet of 
 " Wattletoes," in a style which we are not mad enough to 
 attempt a description of. 
 
 " Hugh," said Grace, who could hardly speak for laugh- 
 ing, " you must give him the five shillings." 
 
 "Would I doubt you, Miss Grace 1" exclaimed Barney, 
 twisting his features in a most extraordinary manner, but 
 ultimately allowing them to settle into a grin of delight. 
 
 " Sound man, Mr. Hugh," he added, as Hugh presented 
 him with two half-crowns. "An' now give me lave to run 
 over to the Cross." 
 
 "What do you want there?" Hugh asked. 
 
 " Callaghan is goin' away to-day," replied Barney. 
 
 "Then he gave you credit, and you want to pay your 
 debts?" 
 
 " Oh, the devil a credit," returned Barney. " What a fool 
 he is!" 
 
 " I can't make out what he means," said Hugh. 
 
 "Is not that Callaghan himself passing the gate?" said 
 Mary, pointing to a little man with a bundle in his hand 
 walking at a brisk pace from the direction of the hamlet. 
 
 " Oh, the rascal," cried Barney, " an' all my dance in his 
 pocket!" 
 
 He set off in pursuit of the dancing-master as if his very 
 life depended upon catching him. 
 
 "Can you solve this mystery, Grace?" said Mary. 
 
 " Really, no," she replied, shaking her head. " 'Tis too 
 much for me. We must wait till he comes back." 
 
 Bat the dancing-master was too far off to hear Barney
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF T1PPERARY. 137 
 
 shouting after him, and Barney was soon too much out ol 
 breath to continue the shouting, so that both were lost to 
 view at the turn of the road. 
 
 " He was gaining upon him," said Grace. " I think he 
 will catch him before they reach the fort. But what does 
 he mean?" 
 
 About an hour later, as they were setting out to visit 
 Norah Lahy, Grace said : 
 
 " Wait a moment till I ask Barney what he wanted with 
 the dancing-master. I can't make head or tail of it." 
 
 " I 'm glad to hear it," returned Mary. " I was beginning 
 to fear you had some connection with the 'good people."' 
 
 " I must repress my curiosity," said Grace, after inquiring 
 for Barney. " He is gone to drive home the cows." 
 
 The cows referred to were at a farm some two miles from 
 the house, and it was near sunset when Barney returned. 
 After "bailing" them in, he hastened to the barn, where Mat 
 Donovan and Tom Maher had been at work. Their day's 
 work was over, and Tom was just hanging the door on its 
 hinges. Barney began at once to practise his steps on the 
 well-swept floor. 
 
 " Blood-an-ounkers, Mat," he exclaimed, stopping suddenly, 
 as if a happy thought had struck him, " I believe you are 
 able to read writin'." 
 
 "Well, I believe I could," Mat replied, as he shook the 
 chaff from his coat before putting it on. " Why so ?" 
 
 Barney pulled off his caubeen, and pulled a large crumpled 
 document from the crown. 
 
 " Read that," said he. 
 
 Mat went to the door, and unfolding the paper, held it to 
 the light, whioh. was beginning to fade. 
 
 Barney watched him as if he entertained doubts of Mat's 
 ability to read writing. After a little delay, however, Mat 
 read the words "Haste to the Wedding," which had the 
 effect of sending Barney with a bound to the middle of the 
 floor. 
 
 "Go on," he shouted excitedly, crushing his hat tight 
 upon his head. And with his arms extended, as if he were 
 going to fly, Barney commenced whistling "Haste to the 
 Wedding." 
 
 " What the divil do you mane?" Mat asked in astonishment.
 
 138 KNOCKNAGOW, 
 
 "Read on; read, read," said Barney, breathlessly, trying 
 to whistle and talk at the same time. 
 
 " Oh, I see what you 're at now," said Mat the Thrasher, 
 as if a new light had dawned upon him. " I see what you ? re 
 up to," he repeated seriously. " But faith I don't know that 
 I could read print in 'double' time, let alone writin'." 
 
 "Oh, if you couldn't!" And Barney took the paper and 
 replaced it in the crown of his hat, with the look of a man 
 who had been made a disgustingly inadequate offer for some 
 article he wanted to sell. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THE BLUE BODY-COAT WITH GILT BUTTONS. ABSENCE OP MIND. 
 
 "AULD LANG SYNE." 
 
 " MAT," exclaimed Barney, brightening up suddenly, " ye '11 
 have a great night uv id at Ned Brophy's weddin'. Is id at 
 the young woman's house the weddin' is to be?" 
 
 "No," Mat replied, putting on his coat; "they're on'y 
 going to be married there. The weddin' is to be at Ned's." 
 
 " 'Twas said there was to be no weddin'," observed Tom 
 Maher; "how was that?" 
 
 "Well, the girl's father is hard," replied Mat, "an' the 
 priest is chargin' a show of money for marryin' 'em, and so 
 the ould fellow wouldn't agree to the weddin'." 
 
 " Some people do be very cute," said Tom Maher. 
 
 "And," Mat continued, " Ned's mother stood out agin him 
 till I brought her round, and she gev into id at last." 
 
 " She 'd skin a flint," returned Tom Maher. 
 
 " The divil a lie in that," replied Mat, shaking his head. 
 
 " Sure the divil a bone in her body I don't know," con 
 tinued Tom ; " an' good raison I had, livin' in one house wud 
 her for two years an' three months." 
 
 "I won't contradict you," said Mat, "though she's my 
 own fust and second cousin."
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF T1PPEBARY. 139 
 
 "Do you remember what you tould her about the stir- 
 about?" Tom asked, eyeing the Thrasher with a smile. 
 
 " What was that ?" said Mat. 
 
 " You tould her to bring out the pot an' empty it on the 
 top of Corrigeen Hill, an' the divil a greyhound in the barony 
 would be able to ketch id afore id got to the bottom. We 
 got betther stirabout ever afther." 
 
 "Well, to give her her due," returned Mat, "she always 
 minded anything I 'd say. Ned himself could get no good 
 uv her about the weddin' till I persuaded her. Not that I 
 cared about it myself, only I didn't like to have Ned get the 
 name of bein' a screw." 
 
 "A bad right any wan would have to call Ned a screw," 
 said Tom Maher . "There's not a dacenter man from this 
 to himself for his manes." 
 
 " He is that," replied Mat. 
 
 "No sign of anything here this turn," Tom observed, with 
 a motion of his thumb towards the house. " Though they 
 say there 's many an eye after her. Faith, Kitty tells me," 
 he added, dropping his voice, " that she has the heart across 
 in this young fellow from England. An', begor, a nice fellow 
 he is, although he has no property, on'y what '11 buy a conv 
 mission for him." 
 
 " I don't say Miss Mary 'd think uv him," replied Mat, 
 "no matther what he had." 
 
 " I don't know that," returned Tom with a wink. " She 's 
 mighty sweet on him. But Kitty tells me," he added, " she 'Jl 
 never think of any man but the wan." 
 
 "Who is that?" 
 
 "Begor, that's what I can't make out. What are you 
 delayin'for?" 
 
 " I was thinkin' of waitin' till the master 'd be home to 
 know how is pigs. If there was a stir I 'd sell them two I 
 have, male is so dear." 
 
 " I 'd like to see you in a farm of your own," said Tom, 
 "like every wan belongin' to you." 
 
 "I don't know that, Tom," Mat rejoined. "A man 
 ought to be continted ; an', thanks be to God, I was never 
 in the want uv a shillin'. An' maybe if I had what you say, 
 I wouldn't lie flown to-night wud as aisy a mind as I have 
 now."
 
 140 KNOCKNAGOW; 
 
 " Here is the masther," exclaimed Barney, running out to 
 take the horse. 
 
 . Mat followed, to inquire about the price of pigs; and, 
 after being satisfied on that head, he turned to Tom Maher, 
 who was locking the barn-door, and asked him to "take a 
 walk over." 
 
 " I can't stir till Mr. Richard and Mr. Lowe comes home," 
 Tom replied. "I must put up the horses. An' a d -d 
 hard job I '11 have uv id, for I must have 'em like a new 
 pin." 
 
 Mat Donovan went on his way alone. There was a feeling 
 of melancholy upon him which he could not shake off; and 
 instead of "shortening the road" with snatches of old songs 
 he fell into deep thought. 
 
 For the first time in his life he began to feel discontented 
 with his lot. It was quite true, as he had just said to 
 Tom Maher, that he never wanted for a shilling. He had 
 constant employment, and as he was never a "spender," 
 he found his earnings sufficient for his wants. His mother 
 and sister were "good managers," and their poultry and 
 eggs went far to keep them decently clothed with the ad- 
 dition of even a little inexpensive finery for Nelly, who was 
 a belle in her way and a couple of fat pigs paid the rent. 
 The little "garden" he held by which we do not mean 
 the "haggart" where Tommy Lahy had his crib set among 
 the "curly" gave him potatoes every second year, and a 
 cr.op of wheat or barley in the intervals. The year he had 
 the wheat or barley on his own " little spot," the potatoes 
 were supplied by a half-acre of "dairy ground" or "dung 
 ground." The dung ground, we may inform the un- 
 initiated reader, is ground upon which the peasant puts his 
 own manure, in return for which he has the potato crop 
 the farmer being repaid for the use of his land for one season 
 by the corn crop of the next, for which the land, owing to 
 the peasant's manure, is in proper condition. For the dairy 
 ground the peasant pays a rent and often an unconscion- 
 ably high rent the land in this case either being manured 
 by the farmer, or capable of yielding potatoes without 
 manure generally a "bawn" or newly-ploughed pasture 
 field. 
 
 Mat Donovan laboured cheerfully during the six days of
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 141 
 
 the week, returning generally at night to his own house, 
 \vhere he sat by the bright little hearth as happy as a king. 
 But this evening we find him returning to that happy fire- 
 side with something very like a heavy heart. Let us listen 
 to him, and we may be able to divine the cause of this : 
 
 " I know," said Mat Donovan, looking towards a hill on 
 the left-hand side of the road " I know she has a respect 
 for me, an' always had ; an' she was never a-shy or ashamed 
 to show id either. She kem and sot next to me the night 
 at Mrs. Murphy's, an' her grandfather an' a lot uv farmers 
 and dacent people there." And here Mat raised his head 
 with a decidedly consequential look ; for he remembered 
 when the reckoning was called after "the night at Mrs. 
 Murphy's," he, Mat Donovan, flung down a half-crown, 
 while many of the farmers gave only a shilling, and it 
 required some screwing to get an additional sixpence out 
 of them when it was found the collection fell short; of the sum 
 required. " She did then," continued Mat, " an' didn't mind 
 'em wan taste ; but talked to myself so pleasant and friendly; 
 and reminded me uv the time, long ago, when she was a little 
 thing goin' to school, when I used to throw the churries over 
 the hedge to her. An' faith," he added, "I b'lieve 'tis 
 lookin' at her copy paper, when I 'd meet her on the road in 
 the evenin', that made me able to read writin', as Barney said 
 I was for 'tis little I minded id whin I was goin' to school 
 myse'f. My heart Avarmed to her when she kem up to me 
 at Mrs. Murphy's, wud such a smile, and shook hands wud 
 me, after not seein' a sight uv her for goin' an two years, 
 while she was at her aunt's, in Dublin. But, sure, I know 
 a poor man like me have no right to think uv her. An' for 
 all, her smile is before me every hour uv the day; an' bad cess 
 to me but I think, this blessed minit, 'tis her hand I have a 
 hoult uv instead uv this flail that I am bringin' home to put 
 a new gad on id. 'Tis droll," he continued, snaking his head. 
 ' I, that had my fling among 'em all, an' never lost a wink 
 uv sleep on account uv any girl that ever was born, to be 
 this way ! Sally Mockler called me a rag on every bush, no 
 later than last night. Faith, I wish it was thrue for her 
 but for all that," he added, with another shake of the head 
 and a sorrowful smile, " I b'lieve if I could dhrive her from 
 my mind in the more in' I wouldn't thry."
 
 142 KNOCKNAGOW; 
 
 " God save you, Mat ! " exclaimed two or three young men 
 who came up with him. "Faith, you 're takin' your time." 
 
 " God save you kindly, b'ys. I am takin' the world aisy." 
 
 "Any strange news?" 
 
 " No, then," Mat replied ; " nothin' worth relatin'." 
 
 "Is Ned Brophy's match settled for certain?" 
 
 "Well, Ib'lieveso." 
 
 " Sure, you ought to know. But there was talks uv id 
 bein' broke." 
 
 " Well, no ; 'tis all settled. They 're to be married next 
 Wednesday." 
 
 " People wor sayin' he was thinkin' uv Nancy Hogan 
 but she hadn't the shiners." 
 
 ( " People say many things," replied Mat, as if he wished to 
 dismiss the subject. 
 
 " Begor, Nancy 'd be good enough for him ; she 's the pur- 
 tiest girl in the parish. Was he long afther this wan he 's 
 gettin'?" 
 
 "I don't say there was much coortship between 'em," said 
 Mat. " But as you 're afther remindin' me uv id I '11 run into 
 Phil Lahy's to see have he my coat made as I 'm to be 
 Ned's sidesman." 
 
 " Wisha, now !" exclaimed one of the young men, looking 
 at Mat with evident surprise; for it was somewhat unusual for 
 a snug farmer, like Ned Brophy, to pay such a compliment 
 to a " labouring man." 
 
 " Good night, b'ys," said Mat, on coming to the beech-tree 
 opposite Phil Lahy's door. 
 
 " Good night, Mat goed night," they responded, cheerily, 
 as they quickened their pace and passed on through the 
 hamlet without stopping. 
 
 " Now, I wondher what are they up to?" said Mat to him- 
 self. " I thought 'twas goin' to play for the pig's head they 
 wor, but there they 're off be the bog road. A wondher they 
 never said where they wor goin'. Might id be for the lend 
 uv long John's greyhound?" 
 
 Guessing was no use, however ; so putting his arm over 
 Honor Lahy's half -door, and pushing back the bolt, he passed 
 through the shop into the kitchen, which was also the tailor's 
 workshop. 
 
 Mat was gratified to find Phil Lahy sitting cross-legged
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 143 
 
 on his shop-board. But his smile gave place to a rather 
 blank look of inquiry when he saw that Phil, instead of ply- 
 ing his needle, was poring over a soiled and dog-eared volume 
 which rested on his knee. 
 
 "God save all here !" said Mat, looking around him as if 
 he didn't know well what to think. 
 
 "God save you kindly, Mat," replied Honor Lahy, placing 
 a chair for him near the well-swept hearth. " Sit down an' 
 rest." 
 
 But Phil was too deeply absorbed in his book to take any 
 notice whatever of the visitor. 
 
 " Phil," said Mat, after a moment's silence, "are you goin' 
 to disappoint me?" 
 
 "Is that iron hot?" Phil asked, without raising his eyes 
 from his book. 
 
 Tommy, who was reading too crouching upon his elbows 
 and knees on the shop-board jumped down, and seizing the 
 padding of an old coat-collar, which served the purpose of 
 " holder," snatched the iron from the fire. Testing whether 
 it was heated in a manner which we do not deem it necessary 
 to describe though we grieve to say we have seen the same 
 test applied when the smoothing-iron was of smaller dimen- 
 sions than the tailor's goose, and when the hand that held it 
 was very much fairer than Tommy Lahy's he brought it to 
 his father, who attempted to take hold of the handle with its 
 woollen cover without raising his eyes from the dog-eared 
 volume. But his finger coming in contact with the hot iron, 
 Phil Lahy said " hop," and commenced slapping his thigh in 
 a rather frantic fashion. After rubbing the burned finger in 
 the hair of his head, Phil reached to the further end of the 
 shop-board, and to Mat Donovan's great relief and comfort 
 pulled from under some other articles, by which it had been 
 accidentally concealed from view, a new blue body-coat with 
 gilt buttons. Seizing his lap-board he commenced "press- 
 ing" the coat with great energy and briskness of action. 
 
 Mat Donovan left his chair and stood close to the shop 
 board, trying to look unconcerned and perfectly indifferent. 
 
 We 'd like to see the individual who ever was indifferent 
 under such circumstances. 
 
 Mat took up the dog-eaied book and made believe to be 
 reading it while not a twinkle of the gilt buttons escaped
 
 144 KNOCKNAGOW; 
 
 him, as Phil turned the blue coat over and over, smoothing 
 every seam, and plucking out the basting threads with his 
 teeth. 
 
 Mat at last did read a line or two of the book, and re- 
 marked : 
 
 " This is the Prophecies." 
 
 "Yes, Mat," replied Phil and the words seemed to have 
 been jerked out of him, as the iron came down with a 
 thump upon the sleeve of the blue body-coat. " But," he 
 continued leaning his whole weight upon the iron and 
 working with his wrist as if he were grinding something 
 "but 'tisn't the genuine wan afther all. I got id from 
 Andrew Dwyer, an' as id belonged to his grandfather I 
 thought id might be genuine. But," added Phil Lahy as he 
 drew the lap-board out of the sleeve, "I was disappointed." 
 
 "Do you think there's any truth in 'em?" Mat asked. 
 
 " Mat," replied Phil, solemnly, "there's a great dale," 
 here he snapped viciously at a basting thread which held its 
 ground so tenaciously that when one end was plucked from 
 the sleeve of the blue coat, the other was stuck fast between 
 Phil Lahy's front teeth " there 's a great dale in 'em comin' 
 to pass, Mat." 
 
 "Xow, what sinse could you pick out uv this?" And 
 Mat read a sentence which it would, indeed, be hard to pick 
 sense out of. 
 
 "That's James the Second's time," replied Phil, as if he 
 were all as plain as that two and two make four. "Come," he 
 u<lded, pushing away his goose and lap-board, and blowing 
 away the yellow basting threads from the coat, which he 
 held i.p by the collar as high as his hand could reach 
 " Come, throw off that ould coat." 
 
 Mat Donovan proceeded to divest himself of his old 
 frieze making desperate efforts to look grave and even 
 sorrowful. 
 
 He got himself into the blue body-coat, and Phil Lahy, 
 standing behind him, wrapped his arms round the Thrasher 
 as if he were trying to span f\e "big tree" at Gloonavon, 
 and button the coat in front. 
 
 Then feeling him all over, and rubbincr him down the 
 arms and back, Phil Lahy, slapping the Thrasher on the 
 shoulder, said
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPER A R Y. 145 
 
 " Well wear ! " 
 
 " 'Tis a grand fit," exclaimed Honor, moving the candle 
 all round Mat to the imminent danger of the new coat. 
 
 Xorah turned round her head and said, too, while there 
 was something almost like humour in the sad, black eyes : 
 
 " Well wear, Mat." 
 
 " Thank'ee, Xorah, thank'ee," replied Mat, as he unbut- 
 toned the new coat. 
 
 "What way is she comin' on?" he asked, turning to her 
 mother. 
 
 " Elegant," was her reply, as she looked into Xorah's face. 
 And what a look that was ! 
 
 " The divil a dacenter man '11 be there," said Billy Heffer- 
 nan, who sat, silently as usual, in the corner, with his flute 
 across his knees. 
 
 " 'Tis thrue for you," replied Honor Lahy ; " an' if some 
 farmer's daughter takes a fancy to him, 'twould be no won 
 -dher in life." 
 
 After putting on his old frieze again, Mat pulled a purse 
 from the breast pocket of his waistcoat, and commenced un- 
 winding the long string with which it was tied. 
 
 Phil Lahy began carefully folding the new coat, seemingly 
 unconscious of the unwinding of the string. 
 
 Mat Donovan counted some pieces of silver and dropped 
 them into Phil Lahy's hand. His wife fixed her eyes upon 
 him, but Phil was so pre-occupied putting his spectacles in 
 his waistcoat pocket, that in a moment of absence of mind 
 he put the silver in with them. 
 
 " Mat," said Phil Lahy, " I '11 want you to do a little job 
 for me." 
 
 " What is id?" Mat asked. 
 
 Phil looked straight in his face, but remained so long 
 silent that Mat's face indicated considerable surprise. 
 
 " We '11 talk about id another time," said Phil, at length 
 " Did you hear the news ?" 
 
 " Ko," replied Mt, bluntly. " What is id ? * 
 
 " I 'm tould " and here Phil looked so hard at his ques- 
 tioner that Mat began to feel alarmed, and somehow the 
 image of " somebody " flashed across his mind, though there 
 was no earthly reason why it should "I'm tould," said 
 Phil, " that there's likely to be a change in the Ministry."
 
 146 KNOCKNAGOW; 
 
 "Oh, is that all!" returned Mat with a sigli of relief. 
 "There 's talk uv that in the papers these three weeks." 
 
 Now, the fact was, that Phil Lahy having in a fit of 
 absence of mind put the money in his pocket, wanted to 
 turn away his wife's attention from it, by saying something ; 
 and so he began with the " little job " that he wanted Mat 
 to do for him. But being abruptly asked what the little 
 job was, Phil's invention failed him ; and not being able to 
 name any job, big or little, he put the subject off to 
 " another time," and took refuge in the "news." And being 
 abruptly asked for particulars again, Phil grasped at "the 
 Ministry" as a drowning man will grasp at a straw. But 
 scarcely were the words out of his mouth, when he reproached 
 himself for his stupidity for never once having thought of the 
 bull-bait, which was comparatively a fresh subject. How- 
 ever, the Ministry did very well, and Phil felt greatly re- 
 lieved when he heard his wife say, without having alluded in 
 any way to his forgetfulness in reference to the silver : 
 
 "What hurry are you in, Mat ? Can't you rest a start 1 ?" 
 
 " I must be goin'," Mat replied ; "I on'y called in on my 
 way over from Mr. Kearney's." 
 
 " Miss Mary was here to-day, and stopped a whole hour 
 wud Norah." 
 
 " I partly guessed," he replied, " 'twas to see Norah they 
 wor goin' when I see 'em comin' in this way instead of turnin' 
 up to the forth." 
 
 Mat Donovan said, " Good night to ye," and walked out 
 with his new blue body-coat under his arm. And Phil Lahy 
 suddenly became very busy folding and putting away the 
 things on his shop-board. 
 
 " Come, Billy," said he, as he drew a chair to the fire, 
 "can't you give us a tune to put a stir in us these dull 
 times?" 
 
 He spoke in an unusually cheerful tone, and holding his 
 hands over the fire, seemed disposed to be sociable, and, in 
 fact, mildly jolly. 
 
 Billy Heffernan immediately struck up " The Priest in his 
 Boots." 
 
 " A mighty purty tune that is, Billy ; but I think it goe? 
 better on the pipes." 
 
 Taking the tongs in his hand, he built up the fire very
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY.. 147 
 
 carefully, and seemed anxious to make himself both agree- 
 able and generally useful. But some thought struck him, 
 and putting his hand to his forehead, he said : 
 
 " See how I should forget telling Mat that message !" 
 
 " What message ?" his wife asked. 
 
 " About goin' to throw the sledge wud the captain," replied 
 Phil. 
 
 "There wasn't anything said about a message," returned 
 his wife. 
 
 " Didn't he say that out of eight hundred men in the regi- 
 ment he couldn't get one he wasn't able to bate ; an' that 
 he'd like to have a throw wud Mat the Thrasher ?" 
 
 " He did," rejoined Honor ; " but not be way uv a mes- 
 
 " You don't understand these things. I'll take a walk up 
 and tell him about id. Maybe he's out uv practice; and 
 'twould be a bad job if he was called on too sudden." 
 
 Honor Lahy shook her head as if there were no help for it. 
 
 " Wisha, Billy," said she, after plying her knitting needles 
 in silence for five minutes, " why don't you talk ?" 
 
 Billy looked into the fire, and blew C natural by way of 
 reply. He might have said, with the poet : 
 
 " Why should feeling ever speak, 
 When thou canst breathe her soul so well ?" 
 
 Norah raised her eyes and smiled. 
 
 She looked much less sickly by the firelight than on the 
 cold, frosty day, when her pale face so shocked Mr. Lowe and 
 Grace Keily. 
 
 " Play ' Auld Lang Syne,' Billy ?" 
 
 Billy snatched up his old flute to comply ; but some- 
 thing had got into his throat which he was obliged to gulp 
 down before he could get out a single note. 
 
 Was it the melancholy music of her voice or her look ? 
 
 Or did he know the words of the Scotch song, and remem 
 ber that they had 
 
 " paidled i' the burn 
 
 Frae morning's dawn till dine ?" 
 
 Whatever the cause was, Billy Heffernan had a struggle
 
 148 
 
 N'OCKXAGOW ; 
 
 with the knob in his throat before he could play " Auld 
 Lang iSyne " for !N"orah Lahy. 
 
 Scotch tunes were very popular at Knocknagow, but we 
 have heard none played and sung so often as " Auld Lang 
 Syne," not the words, but the air ; for the words usually 
 sung to the tune were something about 
 
 " The river Suir that runs so pure 
 Through terming, rare Clonmel." 
 
 Billy Heffernaii played on with his eyes shut, for a few 
 minutes; and then, affecting to think there was something 
 wrong with his flute, screwed off one of the joints and con- 
 verted it into a telescope, through which he endeavoured to 
 make out some object in the fire. 
 
 " How do you like the book Miss Grace lent you, Tommy?" 
 Norah asked, while Billy prosecuted his researches in the 
 fire. 
 
 " Tis grand," was Tommy's reply. 
 
 " I think she 's nicer than you said she was," continued 
 Norah. 
 
 " Well, she is," he replied reluctantly, as if unwilling to 
 give up his first impression. " An' a dale handsomer," he 
 added, as if a sense of justice extorted the admission from 
 him. 
 
 " I think she 's very nice," returned N orah. 
 
 " She is, then, nice," said her mother, " an' a darlin' little 
 thing." 
 
 " She wants me to write down the 'Frolic' for her," Billy 
 observed, meaning, of course, " Heffernan's Frolic," that 
 he composed in a dream. "But I don't know how to write 
 music, though I could tell her the names uv the notes wan 
 by wan." 
 
 " Wisha, Billy," said Mrs. Lahy, on seeing him about to 
 leave, "would you take a walk up as far as Mat's, an' see is 
 Phil there, an' be home wud him 1 An' sure I know 'tisn't 
 there Phil is," she thought to herself. 
 
 Billy promised to do as she required ; and, after leaving 
 his flute at his own house, he walked up the hill to Mat 
 Donovan's.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OP TIPPERARY. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 MAT DONOVAN AT HOME. 
 
 "GoD save all here," said Billy Heffernan, as he closed the 
 door behind him. 
 
 "God save you kindly," replied "Mrs. Donovan, raising her 
 spectacles to look at him. She was about adding the usual 
 " sit down an' rest," but Billy had already taken possession 
 of the bench against the partition by the fireside. So Mrs. 
 Donovan pulled down her spectacles over her eyes and went 
 on with her darning* 
 
 "What news?" she asked as she opened the wick of the 
 candle with the darning needle, to give herself more light. 
 
 " Nothing strange," replied Billy, looking round the house, 
 " I thought Phil Lahy was here." 
 
 " He wasn't here since I was below," replied Mat, who was 
 cutting a strip from a piece of horse-skin to make a gad for 
 his flail. 
 
 " Faith, Billy," said Mat's sister Nelly, "'tis a cure for 
 sore eyes to see you in this direction. Here, card a few rowls 
 uv this for me." 
 
 She laid a handful of wool on the end of the bench upon 
 which Billy sat, and then presented him with a pair of cards. 
 
 " 'T would be time for you to stop," said her mother. 
 " Where is the use of killing yourself that way 1 ?" 
 
 " As soon as I have this cuppeen filled I '11 stop," she re- 
 plied. 
 
 And Nelly returned to her wheel to the hum of which 
 the grating of the wire-toothed cards was added, as Billy Hef- 
 fernan went on converting the wool into rolls so soft and 
 light that the sudden opening of the door blew some of them 
 from the bench down upon the hearth. 
 
 The door was opened by a slatternly woman, smelling of 
 soap-suds and snutf. After thrusting her dishevelled hair
 
 150 KNOCKNAGOW; 
 
 under a very dirty cap with borders that flapped backwards 
 and forwards without any visible cause, and pulling up the 
 heel of a man's brogue, which she wore as a slipper upon her 
 stockingless foot, she announced the object of her visit to be 
 " a squeeze of the blue rag." 
 
 " 'Tis there in the drawer of the dresser," said Mrs. Do- 
 novan, coldly. 
 
 She got the article she wanted, which was a small piece of 
 flannel tied with a string into something like a rude purse. 
 
 " 'Tis button blue," she remarked, feeling what was tied 
 up in the piece of flannel. 
 
 "No, 'tis slate blue," rejoined Mrs. Donovan, in no civil 
 tone. 
 
 The slatternly woman took a black bottle from her pocket, 
 and, after holding it between her and the light, and turning 
 it in various directions, extracted the cork with her teeth. 
 Then throwing back her head, she held the bottle, bottom 
 upwards, over her open mouth for several seconds. 
 
 "The divil a duge," she exclaimed, replacing the cork, 
 and striking it with the palm of her hand. "This is the 
 second three half-pints I 'm go in' for for 'em," she added ; 
 " though they never as much as axed me had I a mouth on 
 me." 
 
 "Who are they?" Mrs. Donovan asked. 
 
 " Dick and Paddy Casey, Andy Dooley, and Phil Lahy," 
 she replied. " Single-hand. Wheel out for a half-pint." 
 
 "Faith, if I'm to wait for Phil," thought Billy Heffernan, 
 as he presented the last roll of the wool on the back of the 
 card to Nelly, " 'tis a long wait I '11 have, I 'm afraid. An' 
 if I don't wait, Honor '11 think I didn't mind what she said 
 to me. An' maybe Norah 'd think it bad uv me." This last 
 reflection decided Billy Heflernan to wait for Phil Lahy; and 
 he knew his man sufficiently well to be pretty sure that he 
 would call to Mat Donovan's on his way home, and try to 
 make his wife believe that it was at Mat Donovan's he had 
 been all the time. 
 
 " Look at them" here a difficulty presents itself : we are 
 not sure whether it be possible to convey by means of the 
 English alphabet the only name ever given to potatoes in 
 Knocknagow. " Praties" would be laughed at as a vulgarism 
 only worthy of a spalpeen from Kerry, while "potatoes" was
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERAR7. 151 
 
 considered too genteel except for ladies and gentlemen and 
 schoolmasters. The nearest approach we can make to the 
 word we were about writing is "puetas" or "p'yehtes." 
 
 " See if them puetas is goin' to bile," said Mat Donovan ; 
 " 'twould be time for 'em." 
 
 Billy Heffernan anticipated Nelly before she could stop 
 her wheel, and raised the wooden lid from the pot. 
 
 " The white horse is on 'em," said he. 
 
 Nelly now having " filled the cuppeen " that is, spun as 
 much thread as the spindle could carry placed her wheel 
 against the wall, and drew a very white deal table to the 
 middle of the floor. Upon the table she spread a cloth as 
 clean, but scarcely so white as itself for it was of home- 
 spun unbleached canvas and upon the cloth she laid 
 a single white plate with a blue rim, and three very old 
 black-handled knives, with the blades worn to a point and 
 very short. Taking a small saucepan or porringer from 
 a nail in the wall, she half filled it with spring water and 
 put it down to boil on a red sod of turf which she took from 
 the centre of the fire with the tongs, and broke upon the 
 hearthstone. Thrusting the tongs into the pot, she took a 
 potato and felt it in her left hand, which was covered with 
 the corner of her apron, and then laid it smoking on the 
 table-cloth. The pressure of her hand did not break the 
 potato, but she knew by the feel it was boiled to the "heart." 
 Whipping the pot from the fire she emptied its contents 
 into a boat-shaped basket placed over a tub, to drain off the 
 water. Nelly Donovan then "threw out" the potatoes on 
 the table, adroitly catching one or two that were rolling 
 away and placing them on the top of the pile. 
 
 Her mother now took off her spectacles, making many 
 wry faces as she did so, for they had got entangled in her 
 white hair, or she imagined they had which came to the 
 same thing and placed them on the upper shelf of the 
 dresser. The dresser was of deal like the table, and scoured, 
 if possible, into a more snowy whiteness. It was pretty 
 well furnished with plates with blue rims, and some cups 
 and saucers in which red and green predominated, a sturdy 
 little black earthenware teapot, half-a-dozen iron spoons 
 fixed in slits in the edge of the top shelf, which top shelf 
 was crowned with a row of shining pewter plates, and two
 
 152 KNOCKNAGOW; 
 
 large circular dishes of the same metal relics of the good 
 old times when "a pig's head and a bolster of cabbage" 
 used to be no rarity to them. 
 
 Having placed her spectacles upon the upper shelf, and 
 her darning needle and the half-mended stocking in one of 
 the two drawers under the lower shelf of this imposing 
 article of furniture, Mrs. Donovan smoothed down her apren, 
 and took her accustomed place at the table. She was a 
 quiet, decent-looking woman, with a sad, careworn face, but 
 tranquil and contented at the same time. Her well-starched 
 cap was scrupulously clean, and her grey hair carefully 
 smoothed over her temples. She wore a small, yellowish 
 shawl pinned over her dark brown stuff gown, and a white 
 cotton kerchief under it, which was visible at the throat and 
 round her neck. Her hand, as she rested it on the table, 
 appeared bony and shrivelled, and it could be seen that the 
 gold wedding ring was now too large for the finger it once 
 fitted tightly enough which made it necessary for her to 
 wear a smaller ring of brass, as a guard. 
 
 " Put up that flail, Mat," she said, somewhat reproach- 
 fully, " and sit down to your supper." 
 
 Mat tucked up his cuffs ; and, after washing his hands in 
 a wooden basin always called a " cup " and drying them 
 on a strip of canvas that hung from a peg in the wall, he, 
 too, sat at the table, exclaiming, as he pushed some of the 
 potatoes out of the way, and laid the small iron candlestick 
 on the middle of the table : 
 
 " Put the priest in the middle of the parish." 
 
 Then seizing a good-sized potato, he looked admiringly 
 first at one side and then at the other. It was white and 
 floury, and altogether a tempting object for a hungry man 
 to look at. There Avas even something appetising in the 
 steam that curled up from it. In fact, the potatoes were re- 
 markably good potatoes, noth withstanding the bad name Mat 
 had given them to Miss Mary Kearney when he pronounced 
 them "desavers." 
 
 During this time ^elly Donovan was engaged in cooking 
 a salt herring on a small gridiron, which was constructed by 
 simply bending a piece of thin rod iron, zig-zag, into some- 
 thing like the outline of a hand with the fingers extended, 
 traced with a burnt stick upon the wall, and bringing the
 
 OR, THE HOMES OP T1PPEUARY. 153 
 
 ends of the iron together and twisting them into a handle, 
 which might represent a very attenuated arm to the hand 
 aforesaid. When the herring was done, she tossed it on the 
 plate, and poured some of the boiling water out of the por- 
 ringer upon it for sauce. 
 
 And now the repast being prepared, Nelly sat down to 
 partake of her share. 
 
 " Won't you come an' ate, Billy," she said, turning to their 
 silent visitor. 
 
 "No, thankee," he replied, "I'm afther my supper." 
 
 "Oh, wisha ! wisha!" Nelly exclaimed, discontentedly, as 
 she glanced at the table, "how well I should forget." She 
 stood up and opened the door ; but seeing that the night was 
 dark and the wind rising, she turned to Billy Heffernan and 
 said, " Come out wud me, Billy." 
 
 He left his bench in the chimney corner, and followed her 
 out. They returned in a minute or two, and after washing 
 something in a black, glazed earthenware pan, and drying her 
 hands, Nelly laid two small leeks on the table near her mother. 
 
 The meal then commenced, but Nelly started up again, 
 exclaiming : 
 
 " Bad cess to me, but there 's somethin* comin' over me." 
 
 She selected half-a-dozen of the best potatoes and laid 
 them in a semi-circle round the fire to roast, and again took 
 her place at the table. 
 
 The worn knives were used to peel the potatoes though 
 towards the conclusion of the meal, Nelly sometimes fell into 
 a contemplative mood and did the peeling with the nail of 
 her thumb but all three helped themselves with their 
 fingers to the herring, which they took in minute pinches, 
 as if they were merely trying how it tasted. 
 
 Billy Heffernan left his bench and sat upon a straw- 
 bottom chair in front of the fire, so that his back was towarik 
 the table the Irish peasant always considering it rude to 
 stare at people while eating. And as he was turning the 
 "roasters" with the tongs, a laugh from Nelly, clear and 
 musical as ever rang through festal hall, made him look round. 
 Mat, it appeared, was making great inroads upon the her- 
 ding, the backbone of which was well nigh laid bare from 
 the head to the tail. He had his hand stretched out to 
 help himself to a second pinch, by way of supplement to an 
 
 L
 
 1 54 KNOCKXAGOW ; 
 
 unconscionably large pinch he had just taken, when his 
 sister snatched away the plate. Mat, finding his finger and 
 thumb close upon vacancy, opened his mouth, not to add 
 the supplemental pinch to its contents, but in blank amaze- 
 ment ; and as he stared at his, sister, she laughed till she 
 was obliged to wipe the tears from her eyes with the corner 
 of her apron. Even her mother's sad face relaxed into a 
 smile ; which, however, was followed by a forced look of 
 reproach, as she requested Nelly to "behave herself." Mat 
 now rested the handle of his knife on the table with the air 
 of a man. who had made a good meal, and was pretty well 
 satisfied. All three, in fact, paused as if the work in hand 
 were completed. But Nelly, going to the fire, took up the 
 "roasters," which served the purpose of a second course, 
 and placed three of them before Mat and two before her 
 mother, reserving one for herself. These being disposed of 
 after the manner of tarts or some such delicacies, Mat 
 Donovan leant back luxuriously in his straw-bottom ehair 
 for a minute or two. Then hastily making the sign of the 
 cross, he stood up, and, dipping a cup in a pail of spring 
 water which rested on a stone slab under the little window, 
 Mat Donovan took a draught with a relish that drinkers of 
 champagne dream not of. He then placed the little iron 
 candlestick on the window, while his sister set about clearing 
 away the table, and joined Billy Heffernan at the fire. 
 
 Mat Donovan's house was on the top of a hill where two 
 roads met ; and the candle in the little window was a beacon- 
 light to many a splashed and weary wayfarer during the 
 dark winter nights. In fact, his latch was often raised not 
 only by his neighbours who came in for a " shanahus " of 
 an evening, but travellers who were accustomed to pass the 
 way made it a point to light their pipes at the bright turf 
 fire, or in the hot summer days to take a draught from the 
 pail under the little window, which was sure to be found at 
 all hours and seasons as fresh as in the well under the white- 
 thorn in the " rushy field " near the bridge. 
 
 " Have you the flute, Billy 1" Mat asked, as he sat in the 
 chair which Billy had again left for the bench in the corner. 
 
 " No," was the reply ; " I left id at home." 
 
 "I'll engage he hasn't," said Nelly. "'Tis seldom he has 
 a tune for us."
 
 OR, _ THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 155 
 
 " Begor, you can't say that, Nelly. "Whin did I ever dis- 
 appoint ye whin ye wanted a tune 1" 
 
 " "Well, that 's thrue enough, Billy," returned Nelly. 
 "You're a good warrant to play for us whenever we ax you. 
 Tis jokin' I was." 
 
 "That's what you're always doiii'," said her mother, shak- 
 ing her head. 
 
 " 'Tis better be merry than sad," she replied, with a 
 laugh. 
 
 The latch was here raised and the door pushed open ; but 
 as no one came in, Mat leant backwards and peered out into 
 the darkness. By shading his eyes from the fire-light he 
 was able to see that some one was fastening a horse to the 
 back-stick iron in the door-post ; and after a little delay 
 more perhaps than a perfectly sober man would require a 
 tall, broad-shouldered man turned round and advanced a step 
 or two into the house. 
 
 " Is that Ned?" Mat asked. 
 
 " 'Tis," was the reply, as he took off his hat and swung it 
 downwards to shake off the wet with which the fur for it 
 was a beaver or " Caroline " was dabbled. 
 
 "Is it rainin' it is 1 ?" Mat inquired, in some surprise. 
 
 " No, but the wind whipped id off uv my head as I was 
 passin' the quarry." 
 
 At this Mrs. Donovan made the sign of the cross on her 
 forehead ; for it was generally believed that the " Good 
 People " were wont to take their nightly journeys through 
 the air to and from Maurice Kearney's fort over the quarry. 
 
 Nelly took the hat, and, bringing it close to the candle, 
 gave it as her opinion that it was "spiled ;" and immediately 
 set to work to dry the inside. 
 
 "A fine, new Car'line," said she, as as she gave it back to 
 the owner ; " take care au' don't rub the outside till 'tis 
 dhry." 
 
 " Faith, Ned," she added, taking up the candle and view- 
 ing him all over, " I'm thinkin' I could make a good guess 
 where you're comin' from." 
 
 Ned smiled and looked rather sheepish, as she held the 
 candle down almost to his shoes, and then slowly raised it 
 till she came to the " fine new Car'line," and then dropping 
 the light on a level with his waistcoat, moved her hand
 
 156 KNOCKNAGOW; 
 
 as if she were describing a circle in the air, till the little 
 glass buttons on the waistcoat twinkled like so many little 
 bright black eyes winking at her. Ned's riding-coat was that 
 which he usually wore, but everything else about him was 
 brand new, even to the black silk cravat with a scarlet 
 border, the bow knot of which happened to be under his left 
 ear, till Nelly pulled it back to its proper position. 
 
 " Tell us something about her, Ned," she began, laughingly. 
 " What sourt is she ? Shawn-na-match says you 're bringin' 
 a patthern to the parish. But far away cows wear long horns, 
 you know." 
 
 "Go about your business, and thry an' have a little sense/' 
 said her mother, rising from her place in the chimney-corner. 
 " Sit down, Ned, an' never mind her." 
 
 " No, Nell, no ; 'tis too late, and I'm in a hurry. Take a 
 walk down as far as the bridge," he added, turning to Mat, 
 " I want to spake to you." 
 
 There was something in his voice and manner that made 
 Mat apprehend that he had unpleasant news to communi- 
 cate, so he at once stood up, and taking the bridle from the 
 jamb of the door, set back the horse and desired the owner 
 to mount. 
 
 "No, I'd rather walk," said he, taking hold of the bridle 
 and leading the horse out upon the road. 
 
 They walked on in silence for some time, and at last Ned 
 Brophy for it was the same Ned Brophy of whom mention 
 has been made more than once said : 
 
 " I believe this business is settled." 
 
 " Is the day appointed an' all ?" 
 
 " All is settled," was the reply. 
 
 " Well, you 're gettin' a fine fortune any way," said Mat 
 Donovan. 
 
 Ned Brophy made no reply, but walked on in silence tilt 
 they came to the bridge ; and then he stooped and looked 
 down at the little stream as it rushed under the ivy-covered 
 arch. 
 
 " Mat," said he, covering his face with his hands, " my 
 heart is broke." 
 
 " I don't see the use of talkin' that way now," Mat re- 
 plied, a Little angrily. " I tould you to look before you. 
 An', begor, Ned, 'tisn't for you I have the compassion."
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 157 
 
 "Don't be too hard on me, Mat. You don't know the 
 way they wor at me. Judy said she'd dhrag the red head 
 off uv her." 
 
 " More shame for Judy to talk that way uv as dacent a 
 girl as ever she was. But, like that, you know, she had no 
 great harm in id. An' sure 'tis no wondher she 'd be agin a 
 match that 'd lave herself wudout a fortune. But as I 
 often said to you, you had a right to think uv all this long 
 ago, an' not to be the manes uv setting any girl astray. 
 But 'tis too late to talk about id now ; so dhrop id in the 
 name o' God." 
 
 " You don't know the way I do be," said Ned Brophy, 
 " whinever I pass over this bridge. Two hundred pounds is 
 a fine fortune, moreover, whin a man 'd want id. But that 
 bush beyand an' the bridge here that kills me." 
 
 Mat took up a stone from the road and jerked it into the 
 stream, but made no reply. 
 
 " There now," continued Ned Brophy, with a groan, " I 
 think I 'm lookin' at her peltin' the little pebbles into the 
 wather. Och ! I do be all right till I stand on this 
 bridge." 
 
 " Well, don't stand on id," rejoined Mat. But you 're 
 not fit to talk to now ; and if you wor itse'f, there 's no use 
 in talkin'." 
 
 Mat turned his back and then his shoulder to the wind, 
 which was blowing in strong, fitful gusts over the unsheltered 
 bridge. 
 
 " Come, come," he continued, pulling up his coat collar 
 over his ears, " there's no use in perishin' here." 
 
 He held the horse while Ned put his foot in the stirrup 
 and mounted ; and after saying " safe home," was starting 
 off up the hill, when Ned Brophy suddenly wheeled round 
 his horse and laid his hand on Mat's shoulder. 
 
 " Mat, what way is she 1" he asked. 
 
 " I didn't see her since the day uv the Station," he re- 
 plied. " She wasn't at the dance o' Sunday." 
 
 " "Wasn't she, Mat 1 ?" he asked in a tone of such real feel- 
 ing that Mat was moved, and added : 
 
 " Nelly goes in to see her now an' then ; an' she says she 
 is purty well, on'y she can't stir herself to go among the b'ya 
 an' girls like she used."
 
 158 KNOCKNAGOW; 
 
 " I'm tould," Ned continued, " the mother is very bitther 
 agin me. But Tom or herse'f says nothin'." 
 
 " Nancy Hogan couldn't say a hard word uv any wan," 
 returned Mat Donovan. " But I 'd rather you wouldn't meet 
 Jemmy till his passion cools. Good night, an' safe home. 
 An' mind your hat goin' through the bog, if you don't want 
 to have id swep' where 'twon 't be as aisy for you to find it as 
 in the quarry." 
 
 Ned Brophy rode away at a brisk trot, and Mat the 
 Thrasher turned toward home, remarking, as he did so, that 
 the light had disappeared from the little window. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 "GOD BE WITH YE!" 
 
 THE disappearance of the light was accounted for when, after 
 shutting the door behind him, he saw Phil Lahy sitting at 
 the fire reading a newspaper, and Billy Heffernan holding the 
 candle for him. 
 
 "What's the news, Phil?" he asked. 
 
 "'Tis an American paper I'm afther gettin' the lend of," 
 replied Phil Lahy. " But I can 't see much in id that we 
 hadn't before, except that speech of Bishop Hughes's. That 's 
 a great man," said Phil, solemnly. "But I won't mind 
 readin' the spee spee speech," he added, pronouncing the 
 word with considerable difficulty, " till to morrow." 
 
 "Wouldn't id be time to be goin' home?" Billy Heffer- 
 nan ventured to suggest. 
 
 " Yes, Billy. ' Home, sweet home, there's no place like 
 home.' I have a poor wife," continued Phil Lahy, turning 
 round and looking straight in Mat Donovan's face, " that 
 wouldn't say a word to me no matter what I 'd do." 
 
 " She is a good wife, sure enough," replied Mat, as he 
 gently touched Phil's shin with the tongs, with the view of 
 inducing him to draw his foot out of the fire, into which he 
 had just thrust it.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERAKY. 159 
 
 "Billy," said Phil, after staring at him for a minute, 
 "you're lookin' very bad." 
 
 This was said with a solemnity that quite frightened Billy 
 Heffernan. 
 
 "You ought," Phil Lahy continued in a fatherly way, " you 
 ought to take a little nourishment. You'd want it." 
 
 "The divil cut the hand uv me, "returned Billy Heifernan, 
 recovering from his fright, " if ever I take a dhrop uv any- 
 thing stronger than wather. 'Tis little good id ever done me 
 while I was takin' id." 
 
 "That is, "Billy, because you didn't take it in raison. I 'm 
 not takin' anything myself now in a public-house, on account 
 uv a little promise I made. You 'd say now," he added, turn- 
 ing suddenly to Mat, " that I was fond uv the dhrop V 
 
 He waited for a reply, but Mat only looked into the fire. 
 
 " No ; I wouldn't give you that for a pun-puncheon of it." 
 And Phil laid the top of his finger on his tongue, and after 
 looking at it steadily as if there were a thorn in it, performed 
 the action known as snapping the finger. "Not that would 
 I give for it," he repeated, " on'y for the company." 
 
 "An' why couldn't you have the company wudout the 
 whiskey ?" Nelly asked. "Many's the pleasant company I 
 see where there wasn't either a pint or a glass." 
 
 "Nelly," said Phil, looking very seriously at her, but 
 answering her rather wide of the mark, " I forgot thankin' 
 you for the fresh eggs you sent to my poor sick daughter ; 
 an' our own hens stopped layin' this I don't know how long." 
 
 " Faix an' 'tis the same story we J d have ourselves," re- 
 plied Nelly, " if Mat could have his own way, an' keep the 
 hens out on the roost he made for 'em in the pig-house. 
 
 We 're gettin' ." Here Nelly stopped short. She was 
 
 about telling him she was getting three-halfpence a couple 
 for her eggs, when it occurred to her it would look as if she 
 wished to let him see the extent of the favour he was thank- 
 ing her for. 
 
 " Nelly," said Phil Lahy, with a politeness that was quite 
 affecting, " I '11 thank you for wan of them knittin'-needles 
 to ready this pipe." 
 
 She plied her needles with increased nimbleness for a few 
 seconds, and then handed him one of them. 
 
 Phil thrust the knitting-needle into the wooden stem of
 
 160 KNOCKNAGOW; 
 
 his pipe, but forgot to draw it out, till it came in contact 
 with his nose, as he was putting the pipe to his mouth 
 which made him start and look very much astonished. 
 
 " It never could be said of me, Mrs. Donovan," he pro- 
 ceeded as he drew out the knitting-needle, which slipped 
 through his fingers several times " it never could be said 
 that I " here he paused and looked into her face as if 
 something had struck him in the outline of her nose that 
 he had never noticed before " that I," he repeated, " ever 
 went to bed wudout sprinklin' the holy wather on myse'f . 
 An', as long as a man has that to say, he can't be called a 
 drunkard at any rate, Mrs. Donovan." 
 
 " Let us be goin'," Billy Heffernan suggested. But 
 before the hint could be acted upon supposing that Phil 
 Lahy was disposed to act upon it the latch was again 
 raised. 
 
 " I ran in to take my lave of ye, for fear I mightn 't see 
 ye again," said a young girl, who stepped lightly into the 
 kitchen, forgetting to close the door behind her. 
 
 A gust of wind rushed in after her, and was met by another 
 gust that rushed down the chimney ; and both gusts joining 
 together, whirled round and round Mat Donovan's kitchen, 
 extinguishing the candle which Billy Heffernan had laid on 
 the end of the bench upon which he sat, and blowing the ashes 
 and some sparks of fire into Mrs. Donovan's lap, causing the 
 good woman to start to her feet and beat her apron as if it 
 were in a blaze about her ; and, not content with this mischief, 
 the two gusts of wind Avhirled up to the thatched roof, and so 
 jostled Nelly Donovan's hens about, on the roost over the door, 
 that their querulous screams at being thus, rudely and unsea- 
 sonably awakened from their repose were piteous to listen to ; 
 and then, by way of finishing their frolic, the intruders swept 
 the old red cock himself from the collar-beam, where he re- 
 posed in solitary dignity, bringing him down straight upon 
 Phil Lahy's head, who had just risen to his feet and was 
 making an ineffectual effort to comprehend the state of affairs, 
 and upon whom the sudden assault had such an effect that he 
 staggered backward and was coming down in a sitting posture 
 upon the fire, when Billy Heffernan caught him in his arms 
 in time to prevent the unpleasant catastrophe. And the 
 two gusts of wind, having fulfilled their mission, went out of
 
 OK, THE HOMES OF TIPPEKAUV. 161 
 
 existence as suddenly as they came into Mat the Thrasher's 
 kitchen by the door and by the chimney. 
 
 Mrs. Donovan blessed herself several times. She had her 
 own private opinion as to the nature of the two gusts of 
 wind ; and had not a doubt that the denizens of Maurice 
 Kearney's fort were unusually frolicsome that night wit- 
 ness Ned Brophy's hat and the old red cock, who stood upon 
 the hearth-stone looking quite dazed and foolish, as if he were 
 just after receiving a box on the ear, which bothered him to 
 that degree that he was deliberately walking into the fire till 
 Nelly snatched him up in her arms. 
 
 " Faith, you wor never in Dublin, whoever you are," said 
 Billy Heffernan, as with a vigorous swing he placed Phil 
 Lahy in his chair. 
 
 " Oh, wisha ! " exclaimed the innocent cause of the commo- 
 tion, " see how I should forget to shut the doore." 
 
 "Light the candle, Billy," said Nelly Donovan. "I 
 wondher who have we at all? Maybe 'tis Judy Connell." 
 
 " 'Tis, Nelly," was the reply. " I 'm comin' out from town, 
 an" I didn't like to pass by wudout comin' in to see ye, as I 
 don't know the minute or hour the captain's letter might 
 come, an' maybe I mightn't have time to take my lave uv ye." 
 
 " Sit down, Judy," said Mrs. Donovan sadly. 
 
 " No, ma'am, thank you," she replied ; " Mary is wud me. 
 an' we 're in a hurry home, as there 's a few friends comin' to 
 see me." 
 
 "An' is id walkin' ye are?" 
 
 " No, Nelly ; Joe Burke came wud us, an' brought his 
 horse an' car." 
 
 As she spoke she ran to Nelly, and, flinging her arms round 
 her neck, kissed her, we might say, passionately. 
 
 She also kissed the old woman, but more calmly. 
 
 They were all now standing around her, and as she gave 
 her hand to Mat she tried to smile. 
 
 " God be wud you, Mat," said she, " 'tis many 's the time; 
 we danced together at the Bush." 
 
 The recollection of those happy times was too much for 
 her, and the tears gushed from her eyes. 
 
 " God Almighty be wud ye all," she exclaimed in a chok- 
 ing voice, as she hurriedly shook hands with Billy Heffernan 
 and Phil Lahy.
 
 162 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 And as she turned towards the door, which Nelly ran to 
 open for her, she pressed one hand on her bosom and the 
 other over her eyes, and a cry so full of sorrow burst from 
 her that the tears came rolling down Mat Donovan's cheeks 
 before he could turn away to hide them under the pretext of 
 placing the candle in its usual place on the little window. 
 And a presentiment seized upon him at that moment that 
 his own heart would one day feel the pang that wrung that 
 cry from the heart of Judy Connell. 
 
 "I never thought,". Nelly remarked, when the emigrant 
 girl had left, " that herself an' Joe 'd ever be parted." 
 
 " Tisn't Joe's fault," Mat returned; "his lase is out, an' 
 he 's expectin' the notice every day like the rest of the tinants 
 on the property. As fast as their lases dhrop, out they must 
 
 go-" 
 
 " An' she tould me last Sunday," continued Nelly, " that 
 on'y for her sisters sendin' for her, she 'd never go. She has 
 a sore heart to-night any way," added Nelly with a sigh. 
 
 " Short she'll think uv Joe, once the say is betune 'em," 
 Billy Heffernan observed, somewhat cynically. 
 
 " 'Tis more likely 'tis short Joe '11 think uv her," retorted 
 Nelly, apparently nettled by the insinuation of female in- 
 constancy which Billy's remark implied. 
 
 " May be 'twould be out uv sight out uv mind wud the two 
 uv 'em," Mrs. Donovan observed. " An' may be not," she 
 added more seriously, after a pause. 
 
 " That," said Mat, who was gazing thoughtfully into the 
 fire, " that depends on the soart they are. The round uv the 
 world wouldn't put some people out uv wan another's mind. 
 But there's more uv 'em," he added, with a shake of the 
 head, "an' the cross uv a stubble garden would do id." 
 
 " Wisha, would I doubt you for sayin' a quare thing," Nelly 
 replied, with a mixture of surprise and contempt in her tone ; 
 " I wondher what put a stubble garden into your head 1 An' 
 'tis you 're the lad that 'd forget a girl before you ; d be the 
 cross uv a bosheen, not to say a stubble garden." 
 
 " The world is only a blue rag, Billy. Have your squeeze 
 
 out of id," said Mat, shaking off the gloom that seemed to 
 
 oppress him during the evening, and resuming his usual 
 
 cheerful look. 
 
 " There 's more of id," returned Nelly. " Whoever called the
 
 OR, THE HOMES OK TIPPERARY. 163 
 
 world a blue rag before? I suppose 'tis because Kit Cummins 
 came in for a squeeze of id a while ago, that put the blue rag 
 into your head. I 'd rather a man like yourself, Billy, that, 
 wouldn't mind any wan, than a fellow that 'd be goin' about 
 palaverin' every girl he'd meet." 
 
 "I don't know," retorted Mat, with a shrug of his shoulders, 
 " I had my fling among 'em, sure enough ; but where's the 
 wan uv 'em that ever had to say a bad word uv me?" 
 
 Mat gazed into the fire again, with that look of his which 
 had in it such a strange blending of humour and sadness, 
 like the music of his country. The smile was on his lip, and 
 the smile was in his eye. But for all that there was a melt- 
 ing something in big Mat Donovan's face, as he gazed into 
 the turf fire, that made Billy Heffernan expect every moment 
 to see the humourful eye swim in tears and the smiling lips 
 give passage to a sigh. The sigh did come ; but not the 
 tears. And Mat Donovan, leaning back in his chair, and 
 with a sidelong glance up at the collar-beams, relieved his 
 feelings, as was his wont on such occasions, by chanting one 
 of his favourite songs. 
 
 Now, if we were drawing upon our imagination we would 
 give Mat the Thrasher a more suitable song than he chose to 
 sing on this not eventful night so far as our (perhaps) not 
 eventful history is concerned even if we were obliged to 
 compose one specially for him. But being simply the 
 faithful chronicler of the sayings and doings, joys and 
 sorrows of Knocknagow, a regard for truth compels us to 
 record that Mat the Thrasher's song was no other than that 
 sentimen tales t of sentimental lyrics, " Oh, no, we never 
 mention her." 
 
 And furthermore, we feel bound to state that this song 
 was second to none in popularity among the music-loving 
 people of Knocknagow. How is this fact to be accounted 
 for ? Is there some innate good hid under the lackadaisical 
 in this renowned effort of Mr. Haynes Bailey's muse 1 Or 
 might it be that "the hawthorn tree" brought the bush near 
 Maurice Kearney's back gate, with its host of tender associa- 
 tions, to the minds of the singers and listeners 1 Or, to 
 make another, and, probably, the best guess, perhaps the 
 words 
 
 " Were I in a foreign land 
 They 'd find no change in me,"
 
 1 64 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 came home to many a loving heart in Knocknagow ? For 
 some or all of these reasons, or for some reason nnknown to 
 us. this song, as we have said, was popular in a high degree, 
 from the cross-roads at the foot of the hill to the cross-roads 
 at the top of the hill ; and indeed we might say as far as the 
 eye of a spectator standing on Maurice Kearney's fort could 
 reach all around. 
 
 " Tis true that I behold no more 
 
 The valley where we met, 
 I do not see the hawthorn tree, 
 But how can I forget ? " 
 
 So sang Mat the Thrasher. And Nelly, who at first seemed 
 disposed to be scornful, when he came to these words began 
 to accompany him unconsciously, but in an almost inaudible 
 voice. Billy Heffernan bent down with his elbows on his 
 knees and his hands covering his face. Mrs. Donovan's arms 
 dropped by her side, and a dreamy look came into her sad 
 face, as if her thoughts went back to the far past. Yes ! 
 there was " a valley where we met " in her memory, and as 
 she smoothed her grey hair over her temples, Mrs. Donovan 
 stealthily wiped a tear from her cheek with the back of hei 
 hand. 
 
 And Mat the Thrasher's song reminds us that at the very 
 last wedding we had the honour of being invited to in the 
 neighbourhood of Knocknagow, the two musicians, standing 
 in the corner appropriated to them, commenced to play a 
 " slow tune " during the interval between two dances ; which 
 slow tune so fascinated our good friend, Father Hannigan, 
 who was a bigoted admirer of Irish music, that he left his 
 place behind the mahogany table at the opposite side of the 
 room, and, after pushing his way through the dancers, stood 
 with folded arms close to the musicians, who, flattered by 
 the compliment, put their Avhole souls into their fiddles. 
 And when we, at the suggestion of the bride's father, went 
 to escort Father Hannigan back to his place at the mahogany 
 table, and to the little comforts " smiling " thereon we bor- 
 row the expression from a well-known song beginning 
 
 " Let the farmer praise his grounds, 
 Let the huntsman praise his hounds," etc. 
 
 he laid his hand impressively on our shoulder and said in 
 a whisper :
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERAUY. 165 
 
 "That's a fine thing!" 
 
 " "Why, that," we replied, " is the English sentimental 
 song ' Oh, no, we never mention her.'" To which Father 
 Hannigan frowned a scornful contradiction. 
 
 But we having reiterated the assertion, Father Hannigan 
 listened again, and, suddenly turning to us with a look of 
 profound amazement, said : 
 
 " Begor, you 're right !" 
 
 And then Father Hannigan made his way back to the 
 mahogany table, rubbing the side of his head, and evincing 
 all the symptoms of a man conscious of having been "sold." 
 
 So the music as well as the words of this much-abused 
 lyric has been a puzzle to us. 
 
 And before dismissing Mr. Haynes Bailey, we must further 
 record that another song of his, though " caviare to the 
 general," was a decided favourite with Mat the Thrasher. 
 He was wont to chant with great feeling how " She wore a 
 wreath of roses the time when first we met," and a " wreath 
 of orange blossoms " on the second occasion. And when once 
 again they met, the Avidow's cap had taken the place of roses 
 and blossoms. Mat's rendering of this last stanza was quite 
 heart-breaking. But the great triumph was a new reading 
 of the last line but one. In the original it is, we believe, 
 
 " And there is no one near 
 To press her hand within his own, 
 And wipe away the tear," 
 
 which Mat altered, whether intentionally or not we never 
 could discover, to 
 
 " But there was no one near 
 To roll her in his arms, 
 And wipe away a tear." 
 
 Mat Donovan sang on, with his eyes fixed on the collar- 
 beams, and with a continuous wavy motion of the head, 
 which had a softness in it in harmony with the humorously 
 pathetic look which was peculiar to him when the theme of 
 his song, or his discourse, or his thoughts happened to be 
 that which we are assured rules the court, the camp, the 
 grove, and even "makes the world go round." 
 
 " As long as the fox runs, he 's caught at last," said Mrs. 
 Donovan, looking at Mat, as if she suspected he was in the 
 toils, as long as he seemed to have kept clear of danger.
 
 1 66 KNOCKNAGOW : 
 
 Phil Lahy had been taking a comfortable nap, with his 
 head hanging over the back of his chair, unnoticed by every- 
 body except Billy Heffernan, who gave him an occasional 
 push when he showed symptoms of tumbling off. 
 
 " We must stir him up," said Billy. " Give him a shake, 
 Mat, an' tell him to come home." 
 
 " Come, Phil," said Mat, shaking him, " get up and pay 
 for your bed." 
 
 Phil opened his eyes and stared about him as if the whole 
 place were quite strange to him. But, on recognising Mat, 
 who was shaking him by the collar, Phil Lahy commenced 
 to laugh, as if he thought the proceeding the funniest and 
 most side-splitting of practical jokes. 
 
 " Mat," said he, " you wor always a play-boy." 
 
 " The divil a much of a play-boy in id," returned Mat ; 
 " I 'm on'y tellin' you to keep your eyes open." 
 
 " No doubt, no doubt," Phil replied, with the look of a 
 man that couldn't laugh if it were to save his life. " No 
 doubt, Mat;" and he nodded so far forward that Billy Hef- 
 fernan stretched out his hands with a start, imagining that 
 he had taken a sudden fancy to dive head foremost into 
 the fire. 
 
 "Let us be movin', Phil," said Billy Heffernan. "'Tis 
 gettin' late an' I must be off, an' we may as well go home 
 together." 
 
 " You knoAv, Billy, I have a poor wife that wouldn't say a 
 word to me, no matter what I 'd do." 
 
 " I know that," Billy replied, as if 'twas the most sorrow- 
 ful thing he ever heard in his life. 
 
 " Poor Norah is comin' on finely," Nelly observed. " 'Tis 
 long since I see her lookin' so well as she did to-day." 
 
 The mention of Norah's name had an instantaneous effect 
 upon her father, who seemed to become almost sober in a 
 moment. 
 
 Billy Heffernan expected this result, and yet he could not 
 mention Norah's name himself. 
 
 " Billy," said Phil Lahy, looking at him as if it were 
 he and not Nell who had spoken, or rather as if no one 
 had spoken at all " Billy, I have a daughter, an' the like 
 uv her is not in the world." He said this confidentially, 
 leaning forward as if he were imparting a secret to him.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 1G7 
 
 That affection of the throat which had prevented Billy 
 Heffernan from at once complying \vith Borah's request that 
 he would play "Auld Lang Syne," was now observed by 
 Xelly Donovan, who was watching him very closely. 
 
 Perhaps Nelly Donovan had her own reasons for watching 
 Billy Heffernan ; and possibly his presence had something to 
 do with her forgetfulness a while ago, in reference to the 
 leeks and " roasters." And when she said that she 'd rather a 
 man like him that "wouldn't mind anyone " than "a rag on 
 every bush " like Mat, she had certain misgivings that her 
 words did not exactly apply to Billy's case ; and now as she 
 looked at him she felt sure that they did not. But though 
 her first feeling, on making this discovery, was one of dis- 
 appointment, if not of pain, it soon gave place to admiration 
 and sympathy at the recollection of Borah's pale face. And 
 Xelly Donovan never cared so much for Billy Heffernan as 
 now that she believed he cared for another. 
 
 " Billy," said Phil Lahy rising from his chair, " you ought 
 to be in your own house. A young man -ought to keep regular 
 hours." 
 
 "Well, I b'lieve so," replied Billy, getting up from the bench 
 in the corner and stretching his arms. "Good-night to ye." 
 
 " Mat, I have somethin' to be talkin' to you about," Phil 
 observed before he reached the door, " but it will do another 
 time. Good-night, Mrs. Donovan." 
 
 " Good-night, Phil. Nelly, hold the candle for 'em till 
 they get a-past the turn ; I b'lieve the night is very dark." 
 
 " There 's great fear of 'em," returned Nelly in her good- 
 humoured way. " Here, take this in your hand," she con- 
 tinued, presenting a blackthorn stick to Billy Heffernan ; 
 " maybe you might meet the night-walkers. And 'tis the 
 stick you ought to get," she added, giving him a blow of her 
 open hand as he stepped over the threshold. 
 
 " 'Tis a shame for you," said her mother. " You '11 never 
 have a stim uv sinse." At which Nelly Donovan laughed 
 her ringing laugh as she closed the door and fastened it with 
 the back-stick. 
 
 "Heigho! heart wan here an' another in Cork," she 
 exclaimed, as she took the broom from behind the door ami 
 tucked up her apron, putting the corner under the string 
 behind her back.
 
 168 KNOCKNAGOW; 
 
 " Wisha, Mat," she continued, " how long you 're about 
 makin' thim couple uv brooms. These sally brooms don't 
 hold a minute. Wan birch broom 'd be worth a dozen uv 
 'em." 
 
 "I'll desire Barney to cut the makin's uv 'em," replied 
 Mat, " the next time he 's goin' over to Ardboher. I haven't 
 time myself, if you don't want me to go in the night or lose 
 a Sunday for 'em." 
 
 Mat Donovan, we are bound to confess, would not have 
 thought it a mortal sin to cut the makings of a broom on 
 the Sabbath, and by " losing a Sunday " he meant losing a 
 dance, or the hurling, or the hunt, which he could only 
 enjoy on the day of rest. As he spoke to his sister, he un- 
 folded a crumpled ballad, and was just beginning to hum the 
 chorus, when his mother reminded him that it was time to 
 go to bed. 
 
 " Well, I b'lieve so," he replied, rolling the ballad be- 
 tween his hands, like a ball, and replacing it in his waistcoat 
 pocket. 
 
 " What raison do you rowl id up that way instead of 
 foldin' id right ? " Nelly asked, " I thought 'twas goin' to play 
 scut wud id you wor." 
 
 " You know nothin'," returned Mat ; " if I folded id right, 
 as you say, 'twould cut in my pocket ; an now id won't." 
 
 He was on his knees by his bedside without requiring 
 another hint. And by the time his mother and Nelly had 
 their prayers said, and the house swept, and the fire raked, 
 Mat the Thrasher was sound asleep. 
 
 And so, for the present, we wish good night to the occu- 
 pants of this humble little Tipperary home. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 PHIL LAHY IN THE BOSOM OF HIS FAMILY. 
 
 BILLY Heffernan, on reaching his own door, was about bid- 
 ding his companion good-night, when it occurred to him that 
 Phil might take it into his head to pay a visit to Jack Delaney's 
 forge, from the door of which, late as it was, a gleam of
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 169 
 
 light shone out at intervals, indicating that the blacksmith 
 had some work in hand which it was necessary to finish before 
 morning. 
 
 Billy Hefiernan's suspicion proved well founded ; for, after 
 reflecting for a minute or two, Phil said : 
 
 " Billy, I '11 wish you a good-night. I '11 take a walk down 
 to the forge. I want to talk to Jack Delaney about about 
 a little business." 
 
 " Sure you can see him to-morrow, or anv time," replied 
 Billy. 
 
 Phil put his finger and thumb into his waistcoat-pocket, 
 and taking out the last shilling of what Mat the Thrasher 
 had given him, he fell into a deep reverie. 
 
 " Faith, I b'lieve 'tis burnin' you," said Billy Heffernan to 
 himself. "Tis gettin' late," he observed aloud ; " an' maybe 
 if you stopped out any longer ^orah might be frettin'." 
 
 This decided Phil, who walked off so quickly that Billy 
 found himself standing alone in the middle of the road. 
 
 He was about turning towards his own door a little dis- 
 appointed, perhaps when Phil was at his side again as 
 suddenly as he had left it. 
 
 "Billy," said he, " you may as well come in for a minute." 
 
 This invitation was not prompted by politeness on Phil 
 Lahy's part. Perhaps if it were, Billy Heffernan would 
 have declined it. But he knew Phil shrank from meeting 
 his wife alone which may appear strange, for it was quite 
 true that she " wouldn't say a word to him no matter what 
 he 'd do," as he said at Mat Donovan's. But perhaps this 
 forbearance was the secret of her influence. 
 
 " K"orah, you ought to be in bed," said Phil Lahy in a 
 mild, parental tone, as he laid his hat on the top of the press 
 near his shop-board, with the air of a man who had been 
 labouring hard since daybreak to maintain his family respect- 
 ably. 
 
 For Phil Lahy really seemed to be quite satisfied that he 
 was the prop of the household. And when he did happen to 
 do anything useful such, for instance, as transferring a 
 customer's account from his wife's board, where it was chalked 
 in the shape of " strokes and O's," to the account book, or 
 buying a couple of " slips " at the fair Phil Lahy had the 
 look of a martyr who was slaving from year's end to year's
 
 1 70 KNOCKXAGOW ; 
 
 end to keep a roof over the heads of his wife and children. 
 He was apt to get those " weaknesses," too, to which he wag 
 subject on these occasions, and his hints as to the necessity 
 of a little " nourishment " were hoth strong and frequent. 
 
 At certain seasons, too, he was wont to take sudden fits of 
 industry, which usually lasted half-an-hour at a time, and 
 evinced themselves in "digging the haggart;" and 'twas 
 wonderful how often the handle of his spade would get loose, 
 and how every one would be in his way while he searched 
 for the hammer, or sharpened a knife, to make a wedge, on 
 the brown flag at the shop door. In reference to this pecu- 
 liarity Mat the Thrasher was heard to declare that if Phil 
 Lahy " on'y turned a dog up from the fire you 'd think the 
 whole house was dependin' on him." 
 
 "You know, Norah," he continued, in a tone of mild re- 
 proach, "it doesn't answer you to be up late." 
 
 "An' sure you know," replied his wife " that she wouldn't 
 go to bed till you 'd come home ; and if she did itself she 
 couldn't sleep." 
 
 " I was readin' an American paper over at Mat's," said he. 
 " Billy Heffernan and myself happened to be there, an' we 
 didn't feel the time passin'. I told Nelly how much obliged 
 to her you were for the fresh eggs." 
 
 This was a deep stroke of Phil's ; and he began to feel 
 that he had been discharging an important duty during the 
 evening which placed them all under an obligation to him. 
 
 " I think," he continued, as if he thought he might law- 
 fully allow himself a little relaxation at last, " I think I '11 
 look over the bishop's speech." 
 
 He sat down by the end of the table next the fire, and 
 snuffed the candle with his fingers. 
 
 There were cups and saucers and a loaf of bread cut into 
 substantial slices on the table ; and as soon as Billy Heffer- 
 nan observed them he was moving silently towards the door. 
 No one noticed him but Norah, who turned round in her 
 chair and followed him with her eyes. Such an effort was 
 so unusual with her, that her mother looked up in surprise 
 to see what had happened. But observing nothing but Billy 
 Heffernan's retreating figure, she turned to Norah for an ex- 
 planation ; and her look of inquiry was met by one of mild 
 reproach from Norah's dark eyes.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 171 
 
 Mrs. Lahy was for a moment quite at a loss to understand 
 what had gone wrong ; but the real state of affairs suddenly 
 flashed upon her, and starting up she seized Billy Heffernan 
 by the shoulder before he had reached the door. 
 " " Wisha, Billy," said she, " what did we do to you ?" 
 
 " Xothin'," he replied, quite taken by surprise. " Who 
 said ye did anything to me 1 " 
 
 "Here, go over there to the corner and sit down, an' have 
 a cup uv tay wud us." 
 
 Billy hesitated ; but Mrs. Lahy pushed him by main force 
 into the seat in the corner ; and a glance from Norah decided 
 him. 
 
 " I '11 first run up," said Billy, " to throw a sop uv hay to 
 the mule, and I '11 be back in a minute." 
 
 " How bad she is !" returned Honor Lahy. " She can wait 
 till you go home." 
 
 "Well," said Billy Heffernan, scratching his head uneasily, 
 " I haven't the flute." 
 
 This remark made I'forah smile ; and she gave him one of 
 those looks those melancholy, grateful looks that always 
 brought something into Billy Heffernan 's throat. 
 
 " You 're sure you '11 come back now ?" said Honor Lahy, 
 keeping her position between him and the door. 
 
 " Well, I will," he replied. And she let him pass, and re- 
 turned to her stool to finish the toasting and buttering 
 of a thin piece of bread which she had left on a plate on the 
 hearth when she started up to prevent Billy Heffernan's exit. 
 
 Billy was soon back with his flute ; but before he had time 
 to screw the joints together, Mrs. Lahy snatched them from 
 him, and laid them aside with Phil's American paper. And 
 taking the sturdy little black tea-pot from the hearth, having 
 first placed the table in front of the fire, she poured out the 
 tea. 
 
 Billy Heffernan reached for his cup without leaving his 
 seat in the chimney-corner. Norah's was laid with her toast 
 on a chair near her, and Honor and Phil sat at the table, 
 having the full benefit of the turf fire. Altogether it was a 
 pleasant little party. 
 
 Phil Lahy was not insensible to the comforts by which he 
 was surrounded, and their influence lost nothing by the re- 
 flection that he himself was the source and creator of them
 
 172 KNOCKNAGOW; 
 
 all. He was more than half sober by the time the first cup 
 of tea was discussed, and talked so wisely, and learnedly, 
 and feelingly upon various subjects that his wife's admiration 
 actually shone in her face till it rivalled the turf fire in 
 brightness; and poor Norah, as she looked at him with a 
 kind of wondering fondness, said to herself : 
 
 " Ah ! if he never came home any worse than he is now, 
 IIOAV happy we 'd all be ! " 
 
 Supper over, Mrs. Lahy handed Phil his newspaper, an. I 
 Bill Heffernan his flute ; but just as Phil had adjusted his 
 spectacles on his nose, and as Billy was in the act of blowing 
 the first note of the " Humours of Glyn," the half-door 
 opened and Mr. Beresford Fender's servant came in with one 
 of the lamps of his master's tax-cart in his hand. 
 
 " The wind is afther quenchin' the lamp on us," said he, 
 " as we wor passin' the quarry, and I came in for a light." 
 
 Honor Lahy made the sign of the cross on her forehead. 
 She and Mrs. Donovan had more than once compared notes 
 in reference to that same quarry, and the conclusion arrived 
 at Avas that certain folk who need not be mentioned had " a 
 passage " through it. 
 
 Honor Lahy handed the candle to the man, but as he 
 found some difficulty in lighting the lamp, Mr. Beresford 
 Pender himself made his appearance. 
 
 "What's delaying you?" he asked in his tremendous 
 voice. 
 
 The delay was not much ; but minutes seemed hours to 
 Mr. Beresford Pender when he happened to be left alone at 
 night, particularly in the neighbourhood of those properties 
 with which his father had any connection as agent or assist- 
 ant agent. He began at once to bluster as he examined his 
 pistols, and muttered of murderers, and robbers, and Papists 
 and rebels, till poor Norah became quite frightened. But 
 the oaths with which he interlarded his blustering were so 
 shocking that the poor girl shuddered to listen to them. One 
 was so horribly impious that she put her hands to her ears 
 with a low cry, which she was unable to suppress. 
 
 He turned round and glared at her, but swore no more till 
 the servant came in to say the lamps were lighted. 
 
 After looking again at Norah, Mr. Beresford Pender said, 
 almost" in a kind voice :
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 173 
 
 " Good-night, Mrs. Lahy, I 'm obliged to you. I hope I 
 didn't disturb your daughter." 
 
 " Oh, no, sir," Honor replied in a low tone, not at all like 
 her usual hearty good-natured way of addressing people. 
 
 And Xorah looked up in surprise, as if she could scarcely 
 believe he was the same man whose language had so shocked 
 her. 
 
 Perhaps he was not the same man. "Who knows 1 Be sure, 
 however, that Norah Lahys are not sent into this busy world 
 for nothing. 
 
 This unlooked-for intrusion cast a gloom over the little 
 party. 
 
 Honor Lahy could not shake off the feeling that Mr. 
 Beresford Fender's appearance was a " sign of bad luck." 
 But, notwithstanding, Billy Heffernan played the " Humours 
 of Glyn," with variations, and several other melodies, grave 
 and gay, before he bade them good-night. 
 
 " Oh, wisha !" exclaimed Honor Lahy, " he put Tommy's 
 cup out uv my head. And now," she added, after tasting it, 
 " 'tis cowld." 
 
 But, though not as hot as might be wished, Tommy 
 relished the cup of tea very much, and smacked his lips as he 
 despatched it, with the heel of the loaf, sitting up in bed ; 
 for Tommy had been sound asleep for a couple of hours, when 
 he opened his eyes and commenced whistling the " Humours 
 of Glyn " in excellent accord with Billy Heffernan's flute 
 till Billy came to the variations, which so aggravated Tommy 
 Lahy that he pulled the blankets over his head, and turned 
 round with his face against the bolster, in order to shut out 
 the tantalizing vagaries of the musician altogether. And in 
 this position his mother found him when she brought him 
 his share of the feast. 
 
 " I 'm afeard you '11 be tired after stayin' up so late." 
 
 " Oh, no, mother, I was never so happy." 
 " Well, come, alanna." 
 
 She took Korah in her arms and carried her to her bed- 
 room. 
 
 "Put up that newspaper now, Phil. You know 'tis all 
 hours." 
 
 " Five minutes," returned Phil. " I have the speech 
 finished all but a quarter of a column."
 
 174 KNOCKNAGOW ' 
 
 " What's that 1" Honor exclaimed in a whisper, with a 
 frightened look. 
 
 " Don't mind," replied Phil as he read on. " 'Tis on'y A 
 slate that 's after bein' blown off the house." 
 
 " 'Tis a terribly stormy night," said Honor. " Listen." 
 
 " I hear it," said Phil, as he folded his newspaper. " The 
 almanac mentioned that we were likely to have either storms 
 or heavy rain this month, or frost and snow, unless the wind 
 happened to be from the south, or east, or north-west, and 
 then tolerably fine weather was to be expected, with occa- 
 sional showers." 
 
 " Wisha, now," said Honor, as if her fears were quite dis- 
 sipated by this explanation. " Go to bed now, Phil, an' let 
 me ready-up the place." 
 
 " I '11 kneel down here," replied Phil, " and read my 
 penance. Hand me the prayer-book." 
 
 " Remind me to-morrow," said he, as he closed the door 
 behind him, " of Tom Donnelly's breeches." 
 
 " I will," replied Honor ; " an' I hope you '11 finish id at 
 wance. His wife was complainin' to-day that he hadn't a 
 stitch uv dacency." 
 
 " Well, he won't have that to say much longer," replied 
 Phil, " so far as the breeches goes." And Phil sprinkled 
 himself with the holy water, and lay down to sleep with a 
 mind at peace with himself and the world. 
 
 " I tell you what," he muttered to himself, as he wrapped 
 the blanket tightly over his shoulders, " Phil Lahy is is 
 is a fine fellow !" With which comfortable reflection Phil 
 Lahy began to snore. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 A BRIDEGROOM WHO COULDN'T DESCRIBE HIS BRIDE. 
 
 " I HOPE you enjoyed the hunt yesterday, Mr. Lowe," said 
 Mary. 
 
 "Oh, very much," he replied. "The harriers are an 
 excellent little pack. But I must confess I thought the 
 country rather stiff; particularly beyond the hill."
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 175 
 
 " But how did you get through the bog ? Grace and I 
 could see you all in a cluster in the wood ; and Grace said 
 she could see the hounds going through the heath over the 
 high part of the bog ; but I could not see them." 
 
 " Did they not go through the place where the heath is ?I 
 Grace asked, turning to Eichard. 
 
 " Yes ; and into the wood at the other side ; and we don't 
 know what became of them after that." 
 
 " I knew I could not be mistaken," said Grace. " Though 
 Mary wanted to persuade me it was a flock of geese I mistook 
 for the hounds." 
 
 " We thought ye 'd be back to dinner," said Mrs. Kearney. 
 " We were an hour later than usual. But Hugh said if ye 
 had not gone somewhere ye 'd be home before then, and there 
 was no use waiting." 
 
 Mr. Lowe apologised; and justly threw all the blame on 
 the doctor. 
 
 "The fact is," said the doctor, "Bob Lloyd insisted that 
 we should dine with him. He had young Hemphill and a 
 few more friends." 
 
 " Mr. Beresford Fender among the number, I suppose," 
 said Mary. 
 
 " No, he didn't ask him ; though he was with us at the 
 time. Lloyd doesn't care about him. I think he told me 
 his father overreached him in some money transaction." 
 
 " Depend your life on old Isaac for that," said Mr. 
 Kearney. 
 
 " By-the-by, " said Mr. Lowe, turning to Grace, " your 
 friend young Mr. Hanly was there I mean at the hunt. 
 And he is really one of the boldest riders I ever saw. He 
 had an unbroken colt with his tail down to the ground and 
 all covered over with mud as indeed was the rider, for they 
 both rolled over in a muddy ditch." 
 
 Grace laughed at this description of her admirer. It was 
 agreed on all hands that she had made a conquest during 
 the short time she had been Lory's partner in the dance. 
 
 He had come back five several times to shake hands with 
 her and bid her good-night ; renewing his offer to show her 
 the cave each time ; besides telling her he could lend her 
 Pope's Homer, or the Rambler, or Thomson's Seasons, or 
 Goldsmith's Poetical Works.
 
 1 76 KNOCKXAGOW \ 
 
 " I '11 bring them all to you," said Lory. 
 
 But Grace assured him all those books were in her papa's 
 library ; and Lory, shaking hands with her for the fifth time, 
 mounted to his place in the phaeton ; but tumbled out again 
 immediately, and thrusting his long neck inside the drawing- 
 room door, startled Mrs. Kearney with the announcement 
 that he had " The Devil on Two Sticks." 
 
 "And four volumes of the ' Spectator,' " added Lory, "and 
 the second volume of ' Tom Jones.' " 
 
 So that it was agreed on all hands that she had made a 
 conquest. And the moment Lory was mentioned, Mary 
 looked at her, but Grace frowned scornfully till tb,e picture 
 called up by Mr. Lowe of Lory mounted upon an untrained 
 colt with a long tail and covered with mud, forced her to 
 laugh whether she would or not. 
 
 " He certainly has pluck," said Mr. Lowe ; " and rides 
 remarkably well." 
 
 An almost imperceptible motion of the head something 
 between a nod and a toss and a certain thoughtfulness in 
 her look, led Mary to suspect that Miss Grace was just say- 
 ing to herself that a young gentleman who had pluck was 
 not to be despised. 
 
 And in fact Grace resolved that her reception of him the 
 next time should be more gracious than it had been on pre- 
 vious occasions when he came to pay his respects. She 
 remembered his love of books, and that some of his remarks 
 were very striking. She even began to think that there was 
 something manly in what Mrs. Kearney called his " terrible 
 throat." So that it was quite lucky for Lory that Mr. Lowe 
 gave him credit for pluck. 
 
 To be sure it could be wished, Grace thought, that his coat 
 were wider in the shoulders and longer in the skirts, and the 
 other garment less suggestive of carrying several stones of 
 potatoes in the rear. It was to be regretted, too, that his 
 hair stuck out straight from his head, and that there were so 
 many pimples on his face. But that one virtue of pluck 
 covered a multitude of defects, and Lory was gaining ground 
 rapidly. She recalled, too what she did not before consider 
 worth attending to that Lory had insinuated that he would 
 exert all his eloquence to induce his sister to give him her 
 jay, which was both a pretty and an intelligent bird, and ic
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 177 
 
 case of success that he, Lory, would be most happy to pre- 
 sent the jay to Miss Kiely. Grace remembered all this 
 now, and hoped Lory would keep his word; and if he 
 appeared mounted upon the long-tailed colt, so much the 
 better. Her cogitations were broken in upon by Mr. Kearney 
 asking Mr. Lowe abruptly, how did he like the Hall. 
 
 " Tis a very fine place," Mr. Lows replied. " I wonder 
 how my grandfather parted with it." 
 
 " He could not help it," returned Mr. Kearney bluntly, 
 "the property was going to be put into Chancery at that 
 time, and Somerfield gave him a large fine. We all made 
 up money for him. I lent him eight hundred pounds 
 myself." 
 
 Mrs. Kearney started as if from a reverie, and was on the 
 point of announcing that the eight hundred pounds were 
 given to her by her uncle Dan ; but Mary suggested at the 
 moment that Mr. Lowe would have another cup of tea, which 
 caused Mrs. Kearney to start again. The cup of tea knocked 
 the eight hundred pounds out of her head, and her uncle 
 Dan was left to rest in peace for the present. 
 
 "Has Mr. Somerfield any landed property of his own?" 
 Mr. Lowe asked. 
 
 "Yes, he has a nice little property near the old church 
 you were looking at the other day. And his son has two or 
 three farms very cheap." 
 
 " How can he afford to keep a pack of hounds 1" 
 
 "Oh, that 's not much; they're billeted among the tenants, 
 and the son is a good judge of horses, and makes money by 
 'em. He has several agencies, too, and a d n bad agent he 
 is. There is not a lease on any of the properties he is over. 
 He pretends 'tis the landlords refuse to give leases ; but 'tis 
 well known 'tis himself puts 'em up to it. He 's a magistrate 
 now. The father was a good sort of an old fellow, nothing 
 troubling him but hunting. But the son is a rogue. He 's 
 after turning more people out than any man in the county, 
 and giving the land to Scotch and English tenants at a lower 
 rent, and leases." 
 
 "I thought you said there were no leases?" 
 
 "I mean to the old tenants. But the Englishmen and 
 Scotchmen are sure of leases." 
 
 " I had no idea such a system was being carried out."
 
 178 KNOCKNAGOW; 
 
 " You '11 probably learn more about it when you see Mr. 
 Fender," said Hugh. 
 
 " Sir Garrett said nothing about it," replied Mr. Lowe. 
 " I suspect," said Hugh, " he knows nothing about it." 
 This was all very uninteresting to Grace and the doctor, 
 and they were both leaving the room, after yawning several 
 times, when the door opened, and a servant informed Mr. 
 Kearney that Ned Brophy wanted to speak to him. 
 
 " Tell him to come in," said Mr. Kearney. " I suppose 
 he is coming to remind us of the wedding." 
 
 Ned Brophy soon appeared with " his clothes spic-and- 
 span new," as the song says ; but we cannot add, " without 
 e'er a speck," for Ned's clothes were pretty well speckled 
 with mud and not his clothes only, for a pellet of the 
 mud had hardened and dried on his right cheek under the 
 eye, and two or three smaller spots were visible about his 
 temples. 
 
 Ned was accompanied by his "best man," Mat Donovan. 
 "Sit down, Ned; come, Mat, sit down here," said Maurice 
 Kearney, placing two chairs near the window 
 "Well, Ned, what's the news?" 
 
 " A fine, wet day, sir," replied Ned, who felt and looked 
 somewhat embarrassed as he glanced at Mat to help him on. 
 " Ned that 's afther coinin' over, sir, for the lend uv the 
 ould mare to carry home the wife," said Mat Donovan. 
 
 This request seemed to surprise Mr. Kearney, who looked 
 at Ned as if he expected some explanation of it. 
 
 " I have Tom Bolen's side-car," said Ned, rousing himself, 
 " an' this coult uv mine is in the habit of runnin' away, an' 
 I don't like to venture to drive him in harness, as if he made 
 off on the way home, 'twouldn't look well." 
 
 " An' he says I can ride the coult," Mat added, " an' as 
 the mare was idle 'tis I put id into his head to ax the lend 
 uv her. He was goin' to hire a car, but I tould him he 
 needn't, an' 'twould be dacenter not, as people 'd say he 
 hadn't a horse uv his own to bring home the wife." 
 
 Mat Donovan was quite sincere in recommending this ar- 
 rangement to Ned Brophy. But he might not have been so 
 positive in urging it if the opportunity of figuring in the blue 
 body-coat on the colt were out of the question. Yet Mat 
 Donovan had no thought of captivating some farmer's daugh-
 
 OR, THE HOMES OP TIPPERARY. 179 
 
 ter with a good fortune, as Honor Lahy prophesied he would 
 be sure to do. 
 
 "Oh! very \veel," said Mr. Kearney, "you can get the 
 mare, lS T ed." 
 
 "Thank'ee, sir. You needn't fear but I'll be careful uv 
 her." 
 
 "Don't stir," continued Mr. Kearney, as they were rising 
 to go. " Wait till the mare is ready. Go out to Wattletoes," 
 he added, turning to his youngest son, " and tell him to get 
 the mare for N"ed Brophy." 
 
 "And will you tell him to show me my thrush's nest?" 
 
 " You were a fool," replied his father, " to give him the 
 cake till he showed you the nest. That was buying a pig 
 in a bag." 
 
 " He says now," returned Willie, " that the old one was 
 in the ivy and was listening when he promised to show me 
 the nest, and that she took the young ones all off to Bally - 
 daheen wood ; but that he '11 go after them the next day he 
 has time; and if he can't find them he says he'll pull a 
 grand stick for me a holly oak stick with blackthorn knobs 
 on it, he says." 
 
 " A holly oak stick with blackthorn knobs on it !" repeated 
 his father. " Would I doubt Wattletoes ?" 
 
 There was a silence of some minutes after Willie had gone 
 to order the mare, which Mat the Thrasher felt a little em- 
 barrassing, particularly as he saw Grace pulling Mary by the 
 sleeve and calling her attention to himself. 
 
 " I never see this girl yet, Ned is gettin', sir," said Mat. 
 
 "Well, maybe Ned would describe her for us now." 
 
 "Wisha, begor I couldn't sir," replied Ned, scratching his 
 poll and looking puzzled. " I never see her but twice, an' I 
 was dhrunk the two turns." 
 
 All eyes were turned with laughing surprise on the speaker, 
 who, at the moment, was anything but a picture of happi- 
 ness. 
 
 " I 'm tould, sir," said Mat indignantly, " she 's wan uv the 
 finest girls in the parish. How d n well you wor able to 
 see the two hundhred sovereigns." 
 
 " And the old saucepan," said Mr. Kearney. " Did you get 
 the money, Ned 1 ?" 
 
 "No, sir," he replied solemnly, "but it was counted cut
 
 180 KNOCKNAGOWj 
 
 on the table the first day I was at the house, an' put back 
 again." 
 
 "An' you wouldn't miss it out of it?" said Mr. Kearney, 
 who seemed to enjoy the matter immensely. 
 
 " Hardly," replied Ned. " I never see such a show uv 
 money together before. It reminded me uv California or the 
 Bank uv Ireland." 
 
 " You 'd betther not lose any more time," Mat observed. 
 " 'Tis gettin' late." 
 
 " That 's a fine hew coat you have, Mat," said Mr. Kearney, 
 looking at him admiringly as the Thrasher drew himself up 
 to his full height. 
 
 " Tis in compliment to Ned I got it, sir," returned Mat. 
 
 "You ought to do something for yourself. Make your 
 harvest at the wedding maybe you could get a haul at the 
 old saucepan." 
 
 " Thim times is gone, sir," replied Mat. " No chance now 
 of farmers' daughters an' ' five hundred pounds in goold,' as 
 the song says." And Mat glanced at Miss Kearney in a 
 manner that quite annoyed Mr. Lowe. 
 
 "He's an impertinent fellow, after all," he thought. 
 
 But so far from being offended, Mary returned Mat'? 
 smile in a manner that made the young gentleman quite 
 angry. 
 
 " I don't know that," returned Mr. Kearney. " Try your 
 luck with one of the other sisters, an' Ned will put in a good 
 word for you." 
 
 " Well, I b'lieve he would, sir," replied Mat, " if there was 
 any use." 
 
 " I hope you '11 be over wud us to-night, sir," said Ned, a. 
 he was going. " And if Miss Kearney or Miss Kiely would 
 like to have a dance they'd be heartily welcome." 
 
 "I'm getting old now, Ned," Maurice Kearney replied. 
 "But Hugh will go. I must take care of myself or this 
 woman might be on the look-out one of those days." 
 
 "Indeed," said Mrs. Kearney, indignantly, taking the 
 matter in downright earnest, "that's what one of the name 
 never did. No one could ever say that one of the Ballydun- 
 more family ever married a second time." 
 
 " Maybe 'twasn't their fault," exclaimed her husband, who 
 was evidently enjoying the fun.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 181 
 
 "You're quite mistaken," returned Mrs. Kearney. "My 
 A.unt Judith had more proposals than all the young girls of 
 the county, and she never accepted one of them though 
 my Uncle Dan said she ought to marry. But she never did." 
 And Mrs. Kearney left the room quite offended. 
 
 "Mat looks much more like the happy man than Xeil." 
 Grace observed, when they had left. " And, indeed, it would 
 not surprise me if it was he got the two hundred pounds out 
 of the old saucepan, and not iSTed." 
 
 " If poverty enters the door," said Mary ; "you know what 
 you said to Father M'Mahon." 
 
 '' "Well, that 's true," replied Grace, with a shake of the 
 head. " 'T would be all very well if that view of the case 
 could be kept out of sight." 
 
 " I fear, Mr. Lowe," said Mary as she took up her work at 
 a little table near one of the windows, " I fear this will be a 
 wet day." 
 
 " Yes, I fear it will continue wet," he replied, after walking 
 to the window, and looking up to the drifting clouds. Mr. 
 Lowe said "feared," but he meant " hoped." 
 
 " A wet day in the country is an awful bore," said the 
 doctor, who was just then thinking how certain chums of his 
 in Dublin would spend the day, and wondering why Keating 
 didn't answer his last letter. 
 
 Mr. Lowe, on the contrary, thought a wet day in the 
 country anything' but a bore under certain circumstances, 
 though he did not say so. 
 
 To the surprise of all present the door opened, and Mat 
 Donovan advanced a step or two into the room, and stood 
 rubbing his chin as if he had something to say, but did not 
 know how to begin. 
 
 Mary looked round the- room, supposing that he had for- 
 gotten something, and seeing a walking-stick standing in one 
 of the corners, she took it in her hand, and said : " Perhaps 
 this is your stick, Mat." 
 
 " 2s"o, Miss," replied Mat, whose eyes were fixed on Grace. 
 " But I'm comiu' to ax a favour of Miss Grace, if she 'd have 
 no objection." 
 
 " Oh, what is it ?" Grace asked with quite a coquettish air. 
 
 " Well, Miss, there 's a little delay about the harness, an' I 
 said to myself I 'd run in an' ax you to play* that tune for
 
 1 82 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 me you Avere playin' th' other evening for the masther. 
 'Tisn't but that I know it uv ould," Mat added, " but some- 
 way I 'm running into another tune in the middle uv the 
 succond part, an' I have a raison for wishin' to hear id agin." 
 
 " What 's the name of it ?" she asked. 
 
 " It goes by the name uv ' Nach m-baineaun sin do, Miss," 
 replied Mat, " but 'tis many 's the name id is called." 
 
 " It must be one of the Melodies," Grace observed, turning 
 to Mary. " But the question is, which of them is it?" 
 
 " I can't remember," Mary replied, " but I suppose it 
 must be one of those you always play for my father." 
 
 Grace pressed her finger on her lip, and seemed to be 
 seeking the solution of a mystery. 
 
 " Is the tune you want," she asked, " ever called ' Lan- 
 .golee'?" 
 
 " No, Miss, I know that ; an' you played it beautiful, too 
 But 'twas in the same book the large Avan wud the goold 
 harp on the cover." 
 
 " Come and we '11 look for it," exclaimed Grace, jumping 
 from her seat, and running out of the room. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 THE JAY. 
 
 MARY stood up and asked Mat to come to the drawing-room, 
 where they found Grace already sitting at the piano. 
 
 " Oh, my goodness !" she exclaimed, looking round, " what 
 sort of gentlemen are those ?" 
 
 But before she could proceed further with her censure, Mr. 
 Lowe was at his post and placed the music before her. 
 
 " Well, now, let me think of all Mr. Kearney's tunes," said 
 she, turning over the leaves. "Listen to this one, Mat." 
 
 " No, Miss," replied Mat, shaking his head, " that "s ' Moll 
 Kow in the Morning.' " 
 
 " Well, this," and she played a few bars of another.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 183 
 
 Mat shook his head again. 
 
 " Oh, I think I know it now," she exclaimed, as she turned 
 rapidly over the leaves. " Why, here it is, with the very 
 same name he has mentioned. Mr. Kearney has some words 
 to it about 
 
 " I '11 go to the fair, and I '11 sell my old cow, 
 For twenty-five shillings, one pound and one crown, 
 I '11 drink what I earn, and pay what I owe, 
 And what 's that to any man whether or no ?" 
 
 " That 's id, Miss ! " Mat exclaimed, in quite an excited 
 way. 
 
 " Tis ' They may Kail at this Life,' " said Grace, turning 
 to Mary. " Sit down, Mat." 
 
 Mat's spirit was attrntive as she played ; and after a little 
 while he hegan to move his head from side to side and 
 turned his eyes to the ceiling. 
 
 Mary watched him with a smile ; for it seemed quite evi- 
 dent he was mentally going through his song with all possible 
 care. Her suspicion in this respect was confirmed beyond 
 all doubt when Mat thrust his hand into his pocket and pulled 
 out a sheet of paper which he hastily unfolded, and, after 
 glancing at it for a moment, turned his eyes again to the 
 ceiling and commenced what he would himself call " humour- 
 ing " the tune. 
 
 " Good luck to you, Miss," he exclaimed, when she had 
 stopped playing. " I think I have id purty well now." 
 
 " I think, Mat," said Mary, " you ought to sing the song 
 for us.'"' 
 
 " Begor, I couldn't, Miss," he replied, after some hesitation. 
 " I '11 thry an' sing id to-night for 'em. 'Tis a new song 
 I got from the young schoolmaster over at Loughneen ; an' I 
 said I 'd get id be heart an' sing id at the fust weddin' I 'd 
 be at ; an Ned's happens to be the fust. Though, faith, Miss 
 Mary, I was thinkin' I might be singin' id at your own this 
 turn." 
 
 Though the look which accompanied this last observation 
 was precisely the same as that which so annoyed Mr. Lowe 
 in the parlour, he now laughed and saw nothing at all imper- 
 tinent in it. 
 
 " Mat is surely a deluder," said Grace, when he had left,
 
 184 KNOCKNAGOW; 
 
 " I 'm quite vexed that he never favours me with any of his 
 admiring glances." 
 
 " You like to be admired, Miss Grace," said Mr. Lowe. 
 
 " Who does not, I 'd like to know ?" Though some people 
 may pretend not to care about it." And she glanced at 
 Mary. 
 
 " Take care," said Mary, " or I '11 tell Mr. Lowe what you 
 said about him the other day." 
 
 " And will you tell him that somebody else said I was 
 right?" 
 
 Mary got a little frightened ; and, lest she should have the 
 worst of it in such an encounter, she hurried back to the 
 parlour and took up her work. 
 
 Hugh was sitting at the little table near the window. He 
 had gone out with the intention of walking over the farm, 
 but turned back on finding the rain was heavier than he 
 expected. 
 
 Mr. Lowe and Grace immediately followed Mary, and 
 there was much lively chat on the subject of the manners 
 and customs of the peasantry, suggested by Mat Donovan's 
 visit. Grace had quite a fund of anecdotes, picked up at 
 those " literary dinners " she alluded to when trying to find 
 the " solution of the mystery " connected with the tracks in 
 the snow. 
 
 Hugh was silent ; but to the watchful eye of his sister, it 
 was plain he was enjoying Grace's lively sallies and merry 
 laughter. He leant over the back of his chair, and during 
 a lull in the conversation seemed to have fallen asleep. 
 Mary called Grace's attention to him, in order that she 
 might do something to rouse him. His long black hair hung 
 over the table, and Grace happening to have the scissors in 
 her hand, clipped off a lock. 
 
 Hugh started up, and seeing what she had done, snatched 
 the scissors from her ; and twisting a tress of her hair round 
 and round his finger, cut it off, to her consternation. 
 
 " Oh, you wretch !" she exclaimed, pulling down her hair 
 to see what amount of damage he had done. But finding 
 the tress would not be missed, she resumed her good humour. 
 
 "Could you invent anything for us to dol" the doctor 
 asked piteously, from the sofa. 
 
 " Tis too wet to go out," replied Hugh.
 
 OB, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. lS5 
 
 " It is too bad," said Mary, " that Mr. Lowe must remain 
 a prisoner." 
 
 " I assure you," he replied, " I can. be resigned to my fate." 
 
 " Will you go to the wedding ? " she asked, turning to 
 Hugh. 
 
 " I suppose I must. There is no getting out of it, as my 
 father won't go." 
 
 " He is a great stay-at-home, Mr. Lowe. He will not go 
 anywhere but when he can't help it. And you saw he does 
 not even dance quadrilles." 
 
 " Except when he has some one to lead him like a bear," 
 said Grace. 
 
 ""Was it not customary," Hugh asked with solemnity. 
 " when dancing bears used to be exhibited, to have the bear 
 led by a monkey ? I think I read about such a thing some- 
 where." 
 
 " I see what you mean, sir," said Grace. " Perhaps it is 
 all fair." 
 
 " A hit," said the doctor, " a palpable hit. But I 'd sooner 
 have expected it from Lory. He 's devilish clever at that 
 sort of thing." 
 
 " Is he, indeed ? Then I was peculiarly fortunate in get- 
 ting two such clever partners." 
 
 " You are a match for them," said Mary laughing. 
 
 " A match you are certainly complimentary.' 
 
 " I mean you are able for them all to give them tit for 
 tat." 
 
 " Quid pro quo," replied Grace. " I should hope so : 
 
 " It would be diamond cut diamond," said Mary. 
 
 "Diamond!" repeated Grace. "Do you call him a dia- 
 mond?" 
 
 And she nodded her head towards Hugh, in a way that 
 made the doctor break into a horse-laugh, and kick up his 
 heels on the sofa. 
 
 " Or," she continued, opening her eyes, in which theiv 
 was a curious blending of astonishment and fun, " is that the 
 gem?" 
 
 She pointed out into the lawn ; and there was Mr. Lory 
 Hanly doing his best to shelter himself from the rain with 
 the collar of his scanty coat, running towards the house 
 with his head down the wind being i his face as if he 
 
 K
 
 1 86 KXOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 intended making a battering ram of himself to drive in the 
 hall-door. He was covered with mud from head to foot, and 
 it was astonishing how high up and far behind him he 
 managed to fling his heels. 
 
 Grace hurried out to open the door. She stood back 
 behind it, as if she expected to see Lory shoot past her, and 
 involuntarily held her breath in anticipation of a frightful 
 crash among Mrs. Kearney's crockery ; for a vague notion 
 crossed her mind that Lory would be picked up insensible 
 in the pantry at the end of the hall after splitting the door 
 of that sanctum in two with his skull. 
 
 Lory, however, had stopped himself on the door-step, and 
 Grace stared at him in speechless amazement. 
 
 The rain was running down in little rivers all over him 
 particularly over his eyes ; which made it necessary for him 
 to cut off the streams at the eyebrows with the knuckles of 
 his thumbs before he could see distinctly. Lory, too, looked 
 surprised when he found who had opened the door for him. 
 But recovering himself before she could ask him in, he 
 fumbled with one hand under his coat, and then thrust out 
 both arms at full length towards her. 
 
 " Here he 's for you now," said Lory, breathlessly. 
 
 Grace took what he presented to her mechanically, without 
 having the least notion what it was, and Lory instantly 
 wheeled round his hob-nailed boots making as much noise 
 as if a horse had stumbled on the door-step and set off for 
 home, forgetting that the wind would be now in his back ; 
 the consequence of which was that Lory was precipitated 
 head-foremost, and had to run on all-fours for good ten yards 
 before he could recover himself. Once in an upright position, 
 however, he was blown back to the avenue gate without 
 further exertion from himself than lifting his feet and keep- 
 ing one hand clapped against his poll to prevent his cap from 
 being swept across the bog, and, peradventure, stuck into a 
 crevice of the old castle, like the piece of an old petticoat- 
 to which it bore a striking resemblance in the broken 
 window of Jack Delaney's sleeping apartment behind the 
 forge. It was observed, too, that the wind kept Lory's dimi- 
 nutive skirts stuck against his back, as if they had been 
 pinned up under the shoulder-blades. He had actually 
 reached the gate before Grace recovered from her surprise.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERAIIY. 187 
 
 even so far as to think of shutting the door. But then she 
 could not use her hands for that purpose, and as she was 
 collecting her senses to think what was to be done, Hugh 
 came out to know what had happened to make Lory beat so 
 precipitate a retreat. 
 
 " What is it all about, Grace ?" he asked, as he closed the 
 hall-door. " What have you done to frighten Lory ? Has 
 he popped the question and been rejected ? The effect was 
 dreadful. I very much fear the young gentleman's body nv.iy 
 be found, nine days hence, floating in the Poulnamuck." 
 
 But Grace returned to the parlour without noticing his 
 banter, and was holding out Lory's gift to satisfy her own 
 and her friends' curiosity, when a sharp pinch on the wrist 
 made her let it go with a scream. And " with many a flirt 
 and flutter," like the celebrated raven. Lory's jay perched 
 upon Miss Kearney's work-box. He looked about him with 
 the utmost nonchalance, and then winked his eyes several 
 times and moved his neck as if he had been sleeping in an un- 
 easy position; and then the jay opened his beak and yawned, 
 as if he were very drowsy, and meant to go to sleep again. But 
 just as he was burying his head cosily between his shoulders, 
 he caught a glimpse of himself in the lid of the work-box, 
 and the sight so far awakened his curiosity that he pecked 
 at the rosewood, and in doing so his feet began to slip upon 
 ^ts polished surface : whereupon the jay extended his wings 
 a little, and jerked up his tail. What followed we shall 
 not venture to describe ; but Mary jumped from her place 
 near the table with a scream almost as loud as Grace's when 
 she got the pinch on the wrist. The doctor turned round 
 to see what had happened ; and seeing it, flung himself on 
 his back, and commenced cutting capers with his feet in 
 the air. 
 
 " That Lory is a genius," said the doctor. " He has curevl 
 me of a severe fit of the blues. I 'm eternally indebted to 
 him." 
 
 Grace got into good humour, too, and after carefully 
 pulling down her cuffs, she ventured to take the jay between 
 her hands again. " I'll go and make Ellie happy," she said, 
 running away, holding the jay at arm's-length above her head. 
 
 The sky began to brighten over the hills, and Hugh pre- 
 dicted that the remainder of the day would be fine. The
 
 188 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 wind continued to blow ; but before evening the sun flashed 
 through the broken clouds, and it was agreed on all hands, 
 that Ned Brophy's " hauling home " would be more propitious 
 than could have been anticipated a few hours earlier. 
 
 " I wonder," said Mrs. Kearney, who came into the parlour 
 in ;m evidently distressed state of mind " I wonder what 
 cau be delaying Barney ? And he has things we want for 
 the dinner." 
 
 " I suppose it was the heavy rain," Mary replied. " Xo 
 one would face out in such a storm ; and I daresay Barney 
 waited till it cleared up." 
 
 " Even if he did, he might be here now." 
 
 " Well, you know," said Mary, " Mr. Lowe has decided OIL 
 going to the wedding with Hugh, so you need not be parti- 
 cular about our dinner to-day." 
 
 "Why so 1 ?" Mrs. Kearney asked, as if she could not see 
 the force of this reasoning. 
 
 " Why, of course, if they go at all, they '11 be there for 
 dinner." 
 
 " Oh, yes, they call it a dinner, but it will be more like a 
 supper. 1 11 engage it won't be on the table before eleven 
 o'clock or ten the earliest." 
 
 " Well, even so," replied Mary. " They '11 go at the usual 
 hour, and you need not be so particular about our dinner 
 to-day." 
 
 '"Tis too late already," rejoined Mrs. Kearney, with a 
 sigh, " to think of roasting a bit of beef. But if that fellow 
 was home in time, sure I could have a nice steak for them 
 at any rate. He 's always disappointing me, and making 
 mistakes, bringing wrong things, and running after peep- 
 shows, and ballad-singers, and Punches and Judys. My heart 
 is broken with him," continued Mrs. Kearney, sighing deeply. 
 " But indeed," she added with severe dignity, as she folded 
 her plump hands and rested them on her knees " but 
 indeed, only for the respect my uncle Dan had for his 
 mother I wouldn't keep him another hour under the roof of 
 the house." 
 
 Mary was not at all apprehensive that Barney was in 
 danger of instant dismissal ; but wishing to put her mother 
 into good humour she observed, as if to herself, that " poor 
 Barney was very devoted and strictly honest."
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 189 
 
 "Well, indeed," replied her mother in a softened tone, 
 <f there 's nothing to be said against his honesty. His father 
 would lay down his life for my uncle Dan, and, indeed, I 
 believe poor Barney would do the same for any one of the 
 name." 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 BARNEY WINS A BET, AND LOSES MUCH PRECIOUS TIME. 
 
 THE cause of Mrs. Kearney's trouble was all this time com- 
 fortably ensconced in the chimney comer, in the little kitchen 
 behind Mrs. Burke's shop, with his foot on the hob which 
 foot, by the way, the servant girl had seized with the tongs 
 while making the fire, mistaking it for a sod of turf of the 
 description known as "hand turf;" in the manufacture of 
 which the moulders allow free scope to their fancy, and 
 occasionally produce a marvel of grotesqueness. 
 
 Barney had but just reached Mrs. Burke's door, when the 
 rain began to pour down in right earnest. So, after putting 
 Bobby under a shed in the yard, he took possession of the 
 corner, and kept it without flinching even when the fire was 
 at the hottest, and the big black pot hanging over it was 
 enveloped in the blaze which drew from the girl who had 
 attempted to boil the potatoes with his foot, the remark that 
 " the divil a wan else she ever knew could stand the same 
 corner but Dan Brit and John Roche, the lime-burners." 
 
 "An' spake uv the ould boy an' he '11 appear," she added ; 
 "here is Dan himse'f." 
 
 The individual spoken of drew a chair to the fire, 
 scowling at Barney as if he considered him an intruder. It 
 could be seen at a glance that Dan Brit was not a model of 
 sobriety. After eyeing Barney in silence for a minute, he 
 was turning to the girl to order a pint of porter, when he 
 looked again at him and hesitated. In fact, Dan Brit was 
 debating with himself whether, if he ventured to ask Barney 
 to take a drink, was Barney the sort of person to say after- 
 wards, "Let us have another." And in case he was the
 
 190 KNOCKXAGOW; 
 
 man to say so, Dan Brit had his mind made up to call back 
 the girl just as she was going for the two pints of porter, 
 saying, "Kitty, I'll take a glass of the old malt; I'm not 
 very well to-day." And so Dan Brit would have a glass of 
 whiskey, price threepence, in exchange for the pint of porter, 
 price three-halfpence; which, in ;i social and friendly way, 
 and, in the spirit of- a " good fellow," he was thinking of 
 pressing Barney Brodherick to accept at his hands. 
 
 And while Dan Brit was pondering the risks to be run in 
 the matter, his eye fell upon Barney's foot on the hob; 
 which object seemed to fascinate Dan Brit and drive all 
 other objects and subjects out of his thoughts for the time 
 being. 
 
 "The divil so ugly a foot as that," said Dan Brit, solemnly, 
 "7 ever see, anyhow." 
 
 "There's an uglier wan in the house," rejoined Barney. 
 
 " No, nor in Ireland," returned Dan. " Nor in Europe, 
 Asia, Africa, or America." 
 
 "Will you bet a quart uv portlier?" said Barney. 
 
 " That there 's not an uglier foot in the house ?" exclaimed 
 Dan, staring in astonishment at him. 
 
 " Yes," replied Barney, with spirit, " I '11 wager a quart uv 
 portlier, an' let Kitty be the judge, that there's an uglier 
 foot in the house." 
 
 "Done!" exclaimed Dan Brit, who grasped at the certainty 
 of getting a drink without paying for it. "But will you 
 stake the money?" 
 
 "Ay, will I," said Barney, suiting the action to the word, 
 and slapping down the coppers on a chair near him. 
 
 " Take that money, Kitty," said Dan Brit, " an' decide the 
 bet." 
 
 "What is the bet?" Kitty asked. 
 
 It was explained to her ; and Kitty shook her head sor- 
 rowfully, and told Barney he was always a fool. 
 
 " Stake the money, yourse'f," said Barney. And Dan did 
 so. 
 
 " Come, give me back that change," said Dan ; " an' bring 
 in the drink. The bet is mine." 
 
 "Wait a bit," returned Barney. "Kitty, give us a peep 
 at your own." 
 
 "What impudence you have!" exclaimed Kitty, indig-
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 191 
 
 nantly. " Who dare say a word agin them, I 'd like to 
 know?" And Kitty exhibited a pair of very presentable 
 feet. 
 
 "Begob, Kitty," said Barney, with a grin, "if I was 
 dependin' on thim, I'd lose my bet." 
 
 "An' do you mane to say you haven't lost id ?" Dan asked. 
 "Run, Kitty, for the porther." 
 
 "Ay, will she; but 'tisn't my money '11 pay for id. ;: 
 
 "Didn't you bet there was an uglier foot in the house 
 than that?" 
 
 And Dan Brit pointed to the foot on the hob. 
 
 "I did." 
 
 "An' where is id?" 
 
 Barney Brodherick slowly and deliberately drew his other 
 foot from under the chair, and held it up to view. 
 
 " Here 's your money, Barney," exclaimed Kitty, in an 
 ecstasy of delight. "You won the bet; I'll go for the 
 porter." 
 
 Dan Brit's jaw fell down as he stared with open mouth at 
 Barney. And after swallowing his share of the porter he 
 walked away with an expression of countenance which made 
 Kitty observe that " wan 'd think 'twas a physic o' salts he 
 was afther swallyin'." 
 
 When the rain ceased, Barney, snatching one of his baskets 
 from Mrs. Burke's counter, hurried off to Wat Murphy's and 
 presented Mrs. Kearney's written order to the butcher. 
 
 " I haven't what she wants," said Wat ; " but I can send 
 her a nice bit that will answer her as well." 
 
 He seized his knife and saw, and cut and weighed the beef 
 so quickly that it was wrapped in the cloth and deposited in 
 the basket before Barney could collect his wits to demur to 
 the proceeding. 
 
 "An' now," he muttered, scratching his head as if the 
 thing were done past recall, " an' now she '11 be puttin' the 
 blame on me, an' sayin' 'twas my fau't an' that 's the way 
 they're always layin' everything on my shoulders. The divil 
 may care what 's done wrong 'tis Barney wud every wan uv 
 'em, big an' little." 
 
 " If she finds any fau't wud that," said Wat, as if he were 
 threatening somebody, " tell her 'tis her own cow," which, 
 however, did not happen to be the fact. But Wat Murphy
 
 1 92 KXOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 told lies in the way of business on principle. " For" Wat 
 was wont to observe " if I didn't tell lies, do you think I 
 could ever sell an ould ram ? " 
 
 "Och! be the hokey, 'twill dhrag the arm out uv me!" 
 exclaimed Barney, as he raised the basket. " If I thought 
 'twould be so heavy, I 'd bring up the ass." 
 
 " Put it on your head," Wat suggested. 
 
 " I 'm d n sure I won't. Do you waut to make a 
 
 woman uv me 1 Is it like a can uv wather you want me to 
 carry id?" 
 
 " A purty woman you 'd make," observed Wat, as Barney 
 stooped under the weight of the heavy basket. 
 
 " Blood-an-ouns, Wat!" he exclaimed, turning, round out- 
 side the door, "when are we to have the bull-bait?" 
 
 The question was suggested by the white bull-dog, who 
 walked to the street-door and back again without con- 
 descending to take the slightest notice of Barney, or anyone 
 else. 
 
 " I 'm not at liberty to give particulars," Wat replied, in 
 a manner that put a stop to all further inquiries on the 
 important subject of the bull-bait. 
 
 Barney held on his way till he reached the corner of the 
 street, when he was obliged to rest his basket against the 
 iron railings of a genteel house, separated by a small garden 
 from the street. 
 
 "Oh, murther, murther!" he muttered, "I'll be kilt afore 
 I 'm down to Mrs Burke's. An' 'tis a good deed; where was 
 I comin' wudout Bobby? An.' thanum-un-dioul ! the mis 
 thress '11 murther me worse nor the basket. I remimber 
 now, she warned me to be home as fast as I could. I wondher 
 what excuse I '11 have for her ? Let me see. Begob, I '11 say 
 Bobby got the cholic after the peltin' we got comin' through 
 the bog. For how will she know but it was skelpin' in our 
 face, barrin' Judy Brien might tell her; an' nice thanks that 
 'id be afther givin' her a lift from the crass." 
 
 Here Barney pulled up his sleeve to the elbow and looked 
 at his arm, upon which the handle of the basket had lei:/ its 
 mark. 
 
 "Begob, 'twill cut the arm off uv me," he continued. 
 "An' the divil's cure to me; where was I comin' wudout 
 Bobby?"
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 193 
 
 He swung the basket on the other arm and was setting off 
 again, when the hall door of the genteel house opened, and 
 a lady came running towards him down the straight gravel 
 Avalk. 
 
 " Wait for a minute," she called out, " I want to speak to 
 you." 
 
 Barney stopped; but she required a minute or two to 
 recover breath. 
 
 "You're Mr. Kearney's man," she said at last. 
 
 "Yes, Miss," replied Barney, "I'm his b'y." 
 
 "What have you in the basket?" 
 
 " Mate, Miss." 
 
 " What sort ? Show it to me." 
 
 Barney raised a corner of the cloth. 
 
 " Beef !" she exclaimed. "I declare it's a round. Will 
 that be all dressed together?" 
 
 " Begob, mese'f don't know, Miss." 
 
 "Do your people have butchers' meat every day?" 
 
 "Faith, an' they do so, Miss; barrin' Friday." 
 
 " Oh, yes, they 're Roman Catholics. Are you a Koman 
 atholic?" 
 
 " Begob, I am, Miss though my mother was born a hay- 
 then." 
 
 " Born a heathen ! Is it possible ?" 
 
 " The divil a lie in id, Miss an' reared. But she turned 
 afther runnin' away wud my father God rest his sowl." 
 
 She looked at Barney as if he were a natural curiosity; 
 and began to wonder what particular race of savages his 
 mother belonged to. 
 
 " Of what country was your mother a native?" she asked. 
 
 "A native?" Barney repeated, as if the question were rather 
 puzzling. "Oh, ay!" he added after a pause, "is id what 
 counthryman is my mother ? Begob, she was bred, born, an' 
 reared in Ballyporeen. Her father was the clerk uv the 
 church; an' my father Avas sarvin' the slathers whin they 
 Avor roofin' id. 'Tis of'n I heard her tellin' the ins an' 
 outs uv id. He used to run up an' down the laddher so 
 soople, that, be japers, she tuck a sthrange likin' to him, an' 
 med off wud him though her sivin generations afore her 
 haythens." 
 
 "Oh, you mean," said the lady, "that your mother Avas
 
 194 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 a Protestant, and she married a Papist, and became an 
 apostate." 
 
 " Begob, that 's id, Miss," replied Barney, perfectly sati? 
 fied with her version of the affair. " But this 'd never d< 
 for me," he added, thrusting his arm into the handle of hi? 
 basket. "'Tis all hours, an' I'm in for gettin' Ballyhooly 
 from the misthress." 
 
 "Wait for a moment," the young lady exclaimed, quite 
 frightened at the idea of his escaping. "Tell me; is Mr. 
 Lowe with your people still?" 
 
 "Begob, he is, Miss; I have letthers for him." 
 
 " Show them to me !" she exclaimed eagerly, thrusting out 
 her hand through the railing. 
 
 " They 're in the basket, below, at Mrs. Burke's, Miss, wud 
 the newspapers an' the things for Miss Mary." 
 
 "What things are they?" 
 
 "The divil a know I know. I get a scrap uv writin' 
 mentionin' what I'm to brin'. On'y for that they'd bother 
 the life out uv me." 
 
 "How does Mr. Lowe spend his time?" 
 
 " He 's d n fond uv discoorsin' Miss Mary," Barney 
 
 replied, with the extraordinary grimace which he meant for 
 a smile. 
 
 "Oh, I suppose he has no other amusement?" 
 
 " Himself and the docthor goes uv an odd time over to 
 Hanly's," said Barney; "an' they wor out wud the hounds 
 yesterday." 
 
 "I wonder," said she, as if thinking aloud, "did they 
 meet Robert?" 
 
 " They didn't lave Mr. Bob's till wan o'clock last night, 
 Miss," returned Barney. "An' 'tis I have good raison to 
 know id ; for I stopped up wud Tom Maher for the horses, 
 an' they kep' me dancin' for 'em in the kitchen till I hadn't 
 a leg to put ondher me. The docthor was purty well I thank 
 you. An' faith there was no fear uv Mr. Lowe aither." 
 
 " Do you mean to say that Mr. Lowe was at Mount Tempe 
 last night?" 
 
 "Faith, then, he was so, Miss; an' 'tis I have raison to 
 -emimber id." 
 
 She turned round and ran into the house, as if she sud 
 denly discovered that Barney was not a safe companion, and
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPrEliARY. 195 
 
 that the fate of the clerk's daughter, of Ballyporeen, might 
 be hers if she did not instantly fly from danger. But, so 
 far from having any such amiable intentions, Barney, as he 
 swung his basket on his hip, ejaculated an imprecation of 
 so extraordinary a character that \ve are not sure whether 
 it would bear repeating at least in his own words. Miss 
 Lloyd we hope the reader has recognised Miss Lloyd 
 pulled up her skirts considerably higher than her ankles as 
 she ran back to the house ; and the glimpse thus afforded of 
 the nymph's limbs must have suggested to Barney Brodherick 
 the before-mentioned imprecation. For, looking after the 
 flying fair one, and recollecting the precious time he had lost 
 on her account, Barney prayed that a certain sable gentle- 
 man might have "her shin-bone for a flute, playing the 
 ' Rakes of Mallow' for her sowl," into a place where it might 
 dance to the music upon a pavement which must be prett} r 
 extensive by this time. 
 
 "O Isabella!" Miss Lloyd exclaimed. "0 Isabella!" 
 She dropped into an arm-chair and panted for breath. 
 
 Isabella ran to the window to try if she could catch a 
 glimpse of the desperado who, she had no doubt, must have 
 attempted to carry off her sister. 
 
 "0 mamma," she continued, "Mr. Lowe has been at 
 Mount Tempe." 
 
 "Well; and what of that?" 
 
 " What ! Oh, that we must have the party at once, and 
 I am sure he will come." 
 
 " No ; I tell you he would not unless those people with 
 whom he is staying were asked." 
 
 "And what great harm would it be to invite them?" 
 
 "Henrietta, you astound me! But there has been enough 
 of that nonsense already. It is out of the question." 
 
 "But what I mean is that they would not come." 
 
 " No matter, it would be talked of. You know the Scotts 
 did not ask ourselves last time ; and if they knew we had 
 such acquaintances what would they not say ! " 
 
 " But why do you think he would not come if they were 
 not asked?" 
 
 "Indeed, Henrietta," said her sister a blooming, blue- 
 eyed girl of twenty summers or thereabout " it would be 
 positive rudeness after your being there."
 
 1 96 KXOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 " I would not mind the rudeness," rejoined her mother. 
 " But when he saw you there he must be under the impres- 
 sion that they are recognised by the gentry. Indeed, I don't 
 know how you can disabuse him of this notion you are for. 
 ever thrusting yourself into improper places." 
 
 " Oh, I can say it was merely accidental. He knows they 
 are only farmers. And Robert is so intimate with their 
 brother." 
 
 " Oh, if there was no one but him I should have no objec- 
 tion. But the sister is out of the question. I really wonder 
 both she and her mother have not called on you. I saw them 
 drive by the day before yesterday. And, indeed, I 'd have 
 no objection. Mrs. Barn tells me she 's a respectable sort of 
 person ; and very good to make presents." 
 
 "There is Robert," said Isabella, pointing to the window. 
 
 " Oh, we must send for him !" exclaimed Miss Lloyd. " I 
 wonder is there a meeting of the club to-night 1 ?" 
 
 "No; it is to be on Thursday," her mother replied. 
 " They are going to elect Beresford Fender." 
 
 " Robert says he '11 black-ball him," said Isabella. 
 
 "I really cannot understand his prejudice against him. 
 He is a young man of excellent principles," replied her 
 mother. 
 
 "I hate the sight of him!" exclaimed Isabella. "He is 
 the most insufferably vulgar creature I ever saw." 
 
 Mr. Robert Lloyd, in hunting costume, and mounted upon 
 his well-known grey horse, had ridden quietly past his 
 mother's house without turning his eyes towards it. A ser- 
 vant, however, was sent to the hotel for him ; and he soon 
 strolled up the gravel walk, with his hands in his pockets. 
 
 "0 Robert," said his eldest sister, "you had Mr. Lowe 
 last night?" 
 
 "Ay, faith," he replied. 
 
 " Do you think you could get him to stay with you for a 
 few days?" 
 
 " He 's a d d sight better off where he is. I wish I could 
 exchange places with him." 
 
 Miss Lloyd made a gesture expressive of the most ineffable 
 contempt. 
 
 "He's to be at Ned Brophy's wedding to-night, ", Bob 
 observed.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPEKARY. 197 
 
 "Oh, and we are asked," exclaimed Miss Lloyd. "Are 
 you going, Robert ?" 
 
 "Ay, faith. I always go to a tenant's wedding." 
 
 "It is what the highest people do," said his mother. 
 
 " And don't you think we ought to go ?" Miss Lloyd asked. 
 
 " If you wish it, I see no objection." 
 
 "Will you come, Bell?" 
 
 " If I thought there would be any chance of fun, I would. 
 Will there be any fun, Robert ?" 
 
 "Ay, faith. He has two pipers and three fiddlers." 
 
 " And an excellent dinner," said Miss Lloyd. " I saw all 
 the things. They have three legs and two shoulders of 
 mutton, and " 
 
 " Don't mind the bill of fare. But can we make ourselves 
 fit to be seen in so short a time 1" 
 
 " I '11 wear my blue gauze," said Miss Lloyd. 
 
 " What ! will you go in a low body ?" 
 
 " Of course I will ; and I '11 wear my pearls. And, 
 mamma, will you lend me your bracelets?" 
 
 " Yes, you may have them ; but take care and don't lose 
 them, as you did those trinkets the other day." 
 
 " Oh, they were only worth a few shillings." 
 
 " Yes, but it would be just as easy to lose them if they 
 were diamonds." 
 
 " Oh, you need not fear ; I '11 take care of them. Come. 
 Isabella. And, mamma, will you tell John to have the car 
 ready?" 
 
 And Miss Lloyd hurried to her chamber, on hostile 
 thoughts intent, so far as Mr. Henry Lowe's heart was con- 
 cerned. 
 
 " Now, Robert," said Mrs. Lloyd, on finding herself alone 
 with her son, " did you do anything in that matter vet ] 
 You know her fortune is very considerable, and would enable 
 you to put everything to rights. So I beg you will make uj> 
 your mind this time, and don't act so strangely as you have 
 jso often done." 
 
 " 1 11 talk to Jer about it." 
 
 " Well, Jer is sensible, and has got you out of some 
 awkward scrapes. But this is a different thing altogether. 
 So I request you will act for yourself now. Have you seen 
 her?"
 
 198 KNOCKNAGOW; 
 
 i( Ay, faith." 
 
 < And how do you like her?" 
 
 Mr. Robert Lloyd opened his mouth very wide arid 
 yawned. And when his mother looked round to see why he 
 had not replied to her question, the gentleman was leisurely 
 walking out of the room with his hands in his pockets. 
 Whistling was one of the things that Mr. Robert Lloyd did 
 well ; and as he sauntered down the gravel walk, his mother 
 could distinctly hear the little air which he had played upon 
 his jew's-harp for Mr. Lowe, and of which he had become 
 particularly fond since Richard Kearney's misadventure in 
 the bog. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 THE HAULING HOME. " IS NORAH LAHY STRONG?" 
 
 " GOOD evening, Barney," said Mr. Lloyd, as he was passing 
 Mrs. Burke's shop-door, where Barney Brodherick was fixing 
 sundry baskets and parcels in his donkey-cart. " What 
 news?" 
 
 " 3: othin' strange, sir," replied Barney ; " barrin' that I 'm 
 in a divil uv a hurry." 
 
 "Barney, maybe you'd carry this as far as Honor Lahy's 
 for me?" said Judy Brien, who stood by the donkey-cart 
 with a new cradle she had just purchased from a travelling 
 vendor. 
 
 " An' welcome, Judy, an' yourse'f on the top uv id." 
 
 " Oh, I must wait for Tim, an' he'll carry me behind him. 
 I was goin' to lave the cradle here at Mrs. Burke's, till I met 
 you. I thought you wor gone home hours ago." 
 
 " All right," said Barney. " Put id on top uv this hamper, 
 an' I '11 tie id down wud this bit of coard." 
 
 " Hallo ! Bill," shouted Mr. Bob Lloyd, who watched the 
 fixing of the cradle with great interest, and even held it in its 
 place while Barney was tying it " hallo, Bill, where are you 
 bound for?" 
 
 It was Billy Heffernan upon his mule. The saddle was 
 very far back towards the animal's tail, and kept in its place
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF T1ITERARY. 199 
 
 by a crupper. He was obliged to put both hands to one side 
 *>f the rein in order to bring his steed to a stand, which he 
 effected by very nearly riding through Mrs. Burke's shop- 
 window. This catastrophe was only prevented by Bob Lloyd 
 hitting the mule on the nose with his whip. 
 
 " Cornin' home wud Ned Brophy, sir,'' replied Billy. "He 
 sint me wo, Kit ! on afore 'em to tell them to sind for 
 another gallon uv whiskey an' some ginger cordial, as there 's 
 more comin' from that side than he expected." 
 
 " All right, Bill," said Mr. Lloyd, turning the mule's head 
 towards the road. 
 
 And moving back a pace or two, Mr. Lloyd drew his hunt- 
 ing-whip from under his arm and deliberately lashed the 
 mule several times under the flanks, which had the effect of 
 making Kit fling out her hind legs as if she wanted to fling 
 her shoes at the head of her assailant. But finding that this 
 was impracticable, Kit put her head between her fore legs, 
 and after a minute's debate with herself as to the proper 
 course to be pursued under the circumstances, she clattered 
 up the main street at a canter, with her nose to the ground, 
 after the manner of mules and donkeys with a pack of 
 canine tormentors at their heels. 
 
 "Begob, sir," exclaimed Barney, as if a bright idea had 
 struck him, " I b'lieve I might as Avell wait an' be home wud 
 the weddin'." 
 
 " Ay, faith, Barney," replied Mr. Lloyd. 
 
 And there being neither peep-show, nor ballad-singer, nor 
 Punch and Judy in Kilthubber on that day, Ned Brophy's 
 wedding was a regular god-send to Barney ; for were it not 
 for the wedding, in spite of his ingenuity in finding tempta- 
 tions to keep him from being home at a proper time, Mrs. 
 Kearney might possibly have been able to have the " nice 
 steak" for dinner. 
 
 A wedding party is always an object of interest ; and Ned 
 Brophy being well known in Kilthubber and along the whole 
 '.ine of march, men, women, and children were on the look-out 
 /or his. 
 
 The procession comprised some ten or fifteen " carriages of 
 people," including jaunting cars and " common cars," and a 
 considerable troop of equestrians, among whom Mat the 
 Thrasher, in his blue body-coat, mounted upon Ned Brophy's
 
 i'OO KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 colt, was the observed of all observers. They were greeted 
 with a cheer from a considerable crowd collected at the 
 corner of the street, which compliment was attributed to the 
 fact that several boon companions of the bridegroom's were 
 in the crowd. But when they got a cheer at every cross- 
 road and cluster of houses they passed after leaving the 
 town behind them, so unusual a circumstance began to excite 
 surprise. 
 
 Mat Donovan, however, having to alight to pick up the 
 bridegroom's hat, which somehow had got the habit of being 
 blown off his head every ten minutes or so, the whole pro- 
 cession rattled past him before he could remount ; and as he 
 came up with them just as they were passing the cross of 
 Dunmoyne, he discovered that they were indebted to Barney 
 Brodherick for turning Ned Brophy's hauling home into what 
 the newspaper reporters call "a regular ovation." Barney 
 was standing with a foot on each shaft, belabouring his 
 donkey to keep him at a gallop, and behind him, on the top 
 of his load, was Judy Brien's new cradle. It was naturally 
 supposed that Ned Brophy had provided himself with a cradle 
 at this early stage of his matrimonial journey ; and such an 
 instance of foresight was hailed with shouts of applause from 
 Kiltluibber to Knocknagow. 
 
 Barney stopped at Honor Lahy's to leave the cradle there. 
 
 " What is this ?" a gentleman asked, putting his head out 
 of a chaise that stood near the beech tree while the driver 
 was repairing a break in the harness, pointing to the cars 
 and horsemen as they passed. 
 
 " Ned Brophy's funeral, sir," replied Barney as he pitched 
 the cradle down on the ground. 
 
 " Don't mind him, sir," said Honor Lahy, " 'tis his 
 weddin'." 
 
 " The difference is not much," returned the gentleman 
 who must have been an incorrigible old bachelor as he 
 pulled up the window and leant back in his seat. 
 
 Mary Kearney, and Grace, and Ellie were out walking ; 
 and on hearing the shouts, and catching a glimpse of the 
 wedding party, they ran into Mat the Thrasher's house, 
 where they could see without being seen, from the little 
 window, the light from which was wont to cheer the belated 
 traveller as as he plodded along the bleak bog road.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 201 
 
 Nelly Donovan was arraying herself in her best finery for 
 the wedding. 
 
 "Come here, Nelly," said Mary, "and point out the brid 
 to us." 
 
 "I never see her myself, Miss," replied Nelly, running 
 from the room with her hair about her shoulders ; " bun 
 that 's Ned's first cousin on the same side of the car wud 
 him ; so, I suppose the tall wan at this side is the wife." 
 
 "The cousin is very nicely dressed," Grace remarked. 
 "That's a very pretty bonnet she has. In fact, she is quite- 
 lady-like. What is her name?" 
 
 "Bessy Morris, Miss." 
 
 "Is that Bessy 1 ?" said Mary, looking at the owner of the 
 pretty bonnet with increased interest. " So it is ; I see her 
 now." For Bessy Morris had turned round and looked over 
 the clipped hedge, and up at the old cherry-tree, and then 
 down towards the school-house beyond the quarry, with a 
 wistful gaze that Mary interpreted into a sigh for the times 
 that were gone. 
 
 " She has all the latest fashions, Miss," said Nelly, " after 
 coming from Dublin. But she was always tasty." 
 
 "Ned looks as if he were going to be hanged," Grace 
 observed. " I should not like to see such an expression as 
 that in my husband's face on the wedding-day." 
 
 The matter-of-fact way in which she spoke of her husband 
 made them all laugh ; while old Mrs. Donovan stopped her 
 knitting and raised her hands in wonder. 
 
 "Ah, I wouldn't say," said Nelly, as if to herself, "but 
 that house below in the threes is after bringin' some wan to- 
 Ned's mind that put the heart across in him the night uv 
 the party long ago." 
 
 "And did she refuse him?" Grace asked. 
 
 " No, Miss ; she was fond uv the slob but she hadn't the 
 fortune." 
 
 " The bride is a fine-looking girl," said Mary. 
 
 "Faith, then, she's nothin' short uv id," returned Nelly 
 with an assenting notion of the head as she stooped down 
 and pushed back her hair to get a better view, " thougii 
 Billy Hefternan tould me she was a step-laddher." 
 
 "Oh, a step-ladder!" exclaimed Grace. "What did ho 
 mean by thati" 
 
 O
 
 202 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 "Long and narrow, Miss," replied Nelly, laughing, "like 
 huxter's turf." 
 
 "Come, Grace," said Mary; "it is getting late, and we 
 have to call at Mrs. Lahy's yet. I didn't like to go in when 
 I saw the chaise at the door. I hope all the wedding people 
 are after passing." 
 
 "They are, Miss," replied Nelly. "An' maybe you'd tell 
 Phil Lahy not to delay, as I promised to wait for him." 
 
 " Is Phil to be at the wedding ?" 
 
 " Faix, 'twouldn't be a weddin' wudout him," said Nelly. 
 
 "You're in great style, Nelly," Mary remarked with a 
 smile. " I suppose you are determined to break half-a-dozen 
 hearts at least before morning ?" 
 
 Nelly sighed, and shook her head; but recovering herself, 
 she replied in her wild way: 
 
 " Well, I must thry an' do some good for myse'f among 
 the strangers. There '11 be some likely lads there to-night, 
 an' who knows what luck I might have." 
 
 Mary was welcomed, as usual, by Norah and her mother, 
 But Phil seemed to have a weight upon his mind, and was as 
 full of importance as if he were about to engage in some 
 undertaking upon which the very existence of his little help- 
 less family depended. 
 
 "Good evening, Miss," said he in a subdued tone. He 
 paced up and down the kitchen, as if it were a sick chamber, 
 rubbing his newly-shaven chin, and occasionally feeling the 
 high stiff collar of his clean shirt in a hurried way, as if the 
 thought were continually occurring to him that he had for- 
 gotten to put it on. 
 
 "Nelly Donovan desired me to tell you, Mr. Lahy, that 
 she was waiting for you." 
 
 Phil Lahy took down his hat, and putting it on with the 
 air of a humane judge assuming the black cap, he left the 
 house without uttering a word. 
 
 "Is Mr. Hugh goin' to the weddin'?" Honor inquired. 
 
 "Yes, he and Mr. Lowe are going." 
 
 " Wisha, Miss, maybe you 'd tell him to have an eye to 
 Phil." 
 
 " How so ?" asked Mary in surprise. 
 
 " Well," replied Honor, thoughtfully, " he 's afther pro- 
 misin' me an' Norah not to take anything stronger than
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 203 
 
 cordial ; an' if Mr. Hugh 'd have an' eye to him and remind 
 him uv id now an' then, I know he 'd be all right." 
 
 " Well, I '11 tell him," said Mary, with a smile. 
 
 Grace was becoming a great favourite with Xorah. Grace 
 needed only to try to become a favourite with anybody. And 
 how glad she was to see by Honor Lahy's smile that the 
 poor woman harboured no prejudice against her, after all. 
 
 " Are you glad that spiing is coming?" she asked, turning 
 to Norah. 
 
 " Oh, yes, Miss ; I 'm longing for the fine days, when I can 
 sit outside under the tree." 
 
 " Are you fond of reading ?" 
 
 " I ain, Miss ; au' when I 'm not strong enough myself, 
 Tommy reads for me, an' so does my father sometimes." 
 
 "I think I have some books at home you would like. 
 And when I go home I '11 send them to you the first oppor- 
 tunity I get." 
 
 Norah looked her thanks, and perhaps there was a little 
 pleased surprise in the look. 
 
 " You are fond of music, too, I am told 1 ?" 
 
 " I am, Miss, very. I 'm told you play the piano beau- 
 tiful?" 
 
 " Well, I do play ; but not near so well as I could wish. 
 I played some Irish airs for Mat Donovan this morning." 
 
 " Mat is a fine singer, Miss " 
 
 " Yes, I have often caught snatches of his songs from the 
 barn. But he would not sing for us to-day when we asked 
 him." 
 
 Ellie here interrupted them. She came to exhibit Tommy's 
 new paper; but Grace motioned her away as if just then she 
 had no time for trifling. 
 
 "You showed me that before." 
 
 " No, that was his old copy-book. But he is in Voster 
 now." 
 
 " In what?" She took the paper in her hand and read : 
 
 "THE KULB OF THREE DIRECT. 
 
 " Commenced by Thomas Lahy, January the 8th, 
 
 " Anno Domini, One thousand Eight 
 
 " Hundred and . . . ." 
 
 This was written at the top of the first page in the school-
 
 204 KNOCKNAGOW; 
 
 master's most magnificent large hand, and under this the 
 page was divided by a black stroke down the middle into 
 two equal parts. In these double columns Tommy Lahy had 
 copied each question and answer fully and fairly from the 
 book and the sums, fully and fairly worked out, were given 
 under the questions and answers. Several pages of the book 
 were filled in this way; and Tommy told them proudly, 
 though somewhat bashfully, that he 'd be " in Fractions after 
 Easter." At which Grace looked astonished, evidently think- 
 ing that "fractions" and "smithereens" were convertible 
 terms. 
 
 " Show her your Voster, Tommy," said Ellie. 
 
 Tommy brought the book, and, on looking at the titl' v 
 page, Grace nodded, and said : 
 
 " Oh, yes ; now I understand ; but I never saw this book 
 before." 
 
 " Maybe 'tis a Gough you have, Miss 1 ?" 
 
 Grace contented herself with nodding again by way of 
 reply. 
 
 "Could you work the piece of plank, Miss?" 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 Tommy licked his thumb, and turned over the leaves till 
 he came to a problem requiring the dimensions of a piece of 
 plank of certain length, breadth, and thickness. 
 
 Grace glanced at the problem and looked wise. But she 
 began to think that Tommy Lahy could teach her some 
 useful things of which she was altogether ignorant. She 
 happened, however, to glance at the fly-leaf of Tommy's 
 " Voster," and her pleasant laugh made Norah turn round 
 and look at her. 
 
 "'Thomas Lahy, of Knocknagow, His Book/" she read, 
 
 "And listen to this: 
 
 " Steal not this Book, my honest Friend, 
 For fear the Gallows might be your End ; 
 The Gallows is High, and you are l?H r , 
 And when you 'd be up you 'd be liito a crovr. 
 If this Book be lost or Stole, 
 I pray the finder will send it home 
 To Thomas Lahy, of Knocknagow." 
 
 Grace laughed again and held up the book, with her finger
 
 OB, THE HOMES OF TIPPEBABY. 205 
 
 pointing to the bottom of the page, where Mary, by leaning 
 forward and straining her eyes a little, was able to read : 
 
 " Thomas Lahy, Copy Dated," 
 And under this, in a different hand 
 
 " On'y for me the pigs would ate it." 
 
 "The schoolmaster says, Miss," observed Honor, "that 
 
 Tommy has a great turn for what 's that he says you have 
 
 a turn for, Tommy?" 
 
 " For science," replied Tommy. 
 
 " Oh, I always said that Tommy was a very intelligent 
 boy," said Mary. 
 
 "On'y for he's so wild, Miss," returned Honor, with a 
 sigh, and a glance at the beech-tree. 
 
 " I am very glad, Norah," said Mary, rising from her 
 chair, "to see you getting on so well. When the weather 
 gets fine I hope you will be much better. And, when the 
 flowers are in bloom, I won't be satisfied till we get you up 
 to show you the garden." 
 
 " Thank you, Miss," replied Norah, with that worshipping 
 look with which she always regarded her. 
 
 " An' sure you won't forget, Miss," said Honor, " to tell 
 Mr. Hugh to keep Phil in mind uv the cordial?" 
 
 " Oh, never fear. I '11 tell him." 
 
 "O Mary," said Grace on their way home, "how much 
 mistaken I was ! " 
 
 "In what were you mistaken?" 
 
 " About Norah Lahy. I believe now she is the happiest 
 girl I ever saw." 
 
 " Have you found that out?" Mary asked, with a delighted 
 look. " I knew you would." 
 
 " Oh, yes ; I am sure of it." 
 
 " And so am I." 
 
 They walked along in silence for some time, till Ellie, who 
 had lingered behind them, came running up and said there 
 was a gentleman with a red coat riding slowly after them. 
 It was Mr. Kobert Lloyd ; and, on finding that they were 
 aware of his proximity, he put his horse to a quicker walk 
 in order to pass them. 
 
 " He had his hand to his hat to salute you," said Grace,
 
 206 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 "but you did not look at him. Do you know, I always 
 thought there was affectation in that not looking at people." 
 
 " I am not sure but you are right," replied Mary. 
 
 " It looks like vulgar pride, or sulky ignorance," said Grace. 
 
 "Oh, those are very hard words," said Mary, laughing. 
 " But do you never turn up your nose at people yourself ?" 
 
 " ' Oh wad some power the giftie gie us, 
 To see ourselves as ithers see us," ' 
 
 replied Grace. " Yes, I do plead guilty to the charge. But, 
 my dear Mary, we can all see the mote in our neighbour's 
 eye much easier than the beam in our own. But with regard 
 to the gentleman on the grey horse, would you not have 
 returned bis salute?" 
 
 " I am not personally acquainted with him," Mary replied. 
 " But I would have returned his salute, though I might 
 rather avoid it if I could do so without laying myself open 
 to the charge of what 's that you said it looked like ?" 
 
 "I believe I said vulgar pride, or sulky ignorance." 
 
 " Well, if I could not pass the gentleman without being 
 open to such a charge, I would, of course, return his salute. 
 And yet," she added, with a smile, " if I were a lady he would 
 scarcely have saluted me without some previous acquaint- 
 ance or introduction." 
 
 " Why, what on earth do you mean by saying if you were 
 a lady?" 
 
 " Oh, I see you don't know what our notions are respecting 
 ladies or gentlemen in the country." 
 
 " Well, tell me." 
 
 " Did you never hear your papa tell what Sally Egan said 
 to Mrs. French?" 
 
 " No, I don't remember ; but I recollect Sally Egan very 
 well. It was she nursed me." 
 
 " Well, your papa gave her an excellent character when 
 she was leaving you, and Mrs. French asked her what place 
 she was in before that. ' I was with a gentleman, ma'am,' 
 she replied. ' And was not your last master a gentleman ?' 
 asked Mrs. French. ' Oh, no, ma'am,' said Sally, 'he's only 
 a doctor.' " 
 
 Grace reddened with indignation, and pronounced Sally 
 Elan's conduct an instance of the basest ingratitude.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPEKARY. 207 
 
 " You mistake altogether," said Mary. " She did not mean 
 **) make little of the doctor at all." 
 
 " If papa is not a gentleman," exclaimed Grace, " I don't 
 know who is." 
 
 " That 's my way of thinking, too," replied Mary ; " but 
 you see it was not Sally Egan's. It is only what are called 
 ' estated men' are gentlemen in Ireland, and their wives and 
 daughters are the only ladies. Tom Maher thought he was 
 paying me a great compliment the other day by saying that 
 I was ' like a lady.' " 
 
 "What must be the reason ?" said Grace, musingly. 
 
 " Try and find the solution of the mystery," replied Mary, 
 laughing. 
 
 Grace put her finger to her lips and knit her brows. 
 
 " It is because they are slaves J" she exclaimed, with 
 emphasis. 
 
 " I believe you have guessed it," replied Mary, quietly. 
 
 They came up again with Mr. Lloyd, who had gone into a 
 house to light his pipe. It was plain he meant to be respect- 
 ful, for he took the pipe from his mouth and put it behind 
 his back while they were passing. Mary returned his salute 
 this time. 
 
 "Do you know, Mary." said Grace, " I think it is because 
 he knows Richard so well." 
 
 " You are quite right," she replied, quickly ; " that never 
 occurred to me before." 
 
 " There is something good-natured looking about him," 
 Grace observed. "And he is a fine, handsome man, though, 
 I should say, somewhat foolish." 
 
 " You are not very flattering," said Mary. 
 
 " Well, now," said Grace after another interval of silence, 
 " tell me candidly what you think of him ?" She pointed to 
 Mr. Lowe, who was walking with the doctor in the lawn, 
 
 "Well, I think he improves on acquaintance," Mary replied. 
 "The more I know of him, the better I like him." 
 
 " It is just the contrary with me. I was ready to worship 
 him as a superior being at first. His elegant, gentleniau-liko 
 manner quite fascinated me. But now I feel there 's some- 
 thing wanting. There is something milk-and-waterish about 
 him. He is not strong." 
 
 Mary looked at her with surprise, as indeed she often did.
 
 i08 KNOCKNAGOW J 
 
 "And is Eichard, for instance, strong?" she asked 
 
 "No, not strong; but he has animation, or something 
 that the other wants." 
 
 "And Hugh?" 
 
 " Yes," she replied, compressing her lips, and with a move- 
 ment of the head. " Yes ; Hugh is strong. He has a strong 
 face." 
 
 " Is Norah Lahy strong ?" 
 
 The question seemed to surprise her at first, but, after a 
 moment's thought, she replied : 
 
 " Yes : Norah Lahy is strong. There are different kinds 
 of strength. I fear I am not strong myself. In some ways 
 I know I am ; but if I were afflicted like Norah Lahy, I 
 never could endure it as she does." 
 
 " You could," replied Mary, " God would give you 
 strength." 
 
 "You could bear it," returned Grace, "just the same as 
 she does." 
 
 " Oh, I fear I never could, with such cheerful resignation. 
 But if it ever should be my lot to be tried with affliction, how 
 much I shall owe to Norah Lahy !" 
 
 " Mary," said Grace, after another pause, " I am beginning 
 to feel quite nervous. That is why I can never meditate 
 on such things. It makes me think that I shall soon die, 
 and that frightens me." 
 
 " It is a thought that ought to frighten us all," returned 
 Mary. " But I need not preach to you, Grace. You under- 
 stand these things very well. And I am sure you do some- 
 times meditate on death." 
 
 " I try sometimes." 
 
 " I seldom talk in this way," said Mary. " I scarcely know 
 how you managed to introduce the subject. But we must 
 hurry in and deliver Mrs. Lahy's injunctions to Hugh before 
 they go." 
 
 " They seem to be in no hurry," Grace remarked. " There 
 is Adonis vaulting over the gate, and, I suppose, challenging 
 Apollo to follow him. But Apollo prefers opening the gate. 
 And now he sees us, and is sorry he has not bounded over it 
 like an antelope." 
 
 " Well, let us hurry," said Mary. " They are waiting for 
 us."
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPEKARY. 209 
 
 " I hope," she remarked, on reaching the gate, " I hope 
 you will find a great deal to amuse you at the wedding 
 to-night." 
 
 " I am all impatience to see a real Irish wedding," he 
 replied. " And to judge from the glimpses we are after 
 getting of the party as they drove by, this is to be a 
 genuine affair." 
 
 "Yes, 'twill be the correct thing," the doctor observed. 
 " By Jove ! only for an engagement I have I 'd be tempted 
 to go with you. Nelly Donovan's ankles would make a saint 
 forget the sky as she tripped by just now." 
 
 " But not a sinner forget the important duty of spending 
 a long winter evening telling an appreciative circle what he 
 would do with the bars of the grate," said Grace. 
 
 The doctor pulled his moustache and tried to laugh. 
 
 "What do you mean by the bars of the grate?" Mary 
 asked. 
 
 " Oh, don't you know ? ' What will you do with this 
 one ?' ' I '11 ask her to sing a song.' 'And what will you do 
 with this one 1" ' I '11 adore her.' " 
 
 "Oh, I suppose you are too wise," returned Mary, "for 
 such things. But I must not forget Phil Lahy and the 
 cordial." 
 
 She quickened her pace in order to meet Hugh, who was 
 dismounting from his horse, after returning from the out- 
 farms. And as Mr. Lowe gazed after her, he thought to 
 himself that if some accident occurred to prevent their 
 attendance at Ned Brophy's wedding, he would bear the dis- 
 appointment like a philosopher, and spend the evening by 
 the fireside. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 NED BROPHY'S WEDDING. 
 
 WHBN Mr. Lowe found himself knee-deep in fresh straw, 
 after jumping from the gig in Ned Brophy's yard, he looked 
 about him with a slight sense of bewilderment. Their drive
 
 210 KNOCKNAGOW; 
 
 for the first two miles had been pleasant enough, but when 
 they turned off the high road into a narrow " boreen," Mr. 
 Lowe expected every moment to be flung over the fence : 
 against which the wheel almost rubbed as they jolted along. 
 
 "Have we much farther to go ?" he asked, clutching the 
 side of the gig, as the wheel at Hugh's side sank into the 
 deepest slough they had met yet. 
 
 " Only a couple of fields," Hugh replied. "We'll be in 
 view of the house after passing the next turn." 
 
 The couple of fields seemed five miles long at a moderate 
 calculation to Mr. Lowe, and it was not till he found himself 
 on his legs in the straw he felt satisfied they had really 
 arrived at their journey's end. As he gazed about him he 
 had a confused consciousness of the twang of fiddles, mingled 
 with the hum of many voices and the clatter of many feet, 
 on the one hand, and a combination of odours, in which turf 
 smoke and roast goose predominated, on the other. The 
 music came from the barn, and the odours from an out-office 
 at the opposite side of the yard, which was converted into a 
 kitchen for the occasion and there being no chimney, a 
 plentiful supply of smoke was the natural consequence. 
 
 Hugh shouted for some one to come and take care of his 
 horse ; and a workman rushed from the barn, creating con- 
 siderable confusion among a crowd of beggars at the door 
 for whom th'e fun at that side seemed to possess more at- 
 traction than the culinary preparations and savoury odours at 
 the other. 
 
 Mr. Hugh Kearney's arrival was soon made known to the 
 people of the house ; and Mat Donovan, as " best man" and 
 master of the ceremonies, was at the door to receive and 
 welcome him. 
 
 "Is this the doctor you have wud you?" Mat asked. 
 " Begor, I 'm glad we have him, as I was af card there 'd be no 
 wan to talk to the ladies." 
 
 " This is Mr. Lowe," replied Hugh. 
 
 Mat was evidently disappointed ; for he had the highest 
 opinion of the doctor's powers in the matter of "discoorsin 7 
 the ladies." 
 
 On entering the kitchen, where preparations for dinner 
 were also proceeding on a large scale, Ned Brophy's mother 
 welcomed them with a curtsey, and her daughter took their
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPFERARY. 211 
 
 hats and overcoats to one of the two bedrooms off the kitchen. 
 Mat Donovan opened the parlour door, and showed the gen- 
 tlemen in with a bow and a wave of his hand that even the 
 accomplished Richard, whose absence he so much regretted, 
 might have envied. 
 
 Two ladies who sat by the fire one in a blue ball-dress 
 and pearl necklace, the other in a plain black silk, with only 
 a blue ribbon for ornament stood up ; and Mr. Lowe found 
 himself shaking hands with the blue ball-dress almost before 
 he was aware of it. 
 
 " Don't you remember Miss Lloyd ?" Hugh was obliged to 
 say ; for it was painfully evident he did not at once recog- 
 nise her. 
 
 " Oh, I beg pardon," said he, " but really the pleasure 
 was so unexpected." 
 
 Miss Lloyd was in fidgets of ecstasy, and called to her 
 sister to introduce her. 
 
 Mr. Lowe bowed again, and it was pretty clear from the 
 expression of his eye that he thought the plain black dress 
 and the blue ribbon a pleasanter sight to look at than the 
 blue gauze and pearl necklace. 
 
 " Sit down, sir," said Mat Donovan, placing a chair in 
 front of the fire. " Or, maybe," he added, turning to Hugh, 
 " you 'd like to have a bout before the tables are brought into 
 the barn?" 
 
 " Oh, no, we '11 wait till after dinner," said Hugh. 
 
 " Very well, sir," replied Mat. " Father Hannigan '11 be 
 here shortly, and I '11 bring him in to have a talk wud ye 
 before supper is ready. I 'm afeard the cook is afther takin' 
 a sup too much, an' if the ladies here don't show 'em what 
 to do, things '11 be apt to go contrairy." 
 
 " Oh, you may command my services," said the younger 
 lady, with a laugh. 
 
 "Thank'ee, Miss," returned Mat. But she's takin' a 
 sleep, and maybe she'd be all right after id." 
 
 "Who is the cook 1 ?" Miss Lloyd asked, eagerly. "Is it 
 Mrs. Nugent?" 
 
 " Tis, Miss," replied Mat. " She was up at the castle 
 yesterday, preparin' the big dinner, an' she's bate up intirely." 
 
 " Oh, was she at the castle ? Where is she 1 I : d like so 
 much to ask her all about it.
 
 KNOCKNAGOW; 
 
 " She 's gone into the little room there, Miss, to take a 
 stretch on the bed." 
 
 Miss Lloyd was on the rack immediately. Even Mr. Lowe 
 faded from her mind and was lost in the steam of that big 
 dinner at the castle. 
 
 Seizing a candle from the table, Miss Lloyd rushed into 
 the little bedroom of the parlour. Immediately a loud 
 scream made them all start to their feet, and fly to her 
 assistance. All was darkness in the bedroom till some one 
 brought a candle ; and there was poor Miss Lloyd, blue ball- 
 dress, pearl necklace, and all, sprawling on the floor, and 
 staring wildly about her. The fat cook who was a very 
 mountain of a woman was lying on the floor too, snoring 
 sonorously; and it at once became apparent to the astonished 
 spectators that Miss Lloyd had tumbled over her. 
 
 Hugh Kearney stepped over the fat cook, and reaching his 
 hand to the frightened lady, raised her up. 
 
 "0 Mr. Kearney," she exclaimed, panting for breath, 
 " what have I fallen over?" 
 
 " Over a mountain," replied Hugh, laying his hand on the 
 fat cook's shoulder and shaking her. 
 
 The sonorous music that proceeded from the mountain 
 suddenly ceased ; and a second vigorous shake had the effect 
 of causing the fat cook to open her eyes. 
 
 " Mr. Kearney," she exclaimed piteously, looking into 
 his face, " you know what a weak constitution I have." 
 
 This address, uttered as ii was in a familiar and affec- 
 tionate manner, took Hugh somewhat by surprise ; for it 
 happened that Mrs. Nugent was a perfect stranger to 
 him. 
 
 " Tundher an' turf, Mrs. Nugent," exclaimed Mat Donovan, 
 " everything is roasted an' biled an' there 's open war among 
 the women. Wan says wan thing, an' another says another 
 thing ; an' between 'em all, everything is three-na-yhela." 
 
 Mat put his arms round Mrs. Nugent and lifted her to her 
 feet a feat which no man in "the three parishes" but him- 
 self would have attempted. 
 
 Mrs. Nugent steadied herself for a moment, untying her 
 apron and turning the other side out, with great deliberation. 
 
 " You know, Mr. Kearney," said she, " how a salt herring 
 upsets me."
 
 OR, THE HOMES OK T1PPERARV. 213 
 
 Hugn felt slightly confused, and altogether at a loss to 
 understand why Mrs. Nugent should persist in assuming that 
 he had so intimate a knowledge of her constitution. 
 
 "Keally, ma'am," said he, "I do not know. I believe 
 this is the first time I ever had the pleasure of meeting you." 
 
 "Well, if you don't, your mother does," said Mrs. Nugent, 
 as she stuck a pin in her cap a little over her right ear for 
 what purpose it would be difficult to say. 
 
 " She knows what dressing a dinner is," continued Mrs, 
 Nugent, looking round on the company, " for she was used 
 to nothing else in her own father's house." 
 
 Hugh felt that this compliment to the O'Carrolls would 
 have greatly gratified his mother, and that she would have 
 quite overlooked the assertion that she Avas "used to nothing 
 else" but dressing dinners at Ballydunmore. 
 
 "And how are you to-night, Miss Lloyd?" said Mrs, 
 Nugent. " I hope your family are well." 
 
 " Quite well, thank you, Mrs. Nugent," replied the lady 
 addressed, who was nervously feeling her pearls one by one r 
 to know if any of them had come to grief in consequence of 
 her tumble. 
 
 " Come, Mrs. Nugent," said Mat Donovan, " an' set 'em 
 to rights at the dishin', in the name o' God." 
 
 " Yes, Mat the Thrasher," replied Mrs. Nugent. " Let me 
 alone for setting them to rights." 
 
 She moved with great dignity towards the door ; but 
 making a sudden and quite unexpected detour before she 
 reached it, Mrs. Nugent came plump up against Mr. Henry 
 Lowe, who mechanically caught her in his arms, as, yielding 
 to the momentum, he staggered backwards. 
 
 " Hands off, young man, till you 're better acquainted," 
 exclaimed the fat cook, in an offended tone. " I 'm no sich 
 sort of indivigel," she added, as she shook the young gentle- 
 man from her, to his utter confusion and dismay. But 
 before he could collect his wits to protest he meant no harm 
 whatever, Mat Donovan took the offended lady's arm, and 
 conducted her to the kitchen, where her appearance, as she 
 stood with arms akimbo in the middle of the floor, made 
 Mrs. Brophy and her servant girls feel like delinquents, so 
 awe-inspiring was the glance the mighty empress cast round 
 her dominions.
 
 214 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 " Mat the Thrasher,'' said Mrs. Nugent, " will you " 
 
 " Begob, there 's Father Hannigan ; I must be off," 
 exclaimed Mat, as he hurried away without waiting to know 
 what Mrs. Nugent required. 
 
 " God save all here," said Father Hannigan, stamping his 
 feet as he stepped over the threshold. " How are you, Mrs. 
 Brophy ?" 
 
 " You 're welcome, sir," was Mrs. Brophy 's reply, as she 
 opened the parlour door. 
 
 Father Hannigan had a hearty greeting from, every one, 
 and Mr. Lowe was particularly glad to see him. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Miss Lloyd ; but we must put Mr. 
 Flaherty in that corner. Sit down there, Mr. Flaherty," he 
 continued, laying his hand on the arm of a respectable- 
 looking man, who until now had been concealed behind the 
 tall figure of the priest. 
 
 The old man was dressed in a decent suit of black, and as 
 he sat down in the chair to which the priest had conducted 
 him, Mr. Lowe was struck by the placid smile that glowed 
 over his round, ruddy face. He Avore a brown wig, curled all 
 round from the temples, which he now caught hold of over 
 his ear, to fasten it on his head. He then commenced 
 playing with a bunch of seals attached to his watch-ribbon, 
 which hung from the fob in his small clothes. 
 
 " Good night, Miss Lloyd," said he, without turning towards 
 her. 
 
 " Good night, Mr. Flaherty," she replied. 
 
 " Ha !" he laughed, appearing to look straight before him, 
 though the lady was on one side, and rather behind him. 
 " I think this is Miss Isabella I have beside me," he said 
 after playing again with the bunch of seals. 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Flaherty. It is a long time now since you paid 
 as a visit." 
 
 He did not reply, as he \yas listening, with an anxious look, 
 to the conversation passing between Father Hannigan, Mr. 
 Lowe, and Hugh Kearney. 
 
 "This is the English gentleman?" he observed in a 
 whisper, leaning his head towards the young lady who had 
 just spoken to him. 
 
 "Yes ; he is Sir Garrett Butler's nephew," she replied. 
 
 Mr. Lowe's curiosity to know something of Mr. Flaherty
 
 OR, THE HOMES OP TTPPERARY. 215 
 
 was so strong that it brought him to the side of Miss Lloyd, 
 at the other end of the room. She tossed her flounces about, 
 and made way for him in an ecstasy of delight. 
 
 " I am curious to know," he said, " who is that old gentle- 
 man?" 
 
 As he spoke, his curiosity was further excited by seeing a 
 little boy come into the room and place a green bag on the 
 old man's knees. 
 
 "That's the celebrated Irish piper," she replied. "lam 
 surprised to see him here. I did not think he attended 
 country weddings." 
 
 " I suppose," said Mr. Lowe, " he goes round among the 
 nobility and gentry, as we are told the harpers used to do." 
 
 " He does," she replied ; " and he has a beautiful little 
 pony the countess gave him. But I suppose he is stopping 
 at present with the priests, and Father Hannigan has brought 
 him with him." 
 
 " I wish he would begin to play," said Mr. Lowe. And 
 he was rather startled when the old mau immediately said : 
 
 " Yes, I '11 play a tune for you." 
 
 " Oh ! thank you ; but I really did not think you could 
 hear me." 
 
 'Ha!" he replied, laughing; "I can hear the grass 
 growing." 
 
 He pulled out his watch, and after opening the glass and 
 fumbling with it for a moment, he said : 
 
 " Twenty minutes past nine." 
 
 Mr Lowe, who looked at him in surprise as he smiled and 
 chuckled while putting up his watch, caught a glimpse of the 
 old man's eyeballs, 'and saw that he was blind. 
 
 " Sit down here near me," said Mr. Flaherty. " I knew 
 Sir Garrett and your mother well. I'll play one of poor 
 Garrett's favourite tunes for you." 
 
 As he uncovered his pipes their splendour quite took Mr. 
 Lowe by surprise. The keys were of silver, and the bag 
 covered with crimson velvet fringed with gold ; while the 
 little bellows was quite a work of art, so beautifully was it 
 carved and ornamented with silver and ivory. Having tied 
 an oval-shaped piece of velvet with a ribbon attached to each 
 end above his knee, he adjusted his instrument, and after 
 moving his arm, to which the bellows was attached by a
 
 216 KNOCK N'AGOWj 
 
 ribbon, till the crimson velvet bag was inflated, he touched 
 the keys, and catching up the "chanter" quickly in both hands 
 began to play. Mr. Lowe, who watched him narrowly, nov 
 33 vr the use of the piece of velvet tied round his leg, as the 
 "chanter" was ever and anon pressed against it to assist in 
 the production of certain notes by preventing the escape of 
 the air through the end of the tube. 
 
 The musician soon seemed to forget all mere human con- 
 cerns. He threw back his head, as if communing with in- 
 visible spirits in the air above him ; or bent down over his- 
 instrument as if the spirits had suddenly flown into it, and 
 he wanted to catch their whisperings there, too. 
 
 The audience, to some extent, shared in the musician's 
 ecstasy; particularly Father Hannigan, from whose eyes tears 
 were actually falling as the delicious melody ceased, and the 
 old man raised his sightless eyes, and listened, as it were, for 
 an echo of his strains from the skies. 
 
 "Oh!" exclaimed Father Hannigan, turning away his- 
 head, and flourishing his yellow Indian silk pocket-handker- 
 chief, as he affected to sneeze lief we taking the pinch of 
 snuff he held between the fingers of the other hand " Oh r 
 there 's something wonderful in these old Irish airs ! Ther& 
 was a ballad in last Saturday's Nation about that tune, that 
 was nearly as moving ;vs the tune itself. Did you read it?'' 
 he asked, turning to Hugh Kearney. 
 
 " Yes," he replied. " Your friend, Dr. Kiely, induced me 
 to become a subscriber to the Nation. 
 
 " I don't get it myself," returned Father Hannigan. " 'Ti& 
 Father O'Xeill gets it, and I suspect he has a leaning 
 cowards those Young Irelanders, and dabbles in poetry him- 
 self. But I wish I had that ballad about the 'Cooh'n,' to 
 read it for Mr. Flaherty. If poetry as well as music could 
 be squeezed out of an Irish bagpipes, I 'd say that ballad 
 came out of that bag tinder his oxter." 
 
 The old man's face brightened up, as he raised his 
 head, and appeared to be listening to the spirits in the air 
 again. 
 
 " Can you remember any of the lines, Hugh ?" 
 
 " Xot to repeat them," he replied ; " but I have a generai 
 recollection of them." 
 
 " We 're obliged to you, intirely, for your general recol
 
 OB, THE HOMES OF T1PPERARV. 217 
 
 lection," returned Father Hannigan, with his finger on his 
 temple. " But what's that he said about 'sorrow and love'?" 
 
 " Sobbing like Eire," replied Hugh. 
 
 " Ay, ay," interrupted Father Hannigan. " Now I hav& 
 it. The poet, Mr. Flaherty, described the 'Coolin' as 
 
 ' Sobbing like Eire with sorrow and lore.' 
 
 Isn't that beautiful ? and true ?" 
 
 The old man laughed and listened more intently, as if the 
 spirits in the air were very far off, and he were trying to catch 
 the flapping of their wings. 
 
 " He also said," Hugh added, " that 
 
 'An angel first sung it above in the sky.' " 
 
 This seemed to catch the minstrel's fancy more than the 
 other line, for he nodded his head several times, with his 
 mouth slightly open, as if he were softly repeating the inter- 
 jection ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 The wedding guests had been silently dropping into the 
 room, which was now pretty well filled. Mat Donovan occa- 
 sionally seized a bottle or decanter, and filled out a glass of 
 wine, or whiskey, or "cordial" for some of them; and Hugh 
 Kearney observed that Mat was particularly attentive to old 
 Phil Morris, the weaver, whose entrance necessarily attracted 
 attention, as he was lame and leant upon a short stick, 
 which he struck against the ground at every step, with a 
 sturdy defiant sort of knock, which, taken in connection with 
 his tightly compressed lips and keen grey eyes, conveyed th& 
 idea that old Phil Morris was a Tartar, with a dash of the 
 cynic in his composition. And old Phil really did look upon 
 the present generation as a degenerate race, who could "put 
 up with anything," and altogether unworthy sons of his "early 
 youth's compeers." 
 
 As Mat Donovan pressed old Phil Morris to drink with 
 unusual earnestness, there was a hustling heard at the door, 
 and Ned Brophy himself was seen pushing two blind pipers 
 into the parlour with a degree of violence and an expression 
 of countenance that led Mr. Lowe to imagine he must have 
 caught them in the act of attempting to rob him or some- 
 thing of that kind. The two pipers were tall, and gaunt, 
 
 p
 
 218 KNOCKN AGOW ; 
 
 and yellow a striking contrast in every way to Mr. Flaherty. 
 One was arrayed in a soldier's grey watch-coat, with the 
 number of the regiment stamped in white figures on the 
 back, and the other wore a coarse blue body-coat, with what 
 appeared to be the sleeves of another old grey watch-coat 
 sewed to it between the shoulders and the elbows. Bo fV| 
 wore well-patched corduroy knee-breeches and bluish worsted 
 stockings, with brogues of unusual thickness of sole, well 
 paved with heavy nails. Their rude brass-mounted instru- 
 ments were in keeping with their garments. The sheep-skin 
 bag of one had no covering whatever, while that of the other 
 was covered with faded plaid, " cross-barred with green and 
 yellow." They dropped into two chairs near the door, thrust- 
 ing their old "caubeens" under them, and sat bolt upright 
 like a pair of mummies or figures in a wax- work exhibition. 
 
 This invasion of the parlour was caused by the expulsion 
 of the dancers from the barn, to make room for laying the 
 tables for the banquet. 
 
 " Play that tune that the angel sang again, Mr. Flaherty," 
 said Father Hannigan. 
 
 " Mr. Flaherty complied, and the noise and hum of voices 
 were at once hushed. 
 
 "Have you that? "the piper in the watch-coat asked his 
 companion in a whisper, at the same time beginning to work 
 with his elbow. 
 
 " 1 have," replied the other, beginning to work with his 
 elbow, too. 
 
 A sound like snoring followed for a moment, and Mr. 
 Flaherty jerked up his head suddenly, and looked disturbed 
 as if an evil spirit had intruded among his "delicate Ariels." 
 But as the noise was not repeated, his countenance resumed 
 its wonted placidity, and he bent over his instrument 
 again. 
 
 " I think I could do id betther myse'f," said he of the blue 
 body-coat, holding his big knotty fingers over the holes of his 
 chanter. " He don't shake enough." 
 
 " So could I," replied the grey watch-coat, giving a squeeze 
 to his bag, which was followed by a faint squeak. 
 
 "Turn him out!" shouted Mr. Flaherty, in a voice of 
 thunder, as he started to his feet, his eyes rolling with indig- 
 nant anger.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 219 
 
 There was great astonishment among the company; and 
 Miss Lloyd jumped upon her chair and stared wildly about 
 her, with a vague notion that Wat Murphy's bulldog of 
 which interesting animal she entertained the profoundest 
 dread had got into the room and seized Mr. Flaherty by th 
 calf of the leg. 
 
 "Come, Shamus," said Father Hannigan, "this is no 
 place for you. Come, Thade, be off with you," and Fathei 
 Hannigan expelled the grumbling minstrels from the parlour ; 
 but in doing so he gave each a nudge in the ribs, and slipped 
 a shilling into his fist, which had the effect of changing 
 their scowl into a broad grin, as they jostled out to the 
 kitchen. 
 
 " Well, Phil, are you brave and hearty 1 ? "said Father Han- 
 nigan, when he returned to his seat. 
 
 " Purty well, I thank you, sir." 
 
 " Oh, is that Phil Lahy ? I didn't see you till I looked at 
 you. Tis to the old cock I was talking. How goes it, my 
 old Trojan?" he added, turning to Phil Morris, whom Mat 
 Donovan was pressing to drink a glass of whiskey, which the 
 old man pushed away from him. 
 
 " Sound as a bell," was his reply, as he folded his hands 
 and leant on his stick. 
 
 " Well, if you won't take it," said Mat, " your namesake 
 will." 
 
 " No, Mat, I 'm obliged to you. But I 'm takin' nothin' 
 stronger than cordial." 
 
 " Well, sure, we have lots uv that same," Mat rejoined. 
 " We didn't forget the teetotallers. Which soart will you 
 have V 
 
 " I '11 take a small drop of the ginger-cordial." 
 
 " Begor, 'tisn't aisy to know id from the wine for the 
 ladies," said Mat, holding up two decanters between him and 
 the light. He poured a little of the contents of one into a 
 tumbler and tasted it. 
 
 " Oh, faith, I have id," he continued, coughing ; " an' hot 
 etuff it is." 
 
 He filled the tumbler, and presented it to Phil Lahy, who 
 took it with a look of meek resignation, which was quite 
 affecting. 
 
 Nelly Donovan rushed in with her face very much flushed,
 
 220 KXOCKXAGOW ; 
 
 and, making her way to Miss Isabella Lloyd, said in a 
 whisper : 
 
 " Wisha, Miss, maybe you 'd come out an' show us what 
 to do. We can't get any good uv the cook ; she 's loike the 
 dog in the manger, an' won't either do a hand's turn herse'f, 
 or let any wan else do id. There 's lots uv dacent women 
 here that knows what to do as well as herse'f, but she 's 
 afther insultin' every wan uv 'em, and as for poor Mrs. 
 Brophy, she don't know whether it is on her head or her 
 heels she's standin', wud her." 
 
 " I '11 try what I can do," replied the young lady, laughing,, 
 as she followed Kelly to the kitchen. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 MR. LLOYD DOES WHAT IRISH LANDLORDS SELDOM DO. 
 
 A TABLE at one end of the barn was appropriated to the more- 
 distinguished guests, at which Father Hannigan presided, 
 with the bride on his right hand, and an empty chair on his 
 left ; for Ned. Brophy resolutely resisted all attempts to force 
 him into the seat which Miss Isabella Lloyd had assigned 
 him. 
 
 Before the covers were taken off the dishes, however, Mr. 
 Robert Lloyd strolled up to the head of the table and quietly 
 took possession of the unoccupied chair. To his eldest sister's 
 consternation, Mr. Lloyd appeared in his scarlet coat and 
 buckskin breeches, and even had his hunting whip tied over 
 his shoulder. 
 
 Ned Brophy, on seeing his landlord, hurried from the lower 
 end of one of the two rows of tables that extended along each 
 side of the barn, and shook him vigorously by the hand. 
 
 " Welcome, Mr. Bob," said Ned Brophy. " Begor, I 'd 
 never forgive you if you didn't come." And for the first 
 time since his doom was sealed, Ned Brophy was seen to 
 smile.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 221 
 
 11 This is herse'f, sir," Ned added. And Mr. Lloyd shook 
 hands with the bride reaching his arm behind Father Han- 
 nigan's back in quite an affectionate manner ; which caused 
 the bride to smile too, apparently for the first time since her 
 doom was sealed. So that Mr. Robert Lloyd chased the 
 clouds from the faces of his tenant and his tenant's wife a 
 thing which, as a rule, Irish landlords are not much in the 
 habit of doing. 
 
 Mat Donovan hurried up to make room for two other 
 unexpected guests at the principal table, and Maurice 
 Kearney and Lory Hanly took their places sufficiently 
 near Miss Lloyd to call up a frightened look into that 
 nervous lady's face when she saw Lory turning round to 
 address her. 
 
 As soon as Lorj r saw his sisters wholly taken up with the 
 doctor, who punctually kept the appointment to which he 
 had casually referred in the evening, the bright idea struck 
 the enamoured young gentleman that he had an excuse for 
 paying another visit to his fair enslaver. So as Mary Kearney 
 and Grace were sitting by the fire, and feeling rather dull 
 and lonely, a knock was heard at the door. They listened to 
 know who might be the unexpected visitor, and immediately 
 after the door was opened, Lory walked into the parlour with 
 the jay's large wicker-cage in his arms. They were very glad 
 to see him, and so was Maurice Kearney himself. But Mrs. 
 Kearney evidently looked upon Lory as a dangerous character, 
 and did not consider herself quite safe so long as he was in 
 the house. Lory, however, was asked to sit down; and the 
 expression of his countenance as he stared round him, and then 
 looked at Grace, might be translated "jolly." 
 
 Ned Brophy's wedding happened to be mentioned, and the 
 whim seized Mr. Kearney that he and Lory would go there 
 together. 
 
 The fact was, the young gentleman's dancing so tickled 
 Maurice Kearney's fancy the evening he first made Lory's 
 acquaintance, that he could not resist the temptation to see 
 him perform again. 
 
 " Come, and I '11 drive you over," said he, "and you'll have 
 a good night's fun." 
 
 "Faith, I will !" exclaimed Lory, in a voice that reminded 
 Mrs. Kearney of her broken tea-cup.
 
 222 KNOCKN AG O W ; 
 
 "Will you come?" he added, turning to Grace and wait- 
 ing for her reply with his eyes very wide open. 
 
 " Oh, no, thank you," she replied. 
 
 " If you do, I '11 dance with nobody else. Ton my word 
 I 'd rather dance with you than with anybody." 
 
 Grace expressed her acknowledgment, but regretted she 
 should deny herself the pleasure. 
 
 Mrs. Kearney went to the kitchen to announce to Barney 
 that he was to drive the car, and to warn him above all 
 things to take care of "Flanigan's Hole." To which injunc- 
 tion Barney replied by doing the "side step" in a reel very 
 genteelly, and in a manner peculiar to himself : it being the 
 usual practice to have the right foot foremost when moving 
 towards the right, and the left foot foremost when moving 
 towards the left, whereas Barney reversed this, and moved to 
 the left with the right foot in front, and to the right with the 
 left foot in front the effect of which was very striking. 
 
 " More power, ma'am ! Would I doubt you ? An' all my 
 figure dance gone out uv my head for want uv practice. 
 One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three." And Barney, 
 with his head thrown back, till his poll rested on the collar 
 of his coat, one-two-three 'd to the stable. 
 
 The safe arrival of Mr. Kearney and Lory Hanly in Ned 
 Brophy's barn just as the wedding guests had sat down to 
 dinner, is a sufficient proof that Barney had driven them 
 safely past Flanigan's Hole. 
 
 In spite of Miss Isabella Lloyd's exertions, ably seconded 
 as she was by Kelly Donovan, the arrangements were not as 
 successful as might have been wished. For instance, when 
 Father Hannigan raised the cover of the large dish before 
 him, he was rather taken by surprise, on seeing two very 
 plump geese reposing side by side on a bed of very greasy 
 cabbage ; and what added considerably to the astonishment 
 of the beholders was the unusual circumstance that while one 
 goose was brown, the other was quite white. 
 
 A word from Miss Isabella Lloyd, who could not conceal 
 her indignation at the stupidity of some one whom she desig- 
 nated "that wretch," sent Kelly Donovan flying down between 
 the two rows of tables ; and when she returned bearing 
 another dish, that which contained the geese was pushed out 
 of the way, and before he had well recovered from his sur-
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 223 
 
 prise, Father Hannigan found a piece of roast beef before him, 
 which might have vied with that wonderful quarter that 
 Father M'Mahon got as a Christinas present, and merely to 
 look at which, according to Father Hannigan, would " do your 
 heart good." The two geese were removed to another dish, 
 and banished to one of the side tables ; and Mat Donovan 
 completed the arrangements by placing a huge piece of pork 
 on the " bolster of cabbage," originally intended as its resting 
 place. 
 
 The roast beef became " small by degrees and beautifully 
 less," under Father Hannigan's carving knife. Hugh Kearney 
 and his father worked with might and main, too ; and knives 
 and forks were soon busy all round the barn. But the white 
 goose had aroused Miss Lloyd's inquisitiveness, and she could 
 not rest till she knew all about it. So when Nelly Donovan 
 was passing, Miss Lloyd put back her hand and caught her 
 by the skirt. 
 
 "What sort of a goose is that?" she asked, as Nelly bent 
 over her chair. 
 
 " 'Tis wan uv their own geese, Miss. Mrs. Brophy always 
 rears three or four clutches." 
 
 "But why is it white?" 
 
 " Oh, is id that wan ? Ould Molly, Miss, that didn't under, 
 stand the cook, an' popped wan uv 'em into a pot of wather 
 an' biled id, instead uv puttin' it in the oven pot as she was 
 tould. She did the same to a beautiful pair uv ducks, an' 
 spiled 'em." 
 
 " What 's that you have on the plate ?" 
 
 " Some bacon an' cabbage, Miss, that Wattletoes is afther 
 sendin' me to Mr. Kearney for. An' spake uv the divil an' 
 he '11 appear," she exclaimed. " Here is Barney himself." 
 
 " Tare-an'-ouns, Nelly," muttered Barney grumblingly, " is 
 id goin' to lave me lookin' at 'em all skelpin' away you are, 
 an' not as much as ud bait a mouse-trap furnint me, barrin' 
 a dhry pueata?" 
 
 " I have id here for you, Barney," she replied, presenting 
 the well-filled plate to him. 
 
 " More power to your oaten-male-pueata-cake an' a griddle 
 to bile id," exclaimed Barney, as he hurried off to his place 
 at the lower end of the barn. 
 
 We have some recollection of a description of an English
 
 224 KNOCKNAGOW j 
 
 harvest-home, from the pen of Mr. Charles Reade. The 
 guests were of the same class as those assembled in Ned 
 Brophy's barn. But the English novelist tells us that during 
 the whole time while the viands were being demolished, the 
 only words uttered were the following : 
 
 "Bo-ill, wull you have some weal wud your bacon ?" 
 
 " That I woun't, Jock." 
 
 In this respect the Irish wedding presented a singular con- 
 trast to the English harvest-home. Jokes and laughter were 
 heard on every side ; and from Father Hannigan at the head 
 of the table to Barney Brodherick who sat upon an inverted 
 hamper with his back against the winnowing machine, and 
 his plate on his knees, at the opposite end of the barn, every 
 face wore a smile, and fun sparkled in every eye. The only 
 exceptions to this rule were two or three bashful young 
 women whose potatoes broke upon their forks, and filled them 
 Avith confusion. One of these bashful young women, after a 
 second and third failure, dropped her arms by her side, and 
 resisted every effort to induce her to taste a single morsel of 
 anything. Nelly Donovan did all she could to coax her, but 
 the bashful young woman rigidly refused to touch knife or 
 fork again even though Nelly, with mischievous drollery, 
 -called out to Miss Isabella Lloyd 
 
 " Wisha, Miss, maybe you'd have a little lane bit there 2 
 We have a girl down here that won't ate a taste uv anything 
 for us." 
 
 The necessity of peeling the potatoes on the fork at a wed- 
 ding was regarded as a very trying ordeal ; and the remark 
 " that 's the pueata I 'd like to get at a weddin'," was one 
 not unfrequently heard at Knocknagow, as the speaker held 
 up a " white-eye" between her finger and thumb, which had 
 resisted a tight squeeze of the hand without breaking. 
 
 But how will Professor Huxley account for the difference 
 we have alluded to between the Irish wedding and the Eng- 
 lish harvest home ? 
 
 In the matter of smiling faces, however, we should make 
 one more exception, besides the bashful young women whose 
 potatoes fell to pieces. Miss Lloyd was haunted by the 
 boiled goose. That doughy looking object seemed both to 
 fascinate and frighten her. She stared at it as a shying horse 
 will stare at a white wall. At last, unable to resist any
 
 OR, THE HOMES OP TIPPER ARY. 225 
 
 longer, she held out her plate and asked to be helped to the 
 boiled goose. A young farmer, who sat opposite that 
 neglected and utterly forlorn-looking bird, jumped to his feet 
 and plunged a fork into its side ; and then sawed away 
 vigorously with his knife, but without any regard to the 
 bones or joints of the boiled goose. In spite of his vigorous 
 exertions or rather in consequence of them the unhappy 
 boiled goose rolled and slipt about the dish, but lost not a 
 particle of flesh under the knife of the operator. 
 
 Now, this young farmer partook of boiled goose in his 
 own house on an average once a week that is to say, every 
 Sunday since Michaelmas. But then the goose was 
 always dismembered before it was put into the pot with the 
 dumplings. And a very savoury dish, too, is goose and 
 dumplings cooked in this way. 
 
 Miss Lloyd held out her plate patiently till her arm began 
 to feel tired, when the young farmer, becoming quite des- 
 perate, pulled his fork out of the boiled goose, and plunging 
 it into the piece of fat pork that happened to be within 
 arm's length of him, slashed off some two or three pounds 
 of the same, and flinging it upon the young lady's plate, 
 exclaimed : 
 
 " Maybe you 'd rather have a bit of this, Miss?" 
 
 Miss Lloyd stared helplessly at the mass of pork on her 
 plate, which, in her bewilderment, she continued to hold out 
 at arm's length. Whereupon, the young farmer added a 
 liberal supply of cabbage, and Miss Lloyd laid down the 
 plate before her, looking as stupefied as Mat Donovan's cock 
 when he was going to walk into the fire, after falling from 
 the collar-beam upon Phil Lahy's head. And during the rest 
 of the meal Miss Lloyd seemed quite as incapable of further 
 action as the bashful young woman for whom Nelly Donovan 
 wanted "a little lane bit." 
 
 Dinner over, the two pipers and three fiddlers struck up 
 " Haste to the Wedding," which was the signal for removing 
 the two rows of tables, and the floor was immediately cleared 
 for dancing. 
 
 Mr. Robert Lloyd led out the bride ; and, after a good deal 
 of rough shaking and pushing, Mat Donovan persuaded the 
 bridegroom to go through the usual bowing and scraping in 
 front of Miss Lloyd, who was roused from the stupor into
 
 226 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 which the fat pork had thrown her by the words, " I dance 
 to you, Miss," which were uttered by Ned Brophy much in 
 the same tone and with the same look as usually accompany 
 the phrase, " I 'm sorry for your trouble." 
 
 " Come, Mr. Lowe," said Father Hannigan, " don't you 
 see Miss Isabella there, throwing sheep's eyes at you ? Out 
 with you and join the fun." 
 
 " Mr. Lory, your sowl," exclaimed Nelly Donovan, clap- 
 ping him on the back, " before the flure is full." And Nelly 
 seized Lory by the hand and pulled him along till they found 
 a place among the dancers. 
 
 Hugh Kearney walked down the barn looking to the right 
 and left among the blooming damsels, but it was evident the 
 object of his search was not in sight. 
 
 " You want somebody," said Mat, with a meaning look. 
 
 " Well, I do," replied Hugh. " I want a partner." 
 
 " Who is she, an' I '11 make her out for you 1" 
 
 ',' That 's just what I don't know," replied Hugh. " But 
 'tis the girl with the white jacket." 
 
 Mat shook his head, as much as to say, " Sure, now, I 
 knew what was in your mind." And then looking all round 
 for the white jacket, Mat Donovan said aloud 
 
 " The nicest little girl ! " and there was a melancholy ten- 
 derness in his voice, and a softness in his smile, which made 
 Hugh at once suspect that the owner of the white jacket was 
 no stranger to Mat the Thrasher. 
 
 "Who is she? "he asked. 
 
 " Bessy Morris, sir," replied Mat, after a moment's silence, 
 as if he were roused from a reverie. 
 
 "Is that old Phil's granddaughter?" Hugh asked in sur- 
 prise. " I know her very well, but I have not seen her for 
 a long time." 
 
 "She was in Dublin at her aunt's, sir," replied Mat. "I 
 think she 's gone into the house now to put a stitch in the 
 bridesmaid's gown that Wattletoes is afther dhriving his fut 
 through would you doubt him ? I '11 run in for her." 
 
 He soon returned with Bessy Morris, who blushed and 
 laughed as he told her how Mr. Hugh Kearney had singled 
 her out. 
 
 " I really did not know you," said Hugh, as he shook hands 
 with her, " till Mat told me who you were."
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 227 
 
 " They all tell me I am greatly altered, sir," she replied, 
 " but I can't see it myself." 
 
 " We have some purty girls here to-night, sir," said Mat, 
 looking round on every side. 
 
 " Very pretty girls," Hugh replied. " There, for instance, 
 that fair-haired girl sitting near the musicians is about as 
 handsome a girl as ever I saw." 
 
 " So she is, sir," said Mat. ' She 's called the Swan of 
 Coolmore. But for all that," he added, with a humorous 
 glance at Bessy Morris, " 'tis the white jacket he was lookin' 
 for." 
 
 " Oh, but Bessy and I are old acquaintances," replied 
 Hugh, laughing. 
 
 " JS"abocklish !" returned Mat. " You tould me you didn't 
 know who she was. But I always said you had a good eye 
 uv your own." 
 
 The two pipers and three fiddlers found the " tuning " 
 business so difficult that Mat thought there was still time 
 for him to look out for a partner for " the first bout." 
 
 "Now, which would you advise me to take?" he asked, 
 stroking his chin as if he found it difficult to make up his 
 mind. " The swan or the bridesmaid the goolden locks or 
 the goolden guineas ?" 
 
 This question had the effect of making Bessy Morris look 
 very earnestly at him. But she laughed when he added 
 
 " Here goes for a shake at the ould saucepan." 
 
 " But you are forgetting," said Bessy, " that you were 
 desired to make some punch for the ladies." 
 
 " Oh murther !" he exclaimed, "that ould saucepan put 
 id out uv me head." 
 
 Billy Heffernan here appeared at the door with a jug of 
 boiling water in each hand, and Mat hurried to the table to 
 make the punch for the ladies ; which punch was soon 
 "shared" all round, and caused an immense deal of coughing 
 and a grand display of " turkey-red" pocket-handkerchiefs. 
 
 Hugh found his partner so lively and intelligent, and alto- 
 gether so captivating, that he quite overlooked the fact that 
 the dancing had commenced, till the swinging of Lory Han- 
 ley's legs warned him that he must either retire, or join in 
 with the rest. 
 
 The " merry din" now commenced in right earnest ; but
 
 228 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 beyond all question the happiest mortal under the roof of 
 Ned Brophy's barn that night was Barney Brodherick, who, 
 fenced in by a table, in a corner all to himself, rattled away 
 through all his wonderful steps as if he thought it a sin to 
 let a single bar of jig, reel, or double go for nothing. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 AX OLD CROPPY'S NOTIONS OF SECURITY OF TENURE. 
 
 FATHER HANNIGAN and Maurice Kearney, with old Phil 
 Morris and Phil Lahy, and a few more choice spirits, drew 
 close together round the social board, and enjoyed themselves 
 in their own way. 
 
 " I gave my daughter to Ned Brophy," said old Larry 
 Clancy, in reply to a question of Father Hannigan's " I 
 gave my daughter to Ned Brophy, because he has a good 
 lase." 
 
 " A good landlord is as good as a good lease," said Maurice 
 Kearney. 
 
 " I do not know that," returned Larry Clancy, slowly and 
 emphatically. " For my own part, I 'd rather have a good 
 lase wud the worst landlord, than no lase wud the best land- 
 lord that ever broke bread. Security is the only thing to 
 give a man courage." 
 
 " He 's right." exclaimed old Phil Morris, striking his stick 
 against the ground. " Security is the only thing. But if 
 every man was of my mind he 'd have security or know for 
 what." 
 
 " Hold your tongue, you old sinner," said Father Hannigan, 
 who had often combated Phil Morris's views, as to how the 
 land question could be brought to a speedy settlement. 
 
 " I have my old pike yet an' maybe I 'd want id yet !" 
 he exclaimed, with a look of defiance at the priest. " An' 
 the man that 'd come to turn me out on the road, as I see
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERA.RY. 229 
 
 others turned out on the road, I 'd give him the length uv id, 
 as sure as God made Moses." 
 
 "And swing for it," said Father Hannigau. 
 
 " Ay, an' swing for it," shouted the old Croppy ; for it was 
 a musket bullet that shattered Phil Morris's knee in '98. 
 " Ay, an' swing for it." 
 
 " And be damned," added the priest. " Don't you know 
 'tis murder wilful murder?" 
 
 " I don't know that," he replied. " But the prayers of 
 the congregation would carry the man's sowl to heaven, 
 that 'd do a manly act, an' put a tyrant out uv the country, 
 and keep other tyrants from following his example. 'Tis self- 
 defence," he added, striking his stick against the ground ; 
 " 'tis justice." 
 
 " 'Tis bad work," said Father Hannigan. " And take my 
 word, luck or grace will never come of it." 
 
 "I agree with you," Hugh Kearney observed, who had 
 joined them during the latter part of the discussion. 
 
 " You do !" exclaimed old Phil, turning upon him with a 
 scowl. " An' who the divil cares what you or the likes of 
 you agree with 1 You 're well off as you are, and little 
 trouble id gives you to see the people hunted like dogs." 
 
 " You 're wrong there, Phil," replied Hugh. " I 'd like to 
 see that old pike of yours taken from the thatch for a manly 
 fight like that you fought in '98. But that's a different thing." 
 
 " Well, I know that," returned Phil Morris, letting his 
 chin drop upon his chest, and seeming to brood over the 
 subject for a minute or two. " But five years ago," he added, 
 " I could count three-an'-twenty houses, big an' little, 
 between the cross uv Liscorrig an' Shanbally-bridge ; an' 
 to-day you couldn't light your pipe along that whole piece uv 
 a road, barrin' at wan house and that 's my own. An' why 
 am I left there 1 Because they Icnew I 'd do id," he mut- 
 tered through his clenched teeth, as if he were speaking to 
 himself. 
 
 " Let him alone," said the priest. " There 's no use in 
 talking to him." 
 
 " There 's raison in what he says," said old Larry Clancy, 
 in his slow, emphatic way. " I say," he added, looking at 
 the priest, " there's raison in what he says." 
 
 "Don't be talking foolish," returned Father Hannigan,.
 
 230 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 who saw that the eyes of three or four small farmers were 
 fixed inquiringly on his face. " Good never came of it." 
 
 "Do you hear him?" exclaimed old Phil Morris, turning 
 to Hugh Kearney. 
 
 " Well, to a great extent," said Hugh, after a short silence 
 for he saw they all expected he would speak " to a great 
 extent I agree with Father Hannigan. But there is no use in 
 denying that the dread of assassination is the only protection 
 the people have against extermination in this part of Ireland." 
 
 "I say 'tis justice in the eye uv God," exclaimed old Phil 
 Morris, " to punish the bloody tyrants the robbers and 
 murdherers that rob the people uv their little spots, an' turn 
 'em out to perish. 'Tis justice to punish the bloody rob- 
 bers !" And as old Phil struck his stick against the ground 
 and looked around, there was a murmur of applause from the 
 bystanders, who by this time were pretty numerous. 
 
 " The man that believes he is robbed or persecuted," said 
 the priest, " cannot be an impartial judge. If every one was 
 to take the law in his own hands, there would be nothing but 
 violence and bloodshed." 
 
 " Well, what do you say to giving the exterminators a fail- 
 trial before judge and jury?" 
 
 " What judge and jury ?" 
 
 " Tisn't the judge an' jury in the coort-house," returned 
 Phil Morris, " because they 're all for the tyrants, an' some 
 uv 'em tyrants themselves ; but a fair jury uv the people, an' 
 a fair judge." 
 
 "I know what you mean," said Father Hannigan. "But 
 if the judge and jury in the court-house be all for the tyrant, 
 don't you think your judge and jury would be as much for 
 the victim?" 
 
 " No ; they 'd never condemn a man that didn't desarve 
 id," replied Phil. 
 
 " Ignorant men," rejoined the priest, " blinded by passion 
 perhaps smarting under wrong themselves, or dreading that 
 their own turn might come next couldn't be a fair judge 
 and jury, Phil, even if what you speak of were lawful or just 
 in the sight of God. So hold your tongue." 
 
 " Ay, that 's the way always. ' Howld your tongue' settles 
 id." 
 
 " There is Mr. Lloyd," continued Father Hannigan, as that
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF T1PPEKARY. 231 
 
 gentleman returned to his seat ; " and if he put out a tenant 
 would you shoot him ?" 
 
 " The divil a hair uv his head would be touched," replied 
 Phil. " He gives good lases at a fair rent ; and the man 
 that does that won't turn out a tenant unless he desarves to 
 be turned out. Answer me this wan question. Did you 
 ever know uv a good landlord to be shot, or a good agent ? 
 Answer me that." 
 
 " Well, no," replied the priest, " I never did." 
 
 " There it is," observed Larry Clancy, as if that settled the 
 question, and Father Hannigan had thrown up the sponge. 
 
 " "Well, now, Mr. Lowe," said Father Hannigan, " what 's 
 your opinion of this matter?" 
 
 " I am almost entirely ignorant of it," he replied. " But 
 1 confess I came over to Ireland under the impression that 
 the people were lawless and revengeful, particularly in your 
 county." 
 
 " You only saw the dark side of the picture." returned 
 "Father Hannigan. " We are not so black as we are painted." 
 
 " I believe that. And a remark made by an Irish judge, 
 with whom I had the honour of dining a few weeks ago, made 
 a great impression en me, I confess." 
 
 " What did he say ?" 
 
 " He had sentenced several men to be hanged a short time 
 before, and a gentleman present made some severe remarks, 
 while discussing the subject of agrarian outrages, when 
 
 Judge said : ' I never met an instance of a landlord 
 
 being killed, who did not deserve I won't say to be hanged, 
 as I am a judge but I do say, a case of the kind never 
 came before me that the landlord did not deserve to be 
 dawned !'" 
 
 Old Phil Morris looked with astonishment at the speaker. 
 
 " Put id there," he exclaimed, reaching his horny hand 
 across the table. " If you were the divil you 're an honest 
 man." 
 
 " I don't despair of old Ireland yet," said the priest. " The 
 people are good if they only get fair play." 
 
 " Ireland will never do any good till we have trade and 
 manufactures of our own," observed Phil Lahy. And a cer- 
 tain thickness of utterance indicated that Phil had forgotten 
 his resolution respecting the cordial long ago.
 
 232 KNOCKNAGOW j 
 
 " Our rulers crushed our trade and manufactures," saiii 
 Father Hannigan. 
 
 " Yes," returned Phil Lahy, " but the people are too much 
 given to farming. A beggarly sky farmer that 's stuck in 
 the mud from mornin' to night, an' don't know beef from 
 mutton no, nor the taste of an egg ; for if he dare look at a 
 hen's tail, his wife would fling the dish-cloth at him. An' 
 that poor crawler, Avith his head bald from the rain droppin' 
 on it from the eave from standin' outside his honour's win- 
 dow, waitin' till his honour condescended to talk to him 
 that beggar would despise the tradesman an' look down on 
 him. Tom Hogan comes in to me this mornin' to know was 
 there any news in the paper. 'There is,' says I. 'I '11 read 
 one uv the best articles ever you heard for you,' says I. 
 ' Look at the markets,' says Tom Hogan. Ha ! ha ! ha !" 
 And Phil Lahy laughed quite sardonically. " 'Look at the 
 markets.' Ha! ha! ha!" 
 
 " There 's some truth in what you say," said Father Han- 
 nigan. 
 
 " Ay," continued Phil, " an' the big farmer will make 
 doctors an' attorneys of his sons, instead of setting ; em up in 
 business." 
 
 " I 'm going to bind my youngest son to his uncle," said 
 Mr. Kearney. 
 
 " For a Avonder," returned Phil Lahy, tasting his punch ; 
 and, not considering it up to the mark, adding another glass 
 of whiskey. 
 
 " That 's what I call a double entendre, Phil," said Father 
 Hannigan. 
 
 "I fear you are forgetting your promise," Hugh ob- 
 served. 
 
 " What promise ?" Phil asked. 
 
 " Not to drink anything stronger than cordial." 
 
 Phil Lahy stared at the speaker for half a minute ; and 
 then stared at the double entendre for half a minute more. 
 
 In fact, Phil Lahy felt himself in a dilemma. Making a 
 sudden dive, however, at the ginger cordial decanter, he 
 filled his glass and carefully added the glass of cordial to the 
 two glasses of whiskey in his tumbler. 
 
 " Will that please you ?" he asked, turning to Hugh, as if 
 that didn't satisfy him nothing could.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OP TIPPERARY. 233 
 
 Hugh rubbed his hand over his face, and did his best to 
 keep from laughing. 
 
 "Would you doubt Phil for getting out of a promise 1 ?" 
 observed Father Hannigan. "He'd drive a coach-and-six 
 through any promise that ever was made as old Dan usi d 
 to say of an Act of Parliament." 
 
 " Old Dan said many a good thing," rejoined Phil Lahy, 
 not choosing to notice the reference to the "promise." 
 " But the best thing ever he said," he continued, casting about 
 for something that would turn the conversation away from 
 promises and cordial altogether " the best thing ever he 
 said was : ' England's difficulty is Ireland's opportunity," ex- 
 claimed Phil Lahy, as the happy apothegm suddenly Hashed 
 into his mind at the very moment that he was about taking 
 refuge in a severe fit of sneezing. " An' you '11 see Ireland 
 
 yet " Here Phil stopped short, as if he had lost the 
 
 thread of his discourse ; but after a good pull at the tumbler, 
 he seemed to find it again, and added" when a redcoat will 
 be as great a curiosity as a white blackbird. There 's a storm 
 brewin'," he continued, with a portentous scowl. " Columb- 
 k ill's words is comin' to pass. An' the day will come when 
 we can drive the invader out of Ireland wud square-bottles, 
 as Mat the Thrasher said the other day." 
 
 *' But I don't like to hear you running down the farmers," 
 observed Father Hannigan. 
 
 " I don't run down the farmers except when they deserve 
 id." 
 
 " Manufactures are good," continued Father Hannigan ; 
 " and we '11 have enough of them when our fine harbours are 
 crowded with the shipping of America and of the whole 
 world. But for all that I 'd be sorry to see the homes of the 
 peasantry disappearing from our hills and our plains, and the 
 people crowded into factories." 
 
 " You're right," exclaimed Phil Lahy, almost with a shout. 
 
 " ' Princes or lords may flourish or may fade.' 
 
 Mat Donovan has a new song that touches upon that." 
 " Come, Mat, give us the new song," said Father Hannigan. 
 " I'm afeard I haven't id be heart right yet, sir," replied Mat. 
 " Oh, we'll excuse you ; we'll excuse all mistakes," rejoined 
 
 the priest. "Come, Mr. Hanly," he called out to Lory 
 
 Q
 
 234 KXOCKXAGOW; 
 
 who with a dozen others was battering the floor to the tune 
 of "O'Connell's Trip to Parliament" "We're going to get a 
 song. Give the poor pipers and fiddlers a rest. Come, Mat 
 up with it!" 
 
 There was a general movement towards the table, and all 
 waited anxiously for Mat the Thrasher's new song, of which 
 many of the company had heard. 
 
 Mat Donovan leant back in his chair, and with a huge 
 hand resting on the table,, and clutching one of the gilt 
 buttons on the front of the blue body-coat with the other, he 
 turned his eyes to the collar-beams, and sang in a fine mellow 
 voice 
 
 THE PEASANT-FARMER'S SONG FOR TIIE TIME TO COME. 
 
 I 've a pound for to lend, and a pound for to spend 
 
 And cead mille faille, my word for a friend ; 
 
 No mortal I envy, no master I own 
 
 Nor lord in his castle, nor king on his throne. 
 
 Come, till up your glasses, the tirst cup we '11 drain 
 
 To the comrades we lost on the red battle plain ! 
 
 Oh, we '11 cherish their fame, boys, who died long ago 
 
 And what 's that to any man whether or no ? 
 
 The spinning-wheels stop, and my girls grow pale, 
 
 While their mother is telling some sorrowful tale, 
 
 Of old cabins levelled, and coffinless graves, 
 
 And ships swallowed up in the salt ocean waves. 
 
 But, girls, that 's over for each of you now 
 
 I '11 have twenty-five pounds and a three-year-old cow ; 
 
 And we'll have Ian na mhala* at your weddings I trow 
 
 And what 's that to any man whether or no ? 
 
 Come here, bhean na tigha^ sit beside me a while, 
 And the pride of your heart let me read in your smile. 
 Would you give your old home for the lordliest hall ? 
 Ha ! you glance at my rifle that hangs on the wall. 
 And your two gallant boys on parade-day are seen 
 In the ranks of the brave 'neath the banner of green ; 
 Oh ! I 've taught them to guard it 'gainst traitor and foe 
 And what 's that to any man whether or no ? 
 
 But the youngest of all is the "white-headed boy"* 
 The pulse of your heart, and our pride and our joy : 
 
 * "'Lan na mhala," pronounced laivn-na-waulya. "Full of a bajj," i.e., 
 abundance. 
 
 t " Bhean na tigha" pronounced van-a-thee. "The woman of the house." 
 j " The white-headed boy," the favourite.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 235 
 
 From the dance and the hurling he '11 steal off to pray. 
 
 And will wander alone by the river all day. 
 
 He 's as good as the priest at his Latin I hear, 
 
 And to college, please God, we'll send him next year, 
 
 Oh, he '11 offer the Mass for our souls when we go 
 
 And what 's that to any man whether or no ? 
 
 Your hands, then, old neighbours ! one more glass we'll drain; 
 
 And cead mille faille again and again ! 
 
 May discord and treason keep far from our shore, 
 
 Anil freedom and peace light our homes evermore. 
 
 He r s the king of good fellows, the poor, honest man ; 
 
 So we '11 live and be merry as long as we can, 
 
 And we'll cling to old Ireland through weal and through woe 
 
 And what's that to any man whether or no? 
 
 There was a shout of applause at the conclusion of Mat 
 Donovan's song ; and some of the women were seen to wipe 
 the tears from their cheeks with their aprons. Bessy Mori is 
 raised her eyes to his ; and as she laid her hand upon his arm 
 while turning away her head to reply to a question of Hugh 
 Kearney's, Mat Donovan pressed his hand over his eyes, and 
 caught his breath, as if he had been shot through the body. 
 
 Bessy Morris resumed her coquettish ways as she went ou 
 talking to Hugh Kearney, who was evidently captivated by 
 her. If he had proposed for her on the spot, with or without 
 his father's consent, and if it were arranged that they were to 
 be married that day week, or any day before Ash- Wednesday, 
 it would not have surprised Mat Donovan in the least. But 
 while she talked and laughed with Hugh Kearney, her hand 
 remained resting on the sleeve of the blue body-coat. Perhaps 
 this little incident did not mean much. Mat Donovan never 
 for a moment thought it meant anything. But he kept his 
 arm quite still, and would not have frightened away that 
 little hand fora trifle. 
 
 " That .s a right good song, Mat," said Father Hannigau. 
 
 " The chorus," observed Phil Lahy, who seemed in a mood 
 for contradiction, " is as ould as the hills." 
 
 " So much the better," replied the priest. " Are we going 
 to get a sowg from anyone else?" 
 
 "Billy Heffernan has another new wan," said a voice from 
 the crowd. 
 
 "I>on't mind id !" exclaimed Phil Lahy, contemptuously. 
 "'Tis a ' conie-oll-ye.'" By which Phil meant that Billy
 
 236 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 Heffernan's new song belonged to that class of ballads which 
 invariably commence : 
 
 " Come all ye tender Christians, I hope you will draw near." 
 
 " 'Tis a come-all-ye," repeated Phil Lahy. " Don't bother 
 us wud id." 
 
 The twang of the fiddles, followed by the sound of drone 
 and chanter, however, showed that the dancers were becoming 
 impatient, and had urged the musicians to strike up ; and 
 Lory Hanly was immediately on his legs again with his 
 partner, to finish the "bout" which Father Hannigan had 
 cut short so unceremoniously. 
 
 Hugh Kearney was about asking Bessy Morris to dance 
 again, when Nelly Donovan came up to him. 
 
 ' Come into the parlour, sir," said she. " Tis cleared up, 
 an' Mr. Flaherty is afther consentin' to play a few sets for 
 the ladies." 
 
 To the great satisfaction of many of the boys, and not a 
 few of the girls, the priest and the "ladies and gentle- 
 men," with about a dozen of the more genteel among the 
 guests, withdrew to the dwelling-house. Mr. Lowe offered 
 his arm to Miss Lloyd, and Miss Isabella evidently expected 
 that Hugh Kearney would conduct her through the yard. 
 But Hugh kept possession of the piquant Bessy, and Father 
 Hannigan gallantly offered his arm to Miss Isabella, who, in 
 spite of her good humour, looked a little vexed. Lory Hanly 
 refused point-blank to accompany them, declaring that he 
 considered the barn "better value;" in which opinion Mr. 
 Robert Lloyd entirely concurred, and pronounced Lory a lad 
 of spirit. And here we have to record a very curious fact. 
 Ko sooner was the priest's back turned than fully half-a-score 
 of seats round the barn might have been dispensed with ; 
 fur by some strange chance quite a number of the prettiest 
 girls found themselves sitting on their partners' knees an 
 arrangement, however, which not a single "matron's glance" 
 attempted to "reprove." And now the fun began in right 
 earnest. But not a single dancer, during that memorable 
 night, so distinguished and covered himself with glory, as 
 Lory Hanly, who tired down all his partners, even ^Nelly 
 Donovan, who was never before known to throw up the 
 *l>onge. And Barney Brodherick, too, called down thunders
 
 OK, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 237 
 
 of applause by dancing a " single bout " upon the big table. 
 In the midst of the cheers that greeted Barney's perform- 
 ance, Nelly Donovan pushed her way through the crowd to 
 Billy Heffernan, and asked breathlessly : 
 
 " Billy, have you your flute 1" 
 
 "Why so?" returned Billy, in by no means a cheerful 
 manner. 
 
 "Because they want you to play the 'Frolic,'" replied 
 Nelly, excitedly. 
 
 "Who wants me to play id 1 ?" Billy asked, rubbing Ids 
 nose. 
 
 " Father Hannigan, and all uv 'em. Have you the flute ?" 
 
 " Well, I have the flute," said Billy. " But I don't know 
 what to say about playin' the ' Frolic ' while Mr. Flaherty is 
 there. Maybe 'tis turned out I 'd be like the pipers." Billy 
 Heffernan evidently stood in awe of the great Flaherty. 
 
 " Come away," exclaimed Nelly. " 'Tis he wants to hear 
 id. Man alive ! if you heard the way Father Hannigan praised 
 you to the skies. He said you wor a born janius. Come, 
 before they 're up for the next set." 
 
 "Are they dancin"?" Billy asked, scratching his head, as 
 if he sought for an excuse to put off the ordeal as long as 
 possible. 
 
 " They are, they are," Nelly exclaimed, impatiently. " The 
 strange gentleman an' Miss Lloyd is afther dancin' that new 
 dance they call the polka. An' faith, 'tis no great things uv 
 a dance. 'Tis all bulla-bulla-baw-sheen. Myse'f don't know 
 how they can stand id 
 
 Tal-tal, tal-tal, tal-tal, tal-tal-la ! 
 
 all the same, round an' round." And Nelly sang a some- 
 what monotonous dancing-tune which was then known in 
 those parts as " the polka." 
 
 " By my word," continued Nelly Donovan, contemptuously, 
 " they 'd soon get tired uv id on'y for the ketchin'." 
 
 Billy Heffernan screwed his flute together, and sounded 
 lowD. 
 
 " Maybe id wants a dhrink," said Nelly, with whom the 
 old flute was evidently an old acquaintance. 
 
 " No, 'tis all right," Billy replied. " I iled id yestherday. 
 But sure there 's no hurry ; an' if I was flusthered I 'd make
 
 238 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 a show uv myse'f. Sit down awhile an' tell me who's wudin. 
 an' how they 're goin' on." 
 
 " Wisha, sure you know the whole uv 'em as well as 
 myse'f," Nelly replied, as she sat down. " Miss Isabella is a 
 darlin', an' she 's so pleasant. I must be tellin' Miss Mary 
 tomorrow what an eye she has afther Mr. Hugh. I 'd hould 
 my life she 'd rather have him than the young landlord, or 
 whatever he is. But bad cess to me, Billy, but Bessy Morris 
 has 'em all light about her. I think she must have a four- 
 laved shamrock or somethin'. She bates the world. An' 
 'tisn't because she 's so handsome. There 's Alice Ryan, an' 
 she 's be odds a purtier girl an' faith she don't want to be 
 reminded uv that same, either. If you see the bitther look 
 she gave Tom Daniel, just because he asked her was id long 
 since they had a letther from her brother. An' signs on, 
 the divil a much any wan cares about her, in spite uv all her 
 beauty. An' look at 'em all ready, you 'd think, to put their 
 hands undher Bessy's feet." 
 
 " Wisha, begor, Kelly," returned Billy Hcffernan, " you 
 wouldn't let id go wud any uv 'em yourse'f." 
 
 " Arrah, now, Billy, what sign uv a fool do you see on me ? 
 Don't think you can come Jack Hannan over me that way. 
 The man that '11 buy me for a fool, will be a long way out of 
 his money. 
 
 "I'm on'y tellin' the honest thruth," replied Billy, 
 solemnly. " I said id to myse'f when you wor dancin' wud 
 Tom Daniel a while ago." 
 
 She looked at him with pleased surprise, but said nothing. 
 
 "What way is Phil Lahy goin' on?" he asked. "Is he 
 stickin' to the cordial ?" 
 
 The question seemed to cast a gloom over Nelly Donovan's 
 face, but rousing herself, she replied laughing : 
 
 " Well, yes ; he 's stickin' to the cordial, but I 'm afraid 
 he puts in a drop uv the hardware sometimes by mistake." 
 
 " He 's all right," Billy remarked, "'till he comes to tho 
 holy wather." 4 
 
 " Faith, then, he is afther comin' to id," she replied. 
 "Just as I was comin' out he was tellin' Father Hannigan 
 the ould story, how he never went to bed wudout sprinklin 
 himse'f wud the holy wather." 
 
 " He must be looked afther," said Billy Heffernan. " 1
 
 OK, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 239 
 
 promised Xorah I 'd have an eye to him. But he has so 
 many turns and twists in him 'tis hard to manage him. 'Tis 
 'cuter and 'cuter he gets the more he has taken. No matthei 
 what you 'd say, he 'd have an argument agin you." 
 
 " Well, here, come away," said Nelly, taking him by the 
 arm and pulling him to the door. He walked voluntarily 
 across the yard, but came to a stand outside the parlour 
 door, and Nelly was obliged again to have recourse to force 
 to get him in. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 BILLY HEFFERX-AN'S TRIUMPH. 
 
 'On, is that you, Billy?" exclaimed Father Hannigan. 
 " Come, sit down here and play that tune you made yourself, 
 for Mr. Flaherty. He's not inclined to believe that you 
 made it at all. 
 
 ' Begor, I don't know whether I did or not, sir," replied 
 Billy, as he sat down. " 'Twas to dhrame id I did, sir." 
 
 " Come, do ye sit down, and rest for awhile ; we 're going 
 to get a tune from Billy Heffernan," said Father Hannigan, 
 addressing those who had taken their places for the next 
 dance, and were patiently waiting for the music. " Sit over 
 here, Mr. Lowe," he continued, "and listen to this." 
 
 Mr. Lowe left Miss Lloyd's side, and sat near Billy 
 Heffernan. 
 
 " Maybe, sir," said Billy Heffernan, looking reverentially at 
 the silver-mounted bagpipes, " maybe Mr. Flaherty wouldn't 
 like me to play." 
 
 " Oh, play," said the old man, patronisingly. 
 
 Billy looked at his flute, and seemed to hesitate. The 
 rustle of Miss Lloyd's dress was plainly audible, as she left 
 her chair and sat on the corner of a form, intending to 
 resume operations against Mr. Lowe as soon as possible ; and 
 this stillness added to the musician's embarrassment.
 
 240 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 " Come, Billy, don't you see they 're all waitin' ? Up wud 
 id," said Mat the Thrasher. 
 
 " Give us a tune yourse'f," returned Billy, offering him the 
 flute. 
 
 "I thought Mat only understood the big drum," said 
 Father Hannigan. 
 
 " Faith, then, he do so, sir ; and a right good player he 
 is," replied Billy. 
 
 " Don't mind him, sir," returned Mat Donovan. " I 'm 
 on'y a whaiten garden pfeyer." By which Mat intended to 
 convey that his music was only suitable for the open air, 
 and the harvest field. 
 
 " I believe every one in Knocknagow is a musician," said 
 Father Hannigan. " But what's delaying you, Billy ? I never 
 saw you so long about it before." 
 
 " Well, you see, sir," he replied with another glance at 
 the silver keys and the crimson-velvet bag. "Mr. Flaherty is 
 such a fine player, I feel somewhat daunted." 
 
 " Oh, don't mind, don't mind," returned Mr. Flaherty. 
 
 Thus encouraged, Billy Heffernan commenced to play ; 
 a id as he went on, the incredulous expression in the old 
 blind musician's face gave place to a look of surprise, which 
 quickly changed again into one of delight. He caught up his 
 chanter, but without inflating the velvet bag, and mentall}' 
 accompanied the performer, who soon gave his whole soul to 
 the melody ; and, as he concluded, Mr. Flaherty exclaimed 
 with emphasis, with his face turned up towards the ceiling : 
 
 " Billy Heffernau you are a musician." 
 
 "What did I tell you?" said Father Hannigan, who was 
 evidently proud of his judgment. " I always said Billy was 
 a first-rate player." 
 
 Every one was delighted at Billy Heffernan 's triumph 
 particularly Nelly Donovan, who stood leaning against the 
 door with her arms a-kimbo, and could scarcely resist the 
 impulse to jump into the middle of the floor, and call for 
 " three cheers for Knocknagow, and the sky over it." 
 
 Mr. Flaherty adjusted his pipes, and Father Hannigan 
 held up his hand as a signal for silence. And now it was 
 Billy Heffernan's turn to be astonished ; for the blind musi- 
 cian played the tune in a manner which almost made the 
 hair of the composer's head stand on end.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 241 
 
 "For God Almighty's sake, sir," Billy exclaimed implor- 
 ingly, "didn't you ever hear id before 1 ?" 
 
 " Xo, I never heard it before," replied Mr. Flaherty. 
 
 " Oh," exclaimed Billy, with a deep sigh, " I can't b'lieve 
 I ever med id." 
 
 "I'll play 'Heffernan's Frolic' for Father M'Mahon to- 
 morrow," said Mr. Flaherty. And Billy Heffernan felt that 
 he was famous. 
 
 Miss Lloyd found it impossible to keep quiet any longer. 
 She left her seat with a skip, and actually sat down upon 
 Billy Heffernan's knee, who occupied the nearest chair to 
 Mr. Lowe. 
 
 "Mamma will be so delighted," she began, resuming the 
 conversation which Father Hannigan had interrupted, " when 
 I tell her that Mrs. Lowe remembers her." She glanced 
 carelessly at Billy Heffernan, who leant back in his chair ; 
 and Miss Lloyd could not help smiling at the thought that 
 poor Billy Heffernan was quite overpowered by the honour 
 she had done him. She even stole a look at Mr. Lowe to 
 see if he did not envy Billy Heffernan. 
 
 " And now, Mr. Lowe, won't you promise to come and see 
 us before you leave the country 1 ?" . 
 
 " You 're an inconvaniance to me, Miss," said Billy Heffer- 
 nan. 
 
 "What!" exclaimed Miss Lloyd, turning round, and star- 
 ing at the speaker. 
 
 " You 're an inconvaniance to me," he repeated, quietly. 
 
 Mr. Lowe, in spite of all he could do, was obliged to 
 laugh. 
 
 "Oh, really!" she exclaimed, jumping up, and retreating 
 backwards, with her eyes fixed on Billy Heffernan, as if he 
 had been miraculously metamorphosed into a boiled goose. 
 
 And Billy Heffernan, having got rid of the "inconvani- 
 ance," quietly unscrewed the joints of his flute and put them 
 in his pocket. 
 
 On seeing Father Hannigan look at his watch, Mat 
 Donovan started up and hastily left the room. He soon 
 returned with a plate in each hand. 
 
 " Here, Mr. Hugh," said he, presenting one of the plates 
 to Hugh Kearney, " let us not forget the music." 
 
 " That 's right, Mat," said Father Hannigan ; " make the
 
 242 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 collection for the musicians before we go. Tis near twelve 
 o'clock." 
 
 Hugh took the plate and went round to make the collection, 
 Mat keeping close to him, and transferring to his own plate 
 the half-crowns, and shillings, and sixpences we don't mind 
 including the fourpenny-bits, they were so few as fast as 
 they were dropped on Hugh's. Each person's contribution 
 was thus plain to be seen, which would not be the case if the 
 silver were allowed to accumulate on the plate upon which 
 it was dropped. 
 
 "'Tis a fine collection," said Mat. "We won't mind the 
 barn for another hour or two; but what about the beggars?" 
 
 " Don't mind the collection for the poor people," said 
 Nelly, " till by-nnd-by. Sure there '& no wan goin' away but 
 the Miss Lloyds, an' the priest, an' the two Mr. Kearneys, 
 -an' the strange gentleman." 
 
 The collection for the beggars was accordingly put off to a 
 later hour, and Mat beckoned to a genteel-looking young 
 man, who was serving his time to the grocery business, to 
 'help him with the negus. 
 
 "Maybe Mr. Lowe an' yourse'f would like a dhrop uv 
 somethin' before goin' out in the cowld," said Mat Donovan 
 to Hugh Kearney, who was standing near the door with 
 Miss Isabella Lloyd's shawl on his arm. 
 
 "Will you have something?" Hugh asked. 
 
 " Oh, no, no," Mr. Lowe replied. " I 'd rather not." 
 
 " Let us be all together as far as the cross," said Father 
 Hannigan. " Come, Mr. Flaherty." 
 
 When they were gone, it was agreed upon all hands that 
 one of the fiddlers should be brought in from the barn, and 
 the dance kept up in the parlour. Jugs of punch were 
 "shared" round at intervals, and, on the whole, Ned 
 Brophy's wedding gave general satisfaction. It was some- 
 what remarkable, however, that the two principal dramatis, 
 jpersonce were almost entirely lost sight of. 
 
 "Where is Ned?" Mat asked, looking around in every 
 direction for the bridegroom. 
 
 " Smokin' at the kitchen fire wud Phil Morris," replied 
 his sister. " An' there 's herse'f in the corner beyand, an' 
 not a stir in her." 
 
 " Bring a glass of this to her," said Mat.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 243 
 
 " Wisha, faith I won't," returned Nelly, who was under 
 the impression that the bride slighted her as a poor relation. 
 " His mother tould me to have an eye about me, and lend a 
 hand to keep things to rights ; but the new misthress, I 'm 
 thinkin', thinks I 'm makin' myse'f too busy. If she knew 
 but the half uv id !" added Nelly, with a toss of her head. 
 
 The white muslin jacket flitted by while Nelly was speak- 
 ing, and Mat gazed after it; and, catching the eye of its 
 owner, he beckoned to her. 
 
 " Come over here," said he, " an' bring a glass of wine to 
 Mrs. Ned, an' talk to her ; and if anything will put her in 
 humour that will." 
 
 Four young men rushed after the white jacket with a view 
 of getting possession of it for the next dance. 
 
 " Here, be off wud ye !" exclaimed Mat. " 'Tis the lastc 
 I can have her for a minute to myse'f. How do you think 
 she can hould dancin' always 1" 
 
 The "boys" laughed; and, scratching their heads in their 
 disappointment, went in search of partners elsewhere. 
 
 " I didn't taste a dhrop uv anything to-night," said Mat ; 
 " an' here, now, sweeten this for me." 
 
 She took the glass, and, with her eyes laughingly raised to 
 his, put it to her lips. 
 
 " A little sup," he continued. 
 
 She took a sip and handed back the glass to him. 
 
 " Here is luck," said Mat Donovan. "An' that we may be 
 all alive an' well this day twelve-months," he added, laying 
 the empty glass on the table. 
 
 There was something in his tone which brought that serious, 
 inquiring look we have before noted, into Bessy Morris's eyes. 
 
 " Is there anything the matter with Mat ?" she asked in a 
 whisper, turning to Nelly. 
 
 " No ; why so ?" Nelly replied, looking surprised. 
 
 " He 's not so pleasant as he used to be," said Bessy Morris. 
 
 "Why then, as you spoke uv that," returned Nelly, "I 
 noticed the same thing myse'f this while l>ack. He's gettin' 
 careless about diversion an' everything. All he wants is an 
 excuse not to go to the hurlin' or a dance, or fun uv any 
 soart. Thanks be to God 'tisn't his health at any rate," she 
 added, turning round to look at him, " for I never see him 
 lookin' betther."
 
 244 KNOCKXAGOW; 
 
 Bessy Morris looked at him, too, and thought that he was 
 not only looking well, but that he was the finest and honestest 
 looking fellow in the world. But why that scrutinizing, and 
 at the same time melancholy glance with which she regarded 
 him? Did she think that she herself had anything to do with 
 the change she noticed in him 1 
 
 "How do you like Ned's wife?" Nelly asked. 
 
 " I on'y spoke a few words to her," replied Bessy. " She 
 seems in bad spirits." 
 
 "I wondher is id Ned's story wud her?" said Nelly. 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 " Well, I think he had an ould gra for Nancy Hogan." 
 
 " Oh, I see," said Bessy Morris, thoughtfully, as she looked 
 earnestly at the bride, who Avas sitting alone near the bed- 
 room door. "After all, Nelly, marrying for money is a queer 
 thing." 
 
 " Bring her the glass uv wine," said Nelly, " an' thry an' 
 cheer her up. If any wan can get good uv her 'tis yourse'f." 
 
 The compliment was really deserved, for it could be easily 
 seen that Bessy Morris was a universal favourite. The only 
 exception to this rule, so far as the present company were 
 concerned, was a stout young lady, chiefly remarkable for 
 yellow kid gloves, which she did not take off during dinner. 
 This young lady regarded Bessy with sulky looks because a 
 certain young man from the mountain would keep gadding 
 after the white jacket, though the yellow-gloved hand and 
 four hundred pounds were at his service for the asking. But 
 Bessy Morris had had experience enough of the world to en- 
 able her to estimate the "warring sighs" and amorous glances 
 of the young man from the mountain at their true value. 
 They simply meant that the young man from the mountain 
 was sorry all but heart-broken indeed that it wasn't she 
 had the four hundred pounds ; and if it was, etc., etc., etc. 
 
 " Well, we must try what we can do for Mrs. Ned," said 
 Bessy. 
 
 Mrs. Ned took the glass of wine and folded her hands about 
 it, but showed no symptom of any intention to drink it. 
 
 "This is a pleasant night we have," said Bessy, sitting 
 down next the bride. 
 
 Mrs. Ned looked straight before her, and made no reply. 
 
 "Ah," thought Bessy, "I fear it is Ned's story with her."
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF T1PPERARV. 245 
 
 " You '11 like this place very much," she continued, " when 
 you become acquainted with the people. They are very nice 
 and neighbourly." 
 
 Mrs. Ned said nothing. 
 
 "To be sure one cannot help feeling lonely after leaving 
 one's own home," said Bessy. " But it must be a great com- 
 fort to you to have your family so near you." 
 
 "What soart is the cows?" said Mrs. Ned, turning round 
 suddenly, and looking straight into Bessy Morris's face. 
 
 " Oh," she stammered, quite taken by surprise, " I really 
 don't know." 
 
 " Because," rejoined Mrs. Ned, " I never see such miser- 
 able calves as them two that was in the yard when we wor 
 comin' in. Maybe 'tis late they wor," she added, after a short 
 silence, and looking anxiously at Bessy again. 
 
 " Perhaps so," Bessy replied, not well knowing what to 
 say. 
 
 " I 'd be long sorry to rear the likes uv 'em," said Mrs. 
 Ned. 
 
 " Won't you drink the wine ?" said Bessy. 
 
 Mrs. Ned did drink the wine ; and hazarded a hope that 
 the two-year olds were not the same breed as the two angi- 
 shores she saw in the yard. 
 
 " There 's no fear of her," said Bessy Morris to herself, as 
 she took the empty glass back to the table. " She won't 
 die of a broken heart." 
 
 In fact, Mrs. Ned Brophy was a very sensible young 
 woman. Matches innumerable had been proposed and 
 rejected, and "made" and "broke off" for one reason or 
 another, in her case ; which gave her very little concern, as 
 she knew there was wherewithal in the old saucepan to 
 secure her a husband or rather "a nice place" sooner 
 or later. There were two competitors in the field this 
 Shrovetide ; and, in the difference, she was better pleased 
 that Ned Brophy was the one "settled with;" though the 
 fact that the other "had an uncle a priest" gained him the 
 favour of her mother. But Ned's lease carried the day with 
 old Larry Clancy. The circumstance which made the young 
 woman herself incline more to Ned Brophy than to the 
 priest's nephew, was, that Ned wore a cravat, and was more 
 respectable-looking than his rival. Strange to say, however,
 
 246 KXOCKXAGOW: 
 
 ilie rejected wooer of the old saucepan actually fell in love 
 afterwards with a young lady we use the word advisedly 
 in his uncle's parish, who had been educated in a convent, 
 and married her. And though she did not bring him a 
 single sovereign, her husband was wont to declare that she 
 was worth her weight in gold which he persisted in pro- 
 nouncing "goold," in spite of all she could say to the contrary. 
 
 " -Nelly, will you be home wud Phil Lahy, an' have an eye 
 to him," said Billy Heffernan to Nelly Donovan, who was 
 busy preparing tea or " the tay," as Nelly herself was pleased 
 to call that pleasant beverage. 
 
 " Why so?" she asked, rather sharply, " won't you be wud 
 him yourse'f ?" 
 
 " I must be goin'," he replied. " I ought to be on the road 
 an hour ago." 
 
 "You'll be kilt," returned Nelly, in a softened tone, 
 " wudout gettin' a wink uv sleep. Couldn't you put id off 
 for wan day 1" 
 
 " Well, as they 're reg'lar customers I wouldn't like to dis- 
 appoint them." 
 
 " Well, you won't go till you 're afther takin' a sup uv this, 
 at any rate," returned Nelly. "You that never dhrank a 
 dhrop uv anything." 
 
 She filled out a cup of tea, and, after tasting it and pro- 
 nouncing it, " hot, strong, and sweet," presented it to Billy 
 Ecffernan. 
 
 " The old woman," she continued, while Billy was drinking 
 his cup of tea, " Avants me to stop a day or two, and help to 
 piit the place to rights, an' pack up the borrowed things. 
 But I '11 warn Mat not to lose sight uv Phil till he laves him 
 safe at home." 
 
 " I won't take any more," said Billy, stopping her hand as 
 she was about filling his cup again. 
 
 " Now, Billy, don't be makin' an omadhaun uv yourse'f/' 
 she replied, pouring out the tea at the risk of scalding his 
 hand, with which he attempted to cover the tea-cup. 
 
 " Don't you be lonesome," she continued, sitting down 
 near him, " thravellin' be yourse'f this way every night?" 
 
 " I don't mind id," he replied. " Tis some way uneasy I 
 do be when I 'm comin' near the town, an' I think every 
 minute an hour till I 'm out nv id agin."
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 247 
 
 "But sure 'tis lonesomer iu the summer time," she con- 
 tinued, " in the bog by yourse'f from mornin' till night." 
 
 " That 's what I do be longin' for," said Billy Heffernan. 
 " I 'm King uv Munster when I'm iu the bog, an' the pliil- 
 libeens whistlin' about me. No, begor," continued Billy, 
 smacking his lips after emptying his cup ; " when I 'd sit on 
 a bank uv a fine summer's evenin', an' look about me. [ 
 wouldn't call the queen iny aunt." 
 
 " But why wouldn't you sell your turf in Kilthubber, an' 
 not be goin' all the ways to Clo'mel, in the hoighth uv 
 winther'?" 
 
 " The divil a betther little town in Ireland to buy turf." 
 replied Billy, " but there 's too many goin' there." 
 
 " I 'm looking for you this hour, Nelly," said a voice that 
 made her start. "I'm after tiring them all down. Come 
 and have another dance." 
 
 ''"Oh ! Mr. Lory, I thought you wor gone home wild Mr. 
 Kearney two hours ago." 
 
 " What a fool I am," replied Lory. " Come." 
 
 " Sure I'm goin' to get the tay," replied Nelly. 
 
 " Leave that to the old woman," he exclaimed, catching her 
 hand and pulling her off to the barn. 
 
 " Come, Mr. Lloyd," said Lory, "get a partner." 
 
 But just then he discovered that the dancing was sus- 
 pended, and that Mr. Lloyd, who had a good voice as well 
 as a correct ear, was in the act of favouring the company 
 with a song. Mr. Lloyd's song Avas the " Soldier's Tear,'' 
 and on coming to the refrain, "and wiped away a tear," at 
 the end of each verse, Mr. Lloyd suited the action to the 
 word, by seeming to pluck out his left eye with his finger 
 and thumb, and fling it on the floor, in a most moving 
 manner. 
 
 Mr. Lloyd's song was so highly appreciated that the cheer- 
 ing and clapping were kept up for several minutes, during 
 Avliich the vocalist untied his hunting-whip, and in the 
 calmest manner possible commenced attempting the feat of 
 snuffing a candle at the other end of the table with the lash. 
 
 " Well, will you dance now ]" said Lory, whose knees were- 
 beginning to work involuntarily. 
 
 " Another song, Lory. Sit down near me here, Nelly." 
 
 Nelly Donovan sat down near him, and Mr. Lloyd sang
 
 248 KNOCKS AGOW ; 
 
 " My Dark-haired Girl," casting admiring glances at her as 
 he went on, particularly at the lines 
 
 " Thy lip is like the rose, and thy teeth they are pearl, 
 And diamonds are the eyes of my dark-haired girl ;" 
 
 which really applied very well to Nelly Donovan. 
 
 A still louder storm of applause followed this effort, and 
 Nelly exclaimed : 
 
 " Faith, 'tis no wondher that so many are dyin' about you, 
 sir," as she jumped up to rejoin her partner. 
 
 The bridegroom sat all this time in the corner by the 
 kitchen fire, listening to old Phil Morris's reminiscences of 
 '98, and quietly smoking his pipe. But as the guests began 
 to leave, and came to bid him good morning, he would start 
 up suddenly to shake hands with them ; and after scratching 
 his head with a puzzled look, Ned Brophy would seem to 
 remember that he was at his own wedding, and then sit down 
 again and forget all about it, till another " Good mornin', 
 Ned, I wish you joy," would recall the circumstance to his 
 mind. 
 
 At last, old Phil Morris himself thought it time to go home, 
 and striking his stick against the hearthstone, he said : 
 
 *' Mat, will you see about my ass, and tell that little girl 
 uv mine to get ready. She ought to have enough uv the 
 danein' by this time, at any rate." 
 
 And to be sure, how Mat Donovan did start off, and how 
 soon the ass was put to the cart, and what a quantity of 
 fresh straw oaten straw, too, for which he had to run to the 
 ] laggard was packed into the said cart, and then shaken up 
 loosely, and patted and smoothed, till a sultana might have 
 reclined on it ! 
 
 Bessy soon appeared in her cloak and bonnet, looking, if 
 possible, more captivating than ever. Half-a-dozen " boys" 
 contended for the honour of handing her into the car ; one 
 of whom contented himself with placing a chair for her to 
 step upon, which he held firm with all his might, as if the 
 slightest shake would endanger her life. Mat handed the 
 reins to old Phil, and led the ass out of the yard, and a little 
 way along the narrow boreen. 
 
 " Why don't you ever come to see us, now ?" Bessy asked, 
 when he stopped to say good night.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 249 
 
 " I don't have time," he replied, " except uv a Sunday. 
 And the days are so short yet." 
 
 "Well, they'll soon be getting long," said she, clasping his 
 hand very warmly ; " and I 'm sure grandfather would like 
 to have a shanahus with you." 
 
 " Well, I '11 shortly take a walk over." 
 
 "Next Sunday," said Bessy, in a distmctingly coaxing 
 tone. 
 
 "Well, the b'ys will be expectin' me to hurl o' Sunday," 
 replied Mat. " An' besides, Captain French wants to have a 
 throw uv a sledge wud me. He 's askin' me ever since he 
 came home to go over to the castle some week-day ; but I 
 
 couldn't spare time. And they're so d n exact," he added, 
 
 "about breakin' the Sabbath, that he wouldn't agree to 
 appoint a Sunday. But, now, as the regiment is goin' abroad, 
 he wouldn't be satisfied wudout havin' a throw wud me." 
 
 "Is the regiment going abroad?" she asked, with an 
 interest that took Mat by surprise. 
 
 " They 're not the same sogers," he replied, " that 's in 
 Kilthubber. They 're dragoons." 
 
 " Oh ! I know. I know Captain French's regiment." 
 
 "An' who cares where they go?" old Phil exclaimed under 
 his teeth, as he jerked the reins and dealt a blow of his stick 
 to the ass for which that patient animal had to thank the 
 English army. 
 
 Mat Donovan slowly retraced his steps to the house, feeling 
 as if Bessy Morris's departure had suddenly turned the wed- 
 ding into a wake, and singing, almost unconsciously 
 
 " Oh ! I 'd rather have that car, sir, 
 
 With B ahem ! Peggy by my side, 
 
 Than a coach-an'-four an' goold galore, 
 An' a lady for my bride." 
 
 He turned into the barn, and stood with folded arms leaning 
 against the wall. 
 
 "I didn't see Mat dance to-night," said Mr. Lloyd to 
 N^elly Donovan, as she sat down after another jig with Lory 
 Hanly. 
 
 " I '11 go myse'f and haul him out," returned Nelly, who 
 was allowed to be the best dancer among the girls at 
 Knocknagow. R
 
 250 KXOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 " Stir youi'se'f, you big lazy fellow," she exclaimed, taking- 
 hold of his arm and leading him out to the middle of the- 
 floor. 
 
 This movement was hailed with general satisfaction, and a 
 dozen voices at once called upon the musicians to play "The 
 Wind that shakes the Barley." 
 
 It was really a sight worth looking at. The athletic, but 
 at the same time lithe and graceful form of the Thrasher was 
 <ot off to the best advantage by Phil Lahy's chef cFceuvre, the- 
 blue body-coat with the gilt buttons ; and his sister was a 
 partner every way worthy of him. 
 
 " What is id?" a stranger to the locality asked on finding 
 the barn-door blocked up by a crowd of eager spectators. 
 
 " A brother and sister," was the reply ; and it could be 
 inferred from the tone and look of the speaker that the 
 relationship between the great dancer, Mat Donovan, and his 
 equally famous partner added greatly to the interest with 
 which their performance was regarded. The excitement rose 
 higher and higher as the dance went on, and a loud shout 
 followed every brilliantly executed step. After each step 
 the dancers changed places, and, moving slowly for a few 
 seconds, commenced another which threw the preceding one 
 quite into the shade, and, as a matter of course, called out a 
 louder " bravo !" and a wilder "hurroo !" When the enthu- 
 siasm was at its height, two men carrying a large door crushed 
 their way through the crowd. Two more quickly followed 
 bearing another large door. And, without causing any inter- 
 ruption, the doors were slipped under the feet of the dancers, 
 which now beat an accompaniment to the music, as if a couple 
 of expert drummers had suddenly joined the orchestra. There 
 was a hush of silence as if the spectators were spell-bound, 
 till Mat Donovan joined hands with his sister, and both 
 bowed at the conclusion of the dance. And while a Tip- 
 perary cheer is shaking the roof of Ned Brophy's barn, we 
 let the curtain drop on Ned Brophy's wedding.
 
 Oil, THE HOMES OF TIPPERAHY. 251 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 LONELY. 
 
 BILLY HEFFERNAN took the key of his door from a hole 
 under the thatch and let himself into his own house. 
 Removing the ashes from the embers on the hearth, he knelt 
 down, and, after a good deal of blowing, succeeded in kind- 
 ling them into a flame. Then, taking a slip of bog-pine from 
 one of several bundles that hung in the chimney, he lighted 
 it and placed it on a block of bogwood in the corner, having 
 first stuck it in a sod of turf in which was a hole for the 
 purpose. He recalled the fine summer evening, when, out in 
 the lonesome bog, he thrust his thumb into that sod of turf 
 while it was yet soft, and by that simple process converted 
 it into a candlestick. 
 
 Everything about Billy Heffernan's house seemed to have 
 come from the bog. The walls, from the floor to the thatch 
 which was not of straw, but of sedge were lined with 
 turf, the side-walls with the rectangular " slane" turf, which 
 looked like brick-work blackened with smoke, and the end 
 wall with the rougher and somewhat shapeless " hand-turf." 
 The table off which Billy Heffernan ate his meals was of bog- 
 oak, as was the block upon which he sat. The mule's crib 
 and the pegs in the wall upon which the mule's harness hung 
 were of the same material. And Billy Heffernan's ratteen 
 riding-coat depended from a portion of the horns of an elk 
 which had bounded through the forest when the table and 
 crib were portions of the living tree fastened to one of the 
 rafters. 
 
 He now took his antediluvian taper from the antediluvian 
 seat and laid it on the antediluvian table ; and then hung his 
 riding-coat upon the antediluvian elk's horns. 
 
 " Wo ! Kit," said Billy HefFernan. And the mule, who 
 had an antediluvian look about her, whisked her tail and 
 thrust her nose into her antediluvian manger. 
 
 He put the harness on the mule, and after shaking up the
 
 252 KNOCKNAGOW; 
 
 hay in the crib, walked out and looked at the sky, in which 
 there was a half moon that shone with a sickly sort of lustre. 
 Billy Heffernan, without being at all aware of the fact, was of 
 a poetical and fanciful turn of mind ; and the pale moon at 
 once reminded him of a pale face. So he walked down the 
 road as far as the beech-tree ; and, after looking up at the 
 windows and steep roof and thick chimneys of Phil Lahy's 
 old house, Billy Heffernan walked back again. Taking the 
 linch-pins from the hob, where they were always left for 
 safety, he fixed them in the axle-tree ; and then led out his 
 mule and put her to the car. He returned to the house to 
 take down his old riding-coat, and after wrapping it round 
 him, and blowing out the light, he locked his door, and set 
 out with his creel of turf, upon his long journey to the town 
 of Clonmel. 
 
 " Wisha, begor ! 'tis thrue for her," he soliloquised, as he 
 plodded up the hill, "'tis lonesome enough. The road is 
 lonesome, an' the house is lonesome, an' the bog is lonesome. 
 An', begor, the main street uv Clo'mel is the lonesomest uv 
 all. No matther where I am, I'm lonesome. So that I 
 b'lieve 'tisn't the road, or the house, or the bog, or the town, 
 but the heart that 's lonesome. And whin the heart is lone- 
 some, the world is lonesome. Wisha, Kit, what do you want 
 stoppin' there above all the places on the road ? You got 
 your drink at the lough ; but comin' or goin' nothin' will 
 plase you but a sup out of that little strame any day in the 
 year." 
 
 While the mule drank, Billy Heffernan placed a foot at 
 each side of the little stream that ran across the road, and 
 stretching out his hands, as if he were lifting some one over 
 it, he uttered a low moan. 
 
 " Oh ! oh ! oh !" he cried, as his hands closed on the empty 
 air. 
 
 The water running over his feet reminded him that he was 
 standing in the middle of the stream, but he did not heed it. 
 With his head bent down, and his hands pressed over his 
 face, he continued to stand there till the mule moved on of 
 her own accord ; and then, dashing the fast-falling tears from 
 his eyes, he plodded on again after his creel. 
 
 " I don't know what brought id so sthrong into my mind 
 to-night," said he. " But somehow I thought I see her before
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 253 
 
 me, lookin' at the wather, an' afeard to lep over like the rest 
 uv 'em ; an' then lookin' up at myse'f wud her eyes laughiu' 
 in her head. 1 hardly had the courage to take her up in my 
 arms. An', the Lord be praised ! 'twas the last time ever 
 she crossed over the same strame. She reminded me uv id 
 yistherday, whatever put id into her head. But sure I never 
 pass the same spot wudout thinkin' uv her. I gev herse'f 
 an' Nelly Donovan a lift home the same evenin' ; an' a 
 pleasant, good-hearted girl Nelly is. But there's no wan like 
 Norah!" 
 
 He plodded on for some time till the mule stopped to take 
 breath before commencing the ascent of an unusually steep 
 though not very long hill, that rose abruptly from the lowest 
 part of the glen or hollow down which they had been 
 gradually descending. 
 
 "Begor, 'tis thrue for ould Phil," said he, as he looked 
 around him. " You couldn't redden the pipe from the bridge 
 to the quarry. Though I reminiber id myse'f when 'twas 
 the pleasantest piece uv a road from Kilthubber to Clo'rnel. 
 An', faith, if I could redden the pipe now I 'd like a smoke, 
 as 'tis afther comin' into my head." 
 
 He put his pipe into his mouth and looked around him, 
 while the mule rested at the foot of the hill. 
 
 " God be wud poor Mick Brien," said he. " That sally 
 three always reminds me uv him. 'Tis many's the piggin uv 
 milk they made me dhrink, for 'tis little business I 'd have 
 axin' a dhrink uv wather at Mick's. But sure if every house, 
 liig an' little uv 'em, was standin'," continued Billy Heffernan, 
 as if he caught himself reasoning from unsound premises, " I 
 couldn't kindle the pipe this hour uv the night. Come, 
 Kit !" and catching hold of one heel of his car, and leaning 
 his shoulder against the creel, he helped the mule on in her 
 zig-zag course up the hill. The descent on the other side 
 was gradual, and the mule was left to shift for herself till 
 they got upon the level, where she showed some symptoms 
 of stopping for another rest ; a proceeding which Billy Hef- 
 fernan thought so unreasonable that he took down his whip 
 from the top of the load, where it usually rested, and, with- 
 out a word of warning or remonstrance, gave Kit a smart 
 lash under the belly, at which Kit shook her ears and whisked 
 her tail, and was about running straight into the ditch at the
 
 25-4 KXOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 left-hand side, that being the deepest and the most likely to 
 swallow her up ; but changing her mind as she reached the 
 brink, Kit set off at a brisk trot along the road. This was 
 too much of a good thing, and her master ran forward, and, 
 seizing the rein near the bit, gave it a check that made Kit 
 throw back her head and open her jaws very wide ; and while 
 still pressing on the rein, Billy Heffernan let the lash of his 
 whip drop into the same hand that held the handle, and laid 
 both lash and handle along Kit's back, between the hip and 
 the butt of the tail, with a tremendous whack. 
 
 " Maybe you 'd go right now ?" said he, letting the rein go 
 with a jerk. 
 
 And Kit seemed to think it was the wisest thing she could 
 do. 
 
 So they jogged on peacefully again, till the light snining 
 through the open door of a house surrounded by trees 
 which, from their size and outline, even a stranger to the 
 locality would have known were very old whitethorns 
 attracted his attention. 
 
 " Wo ! Kit," said Billy Heffernan, and the mule imme- 
 diately stopped. 
 
 " They 're up at ould Phil's," said he, looking considerably 
 surprised. 
 
 " But that 's thrue," he added, as if the mystery were sud- 
 denly cleared up ; " sure they 're at the weddin'." 
 
 He was about ordering Kit to go on, when another thought 
 occurred to him. 
 
 " Begob!" he exclaimed, " I might as well have the smoke 
 as I have the chance." 
 
 He opened the gate that led to Phil Morris's house, and 
 was closing it again behind him when he found himself 
 caught by the skirt of the coat. He turned round suddenly 
 somewhat frightened, but found himself held fast. After 
 remaining still for a moment, during which his heart beat 
 very quick, he ventured to pull the skirt of the coat, but 
 could not free himself. As nothing stirred, however, he con- 
 cluded he had merely got entangled in a branch of one- of the 
 old Avhitethorns blown down by the storm of the morning 
 that blew down the end of his own turf-rick. He tried to 
 free himself without tearing his riding-coat, when, to his 
 amazement and terror, the long skirt was raised up and shook
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 255 
 
 in his lace, with which it was almost on a level. He retreated 
 backwards, but the coat was pulled the other way : and after 
 a short tussle, Billy Heffernan got a sharp blow on the mouth. 
 Moved by the instinct of self-preservation, he stretched out 
 his hands, and boldly grappled with his assailant, whom he 
 attempted to throttle as quickly as possible. In the struggle 
 both rolled to the ground, and Billy loudly denounced his 
 adversary as a coward ; for he not only struck at him while 
 down, but aimed his blows where any one having the faintest 
 regard for fair fighting would have scorned to strike. 
 
 " He wants to murdher me," exclaimed -Billy Heffernan. 
 "That's what he wants. Can't you spake," he added, "an" 
 tell me who you are an' what are you up to?" 
 
 But the only reply was a repetition 01 the cowardly assault. 
 
 "D n your sowl," shouted Billy Heffernan, roused to 
 
 madness by a sharp blow that affected him somewhat like the 
 sting of a bee, " if you're a man let go my ould coat an' stand 
 up an' see id out if you 're able." 
 
 This challenge seemed to have the desired effect, for after 
 another violent struggle he found his coat skirt free. 
 Scrambling as quickly as possible to his feet, Billy Heffernan 
 flung off the old riding-coat, and put himself into a pugilistic 
 attitude. 
 
 " Turn out now, if you're a man," he exclaimed. 
 
 But to his horror and consternation there was no one to 
 answer the challenge. t 
 
 Billy Heffernan's courage oozed out, we should rather say 
 through his toes, than the tips of his fingers, for he began to 
 feel very weak about the knees, while the strength that was 
 so rapidly departing from his limbs seemed in some mysterious 
 manner to be communicated to the hair of his head. 
 
 "The Lord betune us an' all harm," he muttered; "as 
 long as I 'm goin' this road I never see anything bad before. 
 Though they say wan uv the sogers ould Phil kilt long ago, 
 when they set fire to the house, used to be risin' about 
 here." 
 
 It was a relief to him when he heard some noise close to 
 the gate ; for at that moment he would have welcomed with 
 rapture the most formidable foe of flesh and blood. 
 
 " In the name uv God," he called out, " who or what are 
 you?"
 
 256 KKOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 A sudden bound from behind the gate-pier made him 
 retreat a step backwards when a familiar voice sent a most 
 pleasurable sensation through Billy Heffernan's whole frame. 
 And a hysterical flutter about his heart imparted a tremor to 
 his voice as he exclaimed : 
 
 " May bad luck to you, for a goat ! " 
 
 " Meg-geg-geg-geg," repeated Phil Morris's old goat, as she 
 trotted along the boreen to the house. 
 
 But as Billy Heffernau took up his ratteen riding-coat, his 
 countenance suddenly fell. 
 
 " The divil sweep you," he exclaimed with great gusto, as 
 he looked at the half-moon through a rent in the skirt. 
 " But," he continued, " I may as well run in an' redden the 
 pipe at any rate. An' the Lord knows I 'm afther payin' 
 for id. Begor, they 're afther comin' home," he added, as he 
 approached the house. "There is the ass's car in the 
 yard." 
 
 As he passed the little kitchen window Billy Heffernan 
 stopped suddenly, with his eyes and mouth wide open. 
 Something upon old Phil Morris's kitchen table excited his 
 wonder to such a degree that there he stood staring at it, 
 apparently bereft of the power of motion. 
 
 " 'Tis goold," he muttered. " I wundher is id a crock he'.s 
 afther findin'?" 
 
 Billy's idea at the moment must have been that the 
 " crock itself," as well as its contents, was of gold ; for the 
 object which excited his astonishment shone brightly, and 
 flashed back the blaze of the turf fire. But, after examining 
 it more closely, he clapped his hand against his thigh, and 
 exclaimed : 
 
 " Be japers, he's afther killin' a soger !" 
 
 This idea was sufficiently terrifying, and Billy Heffernan 
 was about beating a hasty retreat, when, glancing involun- 
 tarily around the kitchen, he started again ; for straight before 
 him he beheld not a dead, but a living soldier. He was a 
 broad-chested, bearded dragoon ; and it was his burnished 
 helmet, which he seemed to have thrown carelessly on the 
 table, that Billy Heffernan had mistaken for a crock of 
 gold. 
 
 Like one awakening from sleep and gradually recovering 
 the use of his senses, Billy now saw that the dragoon was
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 257 
 
 holding Bessy Morris by the hand, and looking down into 
 her face for his tall figure towered high above hers with 
 a look of sadness. He could not see her face, as her back 
 was towards him, but she bent her head as if the sad gaze of 
 the dragoon had moved her. Before Billy Heffernau could 
 observe further, the soldier shook the hand he held in his 
 once or twice with a quick spasmodic jerk, and seizing his 
 helmet, which he hung upon his left arm, rushed out of the 
 house. Billy Heffernan turned round and stared after him 
 as he tramped along the little boreen till he reached the gate 
 and was hid by the whitethorns. 
 
 When Billy looked again through the window, Bessy Morris 
 Avas sitting in her grandfather's old arm-chair, with one hand 
 resting on the little table beside her, and the other pressed 
 over her eyes. It might be supposed that she was overcome 
 by fatigue, but for the flush that reddened her forehead, and 
 the nervous tapping of her fingers upon the table. She raised 
 her head, and letting both hands drop upon her lap, threw 
 herself back in the chair. Bessy Morris was certainly excited, 
 but what might be the nature of her emotion it would not 
 have been easy to judge from the expression of her face. 
 Scarcely anything but a feeling of shame or self-reproval 
 could have kept that hot glow on her forehead so long ; but 
 then in her eyes and about her mouth there played a smile 
 of triumph. Bessy Morris was evidently ashamed, and 
 proud, and perhaps a little frightened, all at the same 
 time. 
 
 Billy Heffernan felt for a moment at a loss how to act. His 
 first impulse was to go back to his mule; but then it occurred 
 to him that that would look as if he had stopped for the sole 
 purpose of playing the spy. So, as the door still stood wide 
 open, he decided upon carrying out his original intention of 
 lighting his pipe at Phil Morris's fire. 
 
 " God save all here," said he, as he walked into the kitchen. 
 
 " God save you kindly. Wisha, is that Billy Heffernan ? 
 Faith, I thought you wor dead." 
 
 "Wisha, who did you send to kill ine?" returned Billy. 
 
 It wasn't Bessy that spoke, but what Billy himself would 
 have described as a " stout block of a girl," who stood up 
 from the bench she had been sitting on by the fire, behind 
 the partition which shaded the fire-place from the door, and
 
 "258 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 which concealed her from view till he had advanced to the 
 middle of the floor. 
 
 Bessy stood up also, and moved out of his way. 
 
 "Don't stir," said he; "I on'y turned in, as I was passhv, 
 to redden the pipe. You 're home early from the weddin'," 
 he remarked, as he stooped down and took a partially burnt 
 sod of turf from the fire. 
 
 "Yes," replied Bessy. "Grandfather is not able to stop 
 up late. I did not expect he would stay half so long." 
 
 " Worn't you there yourse'f?" the stout girl asked. 
 
 " I was," he replied, " but I was obliged to come home to 
 start for Clo'mel." 
 
 " Ye had a great night's fun ?" 
 
 " Twas a fine weddin'," he answered. " Why worn't you 
 there yourse'f?" 
 
 " Why wasn't I axed ? An' ye had ladies and gentlemen 
 there too?" 
 
 " Begor, ay," replied Billy, as he blew upon the burnt end 
 of the sod of turf till tho sparks flew from it with a crackling 
 sound into his face. " The two Miss Lloyds, an' Mr. Bob, 
 an' the gentleman from England." 
 
 "And Mr. Hugh Kearney," said Bessy Morris. 
 
 "Begor," returned Billy Heffernan, as he sucked his pipe, 
 tigainst which he pressed the sod of turf, "Mr. Hugh is a 
 .gentleman, sure enough in his heart." 
 
 " I '11 be bound Mat Donovan was there," the stout girl 
 remarked, as she drew her kerchief over her bosom ; a pro- 
 ceeding which Billy Heffernan thought was not unnecessary, 
 as the hooks-and-eyes intended to fasten her dress up the 
 front had nearly all given way to a greater amount of pressure 
 than they were capable of sustaining. 
 
 " Sure, he was Ned's sidesman," said Billy Heffernan. 
 
 "The poor fool!" returned the stout girl, with a scornful 
 
 ke of the head, and a glance at Bessy Morris that brought 
 the flush up to her forehead again, and caused her to bite her 
 lip as she gazed into the fire. 
 
 "Did you see Judy Loughlan there?" the stout girl asked. 
 
 " She was there," said Billy Heffernan. 
 
 " Indeed, I see her goin'," rejoined the stout girl, " \vu ! 
 Jier yallow mittens an' her boy-o." By which latter expression 
 the stout girl meant that article of female attire called a boa.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OP TIPPERARY. 259 
 
 " I thought yon wor there yourse'f when I sec Bessy." 
 
 " Oh, yeh ! she 's everywhere, like the bad weather. / 
 have no time for gallavantin'." 
 
 "You may as well sit down, Billy," said Bessy Morris, in 
 ner usual captivating way. 
 
 " Arra do, Billy," said the stout girl. " Sit down and have 
 a coort. Anything, you know, to keep our hands in; ;> and 
 she glanced at Bessy, who evidently winced, though she strove 
 to command her features. 
 
 " I must be goin'," he replied. " Good night to ye." 
 
 "Good night, Billy," returned Bessy Morris; and there 
 was something so winning in her way of saying it that Billy 
 muttered to himself on his way up the little boreen: 
 
 " Begor! 'tis no wondher she is every place; for any place 
 would be the betther uv her. But I don't know what to say 
 about that sourer." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 ON* THE ROAD TO THE BIG TOWN WITH THE CLOUD OVER IT. 
 
 "COME, Kit, be lively; 'tis long since we wor on the road so 
 late as this. An' you know that load must be bilin' the kittles 
 fur the breakfasts in Irishtown to-day." 
 
 Kit seemed to understand the state of affairs perfectly, and 
 set off briskly, switching her tail as if she expected the whip 
 was about being brought into requisition, and shaking one 
 ear approvingly which had much the same effect as wink- 
 ing with one eye on finding that her apprehensions were 
 groundless. 
 
 " God save you," said Billy Heffernan, on observing the 
 outline of a man's figure leaning against one of those sally 
 trees, which, at short intervals along that part of the road, 
 marked Avhere a peasant's cabin or a small farmhouse once 
 stood. 
 
 " And you, too," returned a deep voice. 
 
 "God save you kindly," was the response Billy Heffernan 
 expected; and it at once occurred to him that the person
 
 260 KXOCKXAGOW ; 
 
 leaning against the sally tree was a stranger; and a cloud 
 having passed from the moon at the moment, he was able to 
 recognise the dragoon, with his helmet still slung on his arm. 
 Mr. Bob Lloyd's song at once occurred to him ; and, looking 
 back at the light in Phil Morris's window, he could almost 
 fancy he saw Bessy Morris " on her knees," waving a " snow- 
 white scarf that fluttered in the breeze." 
 
 "Do you belong to this neighbourhood?" the dragoon 
 asked, on observing him look towards the house. 
 
 " I do," Billy replied. " I was bred, born, and reared at 
 the far-off side uv that hill beyand." 
 
 " Do you know the people that live in the house where the 
 light is?" 
 
 "That's ould Phil Morris's, the weaver's," he replied. 
 
 "Are you going far this way?" the dragoon asked. 
 
 "To Clo'mel," was the reply. 
 
 " I 'm going there too," returned the dragoon. " We '11 
 be comrades on the road." 
 
 To this Billy Heffernan made no reply; and, after a scru- 
 tinising look into his face, the dragoon continued the conver- 
 sation. 
 
 " Ye 're wild folks down here," said he. 
 
 "So they say," replied Billy; "though myse'f can't see 
 much difference betune us and other people. Yo-up, Kit." 
 
 "The old man has a daughter," said the dragoon. 
 
 " A grand-daughter," replied Billy Heffernan. " I b'lieve 
 you 're thinkin' uv Bessy?" 
 
 "Yes," returned the dragoon, "I'm thinking of Bessy." 
 
 " She 's a nice girl," Billy observed. 
 
 " She is that," said the dragoon. 
 
 " Wud id be any harm to ax are you acquainted wud 
 her?" 
 
 The dragoon looked scrutinisingly at him again; and 
 evidently satisfied that his questioner was a harmless fellow, 
 he replied: 
 
 " A relation of her aunt's was a comrade of mine, and I 
 kne\v her in Dublin." 
 
 " She was in Dublin, sure enough," said Billy. " She 's 
 not long afther comin' home." 
 
 " Her aunt is my friend," the dragoon observed. " And I 
 think the girl that lives with her is my friend, too. But I
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 261 
 
 have not seen the old man. She says he hates the sight of a 
 red-coat." 
 
 " Well, I b'lieve he do," replied Billy. " An' maybe 'tisn't 
 wudout raison." 
 
 " That girl told me she was her cousin. What is her 
 name?" 
 
 " Peg Brady she's related to the ould man." 
 
 " She is a good-natured girl," said the dragoon. 
 
 " She 's a harmless soart uv a girl," Billy replied. " Come, 
 Kit. What! Is id goin' to get into your tantrums you are? 
 I '11 soon let you know." And Billy Heffernan took down 
 his whip from the top of the load of turf ; but Kit seemed to 
 think better of it, and put off the tantrums for the present. 
 " Begor," he continued, addressing himself to the dragoon, 
 " wudout mainin' any offince, you 're very hot in yourse'f." 
 
 "How is that?" 
 
 " Wud your hat, or whatever you call id, hangin' on your 
 arm that way," replied Billy. 
 
 The dragoon laughed, and put his helmet on his head. 
 
 After walking on in silence for some time, Billy Heffernan 
 and the dragoon stopped short at a turn in the road, both 
 looking considerably astonished. A man with his coat off was 
 running towards them through a field adjoining the road at 
 the top of his speed. They thought some accident must 
 have happened, and that he was running to call them to the 
 assistance of some one in danger, when, to their surprise, he 
 turned the angle of the field without seeming to notice them, 
 and continued his race in a line with the fence. The field 
 was a small one, and he was soon round it and passed them 
 again. 
 
 " It must be a madman," said the dragoon. 
 
 " Begor, that 's what I 'm thinkin' myse'f, too," returned 
 Billy Heffernan, who showed some symptoms of being 
 frightened as he kept his eyes steadily on the runner. But 
 it was not of madmen Billy Heffernan stood in awe ; but the 
 notion got into his head that there were more than one 
 runner, and that the second was invisible to them, and con- 
 sequently supernatural and a thing to be dreaded. 
 
 " Begob," said Billy, as the runner passed a third time, 
 " Tis Mick Brien, as sure as I'm alive. I'll call him when 
 he comes round again."
 
 262 KNOCKNAGOW; 
 
 "Is that Mick?" he called out, as the man was passing 
 them again. 
 
 "Is that Billy?" was the reply, and he stopped short 
 opposite to them. 
 
 " In the name o' God what are you runnin' that way for ? "" 
 
 Mick Brien climbed over the fence without replying, and 
 came out upon the road. He looked greatly surprised on 
 seeing the dragoon ; for dragoons were seldom met strolling 
 through that part of the country at night. Mick Brien's face 
 darkened as he fixed his eyes on the soldier and not without 
 reason, perhaps; for the last glimpse of a "bold dragoon'' 
 which Mick Brien had seen was when a troop of these for- 
 midable-looking warriors rattled through his little farmyard 
 the day the old house was pulled down where Billy Heffernai , 
 was wont to take a piggin of milk in lieu of a drink of watci 
 whether he could or no and Mick Brien and his wife and 
 children were flung homeless on the world. So that we must 
 excuse Mick Brien if the unexpected sight of an English 
 soldier brought a scowl into his face. 
 
 The dragoon observed it, and said 
 
 " Friend, I have only been to see a friend off in that 
 quarter" and the dragoon turned round and pointed towards 
 Knocknagow "and on my way back I have met your neigh- 
 bour here on the road ; and, as we are both bound for the 
 same town, we have kept together so far." 
 
 " That 's the way," said Billy Heffernan, in reply to Mick 
 Brien's inquiring look. " An' now," he continued, " maybe 
 you 'd tell us about the runnin'?" 
 
 Mick Brien looked on the ground, and remained silent for 
 a moment. 
 
 "Well," said he, with a grim smile, "I Avill tell you about 
 the runnin', for fear you might think I was afther takin' lave 
 uv my sinses. But come on. I needn't dela} 7 you." 
 
 " Yo-up, Kit," said Billy Heffernan, putting his hand to 
 the creel, and helping on Kit with a push. 
 
 All three fell back behind the car, the dragoon and Billy 
 Heffernan waiting with no little curiosity for an explanation 
 of the running. 
 
 " You 're forgettin' your coat," said Billy, looking at Mick 
 Brien's torn and threadbare shirt sleeves. 
 
 " No ; I hadn't id on me at all," he replied. " An' now,"
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 265 
 
 he added, as if it had cost him an effort to make up his mind 
 to satisfy their curiosity, " if you want to know about the 
 runniu', here is the ins an' outs uv id for you. The wind 
 tumbled wan ind uv the cabin on us last night, an' I wasn't 
 able to fix id till I get a bundle uv straw. An' wan uv the 
 childher bein' sick, we wor obliged to put whatever little 
 coverin' we had on her to keep her warm. An' as the roof 
 was stripped, I woke in a stump wud the cowld, an' couldn't 
 get a wink uv sleep afther. So I got up an' turned into that 
 field, an' said to myse'f I 'd have a run to put the life into me. 
 An' begor, Billy, niy sperits riz whin I found myse'f so soople, 
 an' I purtinded to niyse'f that I was runnin' for a bet ; an' the 
 divil a stop I 'd stop till I was afther goin' twelve rounds 
 on'y for you called me." 
 
 " Begob, Mick, 'twas a quare notion. An' faith you ran as- 
 fast as ever I see you runnin' at a hurlin' match when Mat 
 Donovan 'ud be makin' off wud the ball." 
 
 " Well, good-night to ye," said Mick Brien. " See your- 
 se'f the way the roof was swep away at that side." 
 
 They were just opposite a miserable hovel, one side of the 
 roof of which was entirely bare. Billy Heffernan shook his 
 head as he mentally contrasted the wretched tenement with 
 the warm little farm-house where he had been so often wel- 
 comed and hospitably entertained by the man who now stood 
 before him, as unlike his former self as the wretched hovel 
 was unlike the comfortable home that once was his. There 
 was surprise and something like pity in the dragoon's face, 
 too, as he looked from the cabin to its owner. But just as 
 Mick Brien Avas turning away, he was seized with a violent 
 fit of coughing, and, pressing his hand upon his side, he stag- 
 gered against Billy Heffernan, who caught him in his arms. 
 The blood gushed from the poor man's mouth, and flowed 
 down the breast of his shirt. He had evidently burst a 
 blood vessel. 
 
 " Mick," said Billy, as he threw his arms round him to- 
 prevent his falling, " I 'm sorry to see you this way." And 
 Billy Heffernan hurst into tears. 
 
 " 'Tis nothin'," he gasped, " 'tis nothin'. Help me as far 
 as the doore, Billy." 
 
 He leant upon Billy's shoulder, and both walked into the? 
 hovel.
 
 264: KXOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 Oh ! we hesitate to follow them. "We wish to spare the 
 reader such scenes as long as we possibly can. Enough to 
 say that when Billy Heffernan looked around him, and felt 
 the cold breeze as it whistled through the uncovered roof, 
 and saw the once rosy farmer's wife crouching in a corner 
 with her sick child pressed against her bosom, and her hus- 
 band's coat thrown over her shoulders, he felt that swelling 
 in his throat which Norah Lahy's looks and words so often 
 caused ; and, without uttering a word, Billy Heffernan pulled 
 off his old riding-coat, wrapped it round the evicted farmer, 
 and laid him softly down upon the wisp of straw in the 
 corner of the cabin, where his two little boys were asleep 
 locked in each other's arms. The moon shone directly down 
 upon their pale faces, and Billy Heffernan could scarcely 
 suppress a groan as he thought of the merry bright-eyed 
 little fellows who used to vie with each other to know who 'd 
 be first to run to the dairy to tell their mother that Billy 
 Heffernan had stopped his mule on the road and was coming 
 up to the house. He fixed the straw so that the poor man's 
 head might be in a comfortable position, and silently re- 
 turned to his mule, at whose head the dragoon was standing, 
 as if he had turned to poor Kit for companionship. 
 
 At first the dragoon did not recognise Billy Heffernan 
 when he appeared without his riding-coat. But when in a 
 subdued tone he addressed the usual " Yo-up, Kit," to his 
 mule, the dragoon guessed the reason why his companion 
 had left his coat behind him in the cabin. 
 
 They walked on without speaking for a considerable dis- 
 tance, and then the dragoon asked how much farther had 
 they to go. 
 
 " You '11 see the cloud over Clo'mel," replied Billy, " when 
 we come to the top uv that hill." And they walked on in 
 silence again. 
 
 " There id is," said Billy, when they reached the top of the 
 hill. 
 
 What?" 
 
 : The cloud." 
 
 1 What cloud?" 
 
 'The cloud over Clo'mel." 
 
 ' And why the cloud over Clonmel ? And how did you 
 know there was a cloud over it?"
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 265 
 
 " Becase Clo'mel was never wudout a cloud over id since 
 the day Father Sheehy was hung," replied Billy Heffernan. 
 
 " For what was he hung?" 
 
 " Begor, for killin' a man that was alive twenty years 
 afther," said Billy. "But the rale raison was becase he 
 wanted to save the people from bein' hunted, an' the whole 
 counthry turned into pasture for sheep and cattle. But I '11 
 show you the house where his blood was sprinkled on the 
 doore when the head was afther bein' cut off uv him, and they 
 wor bringin'his body to Shanrahan to bury him." 
 
 " And what did they want to sprinkle the blood on the 
 door for?" 
 
 " Becase id was the doore uv the bishop's house ; an' ori'y 
 for him Father Sheehy wouldn't be hung at all. He refused 
 to give him a character, an' that 's what settled him." 
 
 "And why did the bishop refuse?" 
 
 " Becase he was all-in-all wud the great lords an' gentle- 
 men ; and for fear uv offendin' 'em, he wouldn't stir hand or 
 fut to save the life uv the poor priest that had the rope about 
 his neck. Tis ould Phil Morris that could give you the ins 
 an' outs uv id." 
 
 " Thim is the Comeragh mountains," continued Billy, 
 breaking off abruptly, and pointing towards them. 
 
 But the allusion te old Phil Morris made the dragoon turn 
 round and fix his eyes on the hills in nearly an opposite 
 direction. 
 
 Billy Heffernan was obliged to keep up with his mule, and 
 when he got to the foot of the hill he looked round and saw 
 the dragoon still standing on the top of it, with his arms 
 folded, looking towards Knocknagow. 
 
 "Begob," said Billy, "he's a bad case." 
 
 He soon began to overtake and pass by an occasional 
 heavily laden dray or cart, both horse and driver travel- 
 stained, and so worn out as to require a rest, near as they 
 were to their journey's end ; while, on the other hand, Billy 
 himself had often to call out "hub !" or "ho !" to his mule, 
 to make way for a fast-walking farmer's horse, whose load 
 was not over heavy even though the farmer's wife was 
 enthroned on the top of it or a trotting donkey, whose only 
 burden was a couple of blooming country girls, coming to 
 town to make purchases, in view, mayhap, of an approaching 
 
 8
 
 266 KNOCKNAGQW ; 
 
 wedding. And the more crowded and noisy the road became, 
 the more lonely Billy Heffernan felt, and the more anxious 
 to be on his way back to Knocknagow. 
 
 He found it no easy task to guide the mule through the 
 crowd of carts that blocked up one of the streets he had to 
 pass through. In fact, he was brought to a stand opposite 
 a row of thatched houses, which might have been mistaken 
 for a piece of Knocknagow, so closely did they resemble the 
 row of thatched houses between Phil Lahy's and the bridge. 
 
 While waiting patiently for the way to be cleared, a woman 
 ran out from one of the thatched houses and laid a basket 
 close to the wheel of the car. 
 
 " Show us a sod uv that," said she, 
 
 He loosened a sod out of his well packed load and handed 
 it to her. 
 
 " Give me twopence worth uv id," said she, after balancing 
 the sod in her hand and flinging it into her basket. 
 
 "Is that all you're goin' to give me?" she asked, when he 
 had stopped counting the turf into the basket. 
 
 " That 's all ; an' I 'd like to know where you'd get as much 
 uv such turf as that?" 
 
 " Well, here," said she, taking hold of one handle of the 
 basket. 
 
 Billy Heffernan took hold of the other handle, and the 
 purchase was immediately laid on the middle of the floor in 
 one of the little thatched houses. 
 
 The woman put her hand in her pocket to pay for the turf, 
 when, happening to glance through the little four-paned 
 window, with three bull's eyes in it which, if one of the 
 bull's eyes happened to be in the upper instead of the lower 
 corner, Billy Heffernan would have sworn was his own win- 
 dow she seized a straw-bottom chair, that it required some 
 faith to believe was not part of the furniture of Mat 
 Donovan's kitchen, and ran out into the street. Billy Hef- 
 fernan soon saw a well-shaped foot, encased in a well-fitting 
 boot, touch the back of the chair, and caught a glimpse of a 
 leg quite worthy of the foot, in a grey angola stocking tied 
 with a red worsted garter ; of which latter, however, he saw 
 no more than the two ends that hung down in a manner 
 suggestive of a bow-knot. In an instant a female figure 
 leaped lightly to the ground and ran into the little thatched!
 
 On, THE HOMES OF TIPPERART. 267 
 
 house, followed by the smiling hostess, bearing the straw- 
 bottom chair. Both turned into the little room on the right- 
 hand side of the door, and Billy saw a pretty young girl 
 fling off her cloak, and commence arranging her hair at a 
 diminutive looking-glass that hung near the window ; and in 
 a minute or two quite a stylishly dressed yonng lady caine 
 out, drawing on her gloves, and replying to the inquiries of 
 the woman of the house, who addressed her as " Miss Julia," 
 for the "masther" and the "misthress." 
 
 " Oh !" exclaimed Miss Julia, as if she had forgotten some- 
 thing, " run out and bring in the basket that 's between the 
 bags on the top of the load." 
 
 The woman of the house did as she desired, and soon 
 returned with a small basket. 
 
 " Tis something," said Miss Julia, " that mother sent 
 you." 
 
 The woman raised the lid, and exclaimed with a start, as 
 she held up her hands in an attitude of surprise and thank- 
 fulness : 
 
 " Oh, may God increase her store !" 
 
 Miss Julia Avalked out, and no one meeting her would have 
 dreamed she was the same person that descended from the 
 top of the load of wheat, with her gay bonnet hidden under 
 the ample cape of her mother's blue cloak; which blue cloak, 
 however, seemed more worthy of admiration in the eyes of the 
 woman in whose care she had left it, than all Miss Julia's 
 finery put together, for she held it up to the light, and looked 
 and looked at it, till she seemed to forget everything in the 
 world but the blue cloak. 
 
 " Begor, ma'am," said Billy Heffernan, " I b'lieve you 're 
 forgettin' me." 
 
 "Oh, honest man," she replied, with a start, " I beg your 
 pardon. I thought I was afther payin' you." 
 
 Billy Heffernan put the twopence she handed him in his 
 pocket, and, finding the way now more clear, led his mule 
 slowly up the street.
 
 268 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 HOME TO KNOCKNAGOW. A TENANT AT WILL. 
 
 A HAND was laid on his shoulder, and on looking round, he 
 saw the dragoon standing close to him. 
 
 " Come and have a drink," said the dragoon. 
 
 " I don't take anything ; thank you all the same," replied 
 Billy Heffernan. 
 
 " Oh, d n it," returned the dragoon, " as we were com- 
 rades on the road, don't refuse a treat." 
 
 " Well, I 'm a teetotaller," rejoined Billy Heffernan ; " but 
 if you 'd have no objection to come over beyand the Wesht- 
 gate, I know a place where they have peppermint." 
 
 " All right," said the dragoon; and they continued on their 
 way through the drays and carts. 
 
 " Is this all corn 1" the dragoon asked. 
 
 " All whate," replied Billy Heffernan. 
 
 " I never saw so much corn at a market," returned the 
 dragoon; "and yet ye Irish are always talking of starving. 
 How is that?" " 
 
 " Begob," said Billy Heffernan, " 'tis many's the time I said 
 thim words to myse'f." 
 
 " Where does it all go ?" the dragoon asked. 
 
 " Some uv id is ground in the mills here an' up the river," 
 replied Billy Heffernan ; " an' more uv id is sent off wudout 
 bein' ground. But ground or not ground off id goes. If 
 you '11 take a walk down to the quay, you '11 see 'em loadin' 
 the boats wud id. They brin' id on to Carrick, and from 
 that down to Waterford, an' the divil a wan tiv me knows 
 where id goes afther that. 'Tis ould Phil Morris that could 
 explain the ins an' outs uv id for you. But 'tis the corn that 's 
 makin' a town uv Clo'mel ; so there 's that much got out uv 
 id afore id goes, as ould Phil says ; besides the employment uv 
 tillin' the land and reapin' id. But 'tis the big grass farms 
 that 's the ruination uv the counthry. 'Twas on account of
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 269 
 
 thryin' to put a stop to 'em that they made up the plan to 
 hang Father Sheehy. So ould Phil Morris tells me." 
 
 The mention of Phil Morris's name seemed to have put 
 political economy completely out of the dragoon's head, and 
 he did not again speak till Billy Heffernan roused him from 
 his reverie after they had passed the West Gate. 
 
 " This is the house," said he. 
 
 " Come in," returned the dragoon. 
 
 " Here 's luck, any way," said Billy Heffernan, as he tossed 
 off his glass of peppermint. 
 
 The dragoon blew the froth from his mug of porter, and 
 took him by the hand. 
 
 " Good morning, friend," said he, laying his empty mug on 
 the counter. 
 
 " Have another," said Billy. 
 
 " No, no," returned the dragoon. " Good morning." 
 
 "Oh, begob," rejoined Billy Heffernan, getting between 
 him and the door, and putting his hand against the soldier's 
 broad chest, " we don't undherstand that soart o' work in 
 Ireland." 
 
 " Yes, yes, I understand your custom," returned the dra- 
 goon smiling. " And," he added, " I will take another." 
 
 Billy Heffernan sold his creel of turf, and, after breakfast- 
 ing upon a brown loaf and a bowl of coffee in a cellar, was 
 returning through the Main Street, thanking his stars that 
 the big town with its noise and bustle would be soon left 
 behind him, when his eye caught the big dragoon standing 
 with folded arms opposite a shop window, and seeming 
 absorbed in the examination of the articles there displayed. 
 Happening to look round, he recognised his companion of the 
 morning, and beckoned to him. Billy Heffernan stopped his 
 mule, and waited till the dragoon had crossed over to the 
 middle of the street. 
 
 " Going home?" said the dragoon. 
 
 " Yes," replied Billy ; " I have the turf sowld." 
 
 " Would you," the dragoon asked, after a pause, " would 
 you bring a message from me to Bessy Morris?" 
 
 "Well, I will," said Billy; but he felt, he couldn't tell 
 why, as if he would rather not. 
 
 " Wait for a minute," said the dragoon, and he walked 
 quickly back to the shop.
 
 270 KNOCKNAGOW; 
 
 He soon returned, and handed to Billy Heffernan what 
 seemed a small box wrapped in paper. 
 
 "What will I say?" Billy asked, as he put the parcel in 
 his waistcoat pocket. 
 
 " Well, I don't know," returned the dragoon, as if he felt 
 at a loss. 
 
 Billy Heffernan very naturally looked at him with some 
 surprise. 
 
 " Say," said he, at last, " that it is from a friend." 
 
 " Begob," thought Billy Heffernan, " he is a bad case. I 
 
 wondher what do she think uv him? 'Twould be d n 
 
 dhroll if Bessy Morris, above all the girls in the parish, would 
 marry a soger. Begob, ould Phil 'ud choke her afore he 'd 
 give her to a redcoat. Come, Kit, be lively, or they '11 be all 
 in bed afore we get to Knocknagow." 
 
 Billy Hefiernan and his mule had left the busy town with 
 the cloud over it some miles behind them when the sun was 
 disappearing behind the hills upon which the dragoon turned 
 round to gaze when his companion would have called his 
 attention to the Waterford mountains by which piece of 
 eccentricity the reader has lost an exciting legend of those 
 mountains, which Billy Heffernan was about relating for the 
 amusement and instruction of his military friend. But it was 
 all owing to Bessy Morris who we fear has much more than 
 that to answer for. As the stars began to peep out one by 
 one and there was one star that shone with a pure, steady 
 lustre, and Billy Heffernan felt sure it was looking through 
 the beech-tree into a face as mild and beautiful as itself 
 he began to wonder why he felt so tired and sleepy; but, 
 recollecting that he had had no rest the night before, he turned 
 to his mule, and said, " Wo ! Kit," in a manner that made 
 that sagacious animal not only stop, but turn round till her 
 nose touched the shaft, and look at him. The fact was, 
 Billy Heffernan was in the act of yawning as he pronounced 
 the word "Wo!" and a stiffness in his jaw as he attempted 
 to add the other word suggested dislocation, which so alarmed 
 Billy Heffernan that his mule's name escaped from him with 
 a cry, as if some one were choking him. And hence Kit not 
 only halted at the word of command, but looked round to see 
 what was the matter. And, finding that there was no rude 
 hand on her master's windpipe, Kit expressed her satisfaction
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 271 
 
 by advancing her fore-leg as far as possible, and rubbing her 
 nose to it. 
 
 Billy Heffernan placed one foot on the nave, and then the 
 other on the band of the wheel, and climbed up till he stood 
 on the side of his car. He put back his hand several times, 
 mid attempted to catch the skirt of his ban-again coat under 
 his arm. But the skirt was too short; and, after two or three 
 unsuccessful attempts, Billy Heffernan looked down at him- 
 self with a look of drowsy surprise. He first thought of the 
 elk's horn fixed to the rafter in his own house ; then Phil 
 Morris's old goat came to his assistance; and at last Billy 
 Heffernan thought of Mick Brien, and a shake of the head 
 signified that he was satisfied. In fact, Billy Heffernan, 
 before climbing into his creel, was attempting to tuck the 
 .skirt of his ratteen riding-coat under his arm, and was much 
 astonished on finding that trusty companion of his journey- 
 ings missing for the first time in his life; for the ratteen 
 riding-coat, its owner averred, was as good to keep out the 
 heat as the cold, and, consequently, he was never known, 
 winter or summer, to take the road without it. For a 
 moment he thought he must have left it at home, but then 
 that glimpse at the half-moon through the rent in the skirt 
 occurred to him, and he knew he had the riding-coat as far 
 us Phil Morris's. Then the idea of the half-moon shining 
 through the rent in the riding-coat brought the roofless cabin 
 to his mind, and the pale faces upon which the moonlight 
 fell so coldly, and Billy Heffernan shook his head as he 
 remembered how he had wrapped his riding-coat around poor 
 Mick Brien. 
 
 Billy Heffernan climbed into his creel ; and, resting his 
 arms on the front, and leaning his chin on his arms, waited 
 patiently till the mule was done rubbing her nose against her 
 leg; and as the mule continued rubbing her nose against her 
 leg rather longer than usual, her master began rubbing his 
 nose against the sleeve of his coat. There was, in fact, a 
 remarkable sympathy between Billy Heffernan and his mule 
 in the matter of rubbing the nose. 
 
 The mule at last moved on of her own accord, for which 
 piece of considerate civility her master resolved to give her 
 an extra fistful of bran when they got home, for he was so 
 tired and drowsy that he felt it would be a task to say
 
 272 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 " Yo-up, Kit." Indeed, the mere thought of being obliged to 
 speak brought on another yawn, and Billy Heffernan turned 
 his open mouth to his thumb which required less exertion 
 than moving his hand to his mouth and made the sign of 
 the cross. To neglect making the sign of the crvss over the 
 mouth while yawning would be even worse in Billy Heffer- 
 nan's eyes than to forget saying "God bless us" after sneez- 
 ing, and almost as bad as going to bed without saying his 
 prayers, or sprinkling himself with holy water. 
 
 The mule jogged on quite briskly, as if she knew her mas- 
 ter's good intentions regarding the additional fistful of bran, 
 while he leant over the creel, with his cheek resting on his 
 arm, as a weary traveller might rest upon a gate, and looked 
 lazily along the road before him in a somewhat confused state 
 of mind. Becoming too sleepy to maintain his standing 
 position, he dropped down in the bottom of the car ; and 
 after a pantomimic wrapping of himself in the ratteen riding- 
 coat, resolutely resolved to keep wide awake till he reached 
 home. In spite of his firm resolves, however, it occurred to 
 him that he must have dozed for half a minute or so, as he 
 opened his eyes on missing the rumble of the wheels. 
 
 " Yo-up, Kit," said he, but Kit never stirred. 
 
 He turned upon his elbow ; and, looking through the laths 
 of the creel, saw that the mule was drinking from a little 
 stream that ran across the road. 
 
 Billy Heffernan rubbed his eyes, and thought he must be 
 either dreaming or bewitched. But there could be no mis- 
 take about it. There was the identical little stream over 
 which he had lifted Norah Lahy that bright summer evening 
 long ago, and in the middle of which he stood the night 
 before and wept. 
 
 " Well, that bangs Banagher," exclaimed Billy Heffernan, 
 rising to his feet, and rubbing his eyes again. " I thought I 
 wasn't wudin tin mile uv id. I wondher what time uv the 
 night might it be 1" 
 
 He was wide awake now, and there was an anxious expres- 
 sion in his face as he looked about him, while the mule moved 
 on briskly, seeming quite refreshed and lively after her 
 draught at the little stream. An old fear, by which he was 
 always haunted when descending that hill on his way home, 
 fell upon Billy Heffernan. Most people, we suspect, have
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 273 
 
 experienced some such feeling when approaching home after 
 a lengthened absence. But it weighed upon Billy Heffernau's 
 heart after the absence of a single day. True, he was alone 
 in the world. He had no father or mother, sister or brother, 
 wife or child, to awaken that feeling of dread. Yet he never 
 descended that hill on his way from the busy town with the 
 cloud over it without fearing that, just after passing Mat the 
 Thrasher's clipped hedge, the children would run out from 
 one of the next group of houses to the middle of the road, 
 exclaiming, " Billy ! poor Norah Lahy is dead!" 
 
 The light shone brightly, as usual, in Mat Donovan's win- 
 dow, so that it could not be very far advanced in the night. 
 And when he passed the clipped hedge, and saw Honor 
 Lahy's window giving the hamlet quite the look of a towu, 
 Billy Heffernan's heart began to beat as pleasantly as when 
 he discovered that his assailant of the night before was Phil 
 Morris's old goat, and not the ghost of a Hessian. He climbed 
 out of the creel at his own door; and, taking the key from 
 under the thatch, let himself in. 
 
 There was not as much as a cat to welcome him home, nor 
 a spark upon the hearth. Yet Billy Heffernan felt that ho 
 was at home, and was happy in his own way. Taking the 
 mule from the car, he let her find her way to her crih, and 
 went himself for " the seed of the fire" to the next house. 
 Having lighted the fire, he took the tackling off the mule 
 and hung it on the bog- wood pegs. The elk's horn reminded 
 him of his riding-coat ; and after a glance at the fire, which 
 seemed between two minds whether it would light or go out, 
 Billy Heffernan shrugged his shoulders, and, sitting down in 
 the chimney-corner on his antediluvian block, fixed his eyes 
 on the moonlight that shone through the open doorway on 
 the floor. Kit seemed to find some attraction in the moon- 
 light, too, for she left her crib and smelled that portion of 
 the floor upon which it fell, all round, and over and over ; 
 and then Kit deliberately lay down in the moonlight and 
 tumbled. After which invigorating recreation, Kit sat up, 
 and, instead of going back to her crib, remained where she 
 was, winking at the moon. And Billy Heffernan, leaning 
 back against the wall in the chimney-corner, began to won- 
 der what Kit was thinking of. Whatever the subject of her 
 thoughts might be, she got up after awhile and returned to
 
 274 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 her crib ; and the working of her jaws reminded her master 
 that he could not live upon moonshine either. So, taking 
 his old gallon in his hand, he went to the well for water, 
 thereby frightening Kit Cummins, who happened to be at 
 the well for water, too, almost out of her life ; she, by some 
 process of reasoning peculiar to herself, having mistaken him 
 for " the black dog," because his barragain coat happened to 
 be nearly white. Having convinced Kit Cummins that he 
 was not the black dog, and disgusted her by an insinuating a 
 doubt of that creature's very existence though it was a well- 
 known fact the well Avas haunted by him time out of mind- 
 Billy Heffernan returned home with his gallon of water, and, 
 pouring some of it into a small pot which he must have filled 
 with washed potatoes before going to Ned Brophy's wedding, 
 hung it on the fire to boil. Then closing his door behind 
 him, he walked down to Honor Lahy's to purchase a half- 
 penny herring. He was agreeably surprised to see Phil 
 Lahy sitting by his own fireside, holding serious discourse 
 with Tom Hogan and Mat Donovan, as he had almost made 
 tip his mind that the "cordial" at Ned Brophy's wedding 
 would have proved the commencement of a protracted 
 " spree," which would cost Norah much anxiety and suffering. 
 But her smiling face, as she listened to her father expound- 
 ing the various political questions of the day, satisfied Billy 
 Heffernan that his apprehensions on this occasion were 
 groundless. Honor, too, was the very picture of happiness, 
 and in the excess of her pride and delight was actually 
 obliged to put away her knitting, and give herself up wholly 
 to the enjoyment of Phil's eloquence. 
 
 " Good-night, Billy ; sit down," said Phil Lahy, mildly, 
 the words being thrown in parenthetically to the peroration 
 of his discourse on home manufactures, which, he contended, 
 could never be revived under a foreign government. 
 
 Billy Heffernan was about declining the invitation, but 
 seeing it was seconded by Norah Lahy's dark eyes, he 
 couldn't. 
 
 " I don't know," was Tom Hogan's comment at the con- 
 clusion of the speech. " I never minded them soart uv 
 things. An' though I gave my shillin' as well as another to 
 O'Connell, to plaise the priest, I never could see the good 
 uv id. If people 'd mind their business an' industhre, they'd
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 275 
 
 be able to hould on, barrin' sich as 'd be turned out be the 
 landlord." 
 
 " Tom," said Phil Lahy, with a sort of solemn indignation, 
 " 'tis wastin' words to be talkin' to you." 
 
 " Tis thirty years now," continued Tom Hogan, " since I 
 came into my little spot, an' so long as God spared me my 
 health I never lost half a day ; an' signs on, look at id, an' 
 where would you find a more compact little place in the 
 country 1 An' what was id but a snipe farm the day I came 
 to id. But I worked airly an' late, wet an' dhry, an' glory 
 be to God, I 'm milkin' six cows now where Billy Heffernan's 
 mule 'd perish the day I came into id. An' if others done 
 the same they 'd have the same story." 
 
 " An', Torn, what rent are you paying now ?" 
 
 " Well, 'tis a purty smart rint," replied Tom Hogan 
 seriously. " But the land is worth id," he added, proudly. 
 
 " An' who made id worth id, Tom ? Answer me that." 
 
 "J did," he replied, with something like a swagger. 
 " Thim two hands did id for the first ten years, barrin' what 
 help my wife gave me ; an', begor, so far as diggin' stubbles 
 and work uv that sort, she done ridge for ridge wud me of'en 
 an' of en. But I made the dhrains, an' sunk the dykes, an' 
 i-iz the ditches single hand. But now," he continued conse- 
 quentially, " I can keep a servant boy, an' hire a few men. 
 An' I ate my own bit uv butther now an' then," added Tom 
 Hogan, with the air of a lord. 
 
 " An' what rent are you payin'?" 
 
 " Well, thirty-eight shillin's, since the last rise." 
 
 " An' suppose the next rise puts it up to forty-eight 1" 
 
 Tom Hogan stared at his questioner with a frightened look. 
 
 " If he was the divil," he exclaimed, after a pause, " he 
 couldn't put id up to forty-eight shillin's an acre." 
 
 " An' what was id when you came there first 1" 
 
 " About fifteen shillin's an acre all round. But 'tis bet- 
 ther worth thirty-eight now." 
 
 " Have you a lase ?" 
 
 " No, nor I don't want a lase so long as I have a gentle- 
 man for my landlord that won't disturb any poor man that '11 
 pay him his rent fair and honest." 
 
 " An' as fast as you improve your land, putting the whole 
 labour uv your life into id, he '11 rise the rint on ye."
 
 276 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 " An' why not, so long as he don't rise id too high V 
 
 " Tom Hogan," said Phil Lahy, surveying him from head 
 to foot, and then looking him steadily in the face " Tom 
 Hogan, I '11 see you scratch a beggarman's back yet." 
 
 Tom Hogan looked astonished, quite unable to comprehend 
 why he should be called upon to perform such an office for a 
 beggannan or any one else. But Phil Lahy meant to convey, 
 in this figurative and unnecessarily roundabout way, that 
 Tom Hogan would be a beggar himself. 
 
 " I partly see what PhU is at," observed Mat Donovan. 
 " Whin 'tis his own labour an' his own money made the land 
 what id is, the rint had no right to be riz on him. Sure he 
 has his place just as if he took a piece uv the Golden Vale 
 an' laid id down among the rishis an' yallow clay all around 
 id. An' because he wint on dhrainin', an' limin', an' fencin', 
 an' manurin' for thirty years, is that the raison the rint should 
 be riz on him, wherein more uv 'em that never done any- 
 thing at all is on'y payin' the ould rint t That 's a quare way 
 to encourage a man." 
 
 " An' Tom," said Phil Lahy, " what would you take for 
 the good-will of that farm?" 
 
 " I wouldn't take a million uv money," he replied, in a 
 husky voice. " My heart is stuck in id." 
 
 His chin dropped upon his chest, and his hands began to 
 tremble as if he had the palsy. 
 
 Ah, though we cannot help sharing Phil Lahy's contempt 
 for Tom Hogan's slavishness, we heartily wish he had a more 
 secure hold of that little farm in which "his heart was stuck" 
 than the word of a gentleman who went on raising the rent 
 as fast as Tom Hogan went on with his draining, and fencing, 
 and liming, and manuring to say nothing of the new slated 
 barn and cow-house. 
 
 Norah looked at him with surprise, as if she could scarcely 
 believe he was the same Tom Hogan who, a few minutes 
 before, seemed so full of consequence as he boasted of eating 
 his own butter now and then. She then turned an appealing 
 look to her father, which checked the sarcasm and the bitter 
 laugh that Phil Lahy was on the point of indulging in at the 
 expense of the poor tenant-at-will, who tried so hard to per- 
 suade himself and others that he was not only satisfied with 
 his serfdom, but proud of it.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 277 
 
 " Good-night to ye," said Tom Hogan, rising from his chair. 
 " 'Tis time to be goin' home." 
 
 " 'Tis time for all uv us," said Mat Donovan. " I '11 come 
 down to-morrow night," he added, " and lend a hand to that 
 chair of Norah's. 'Tis sinkin' too much at the side." 
 
 Norah thanked him with a grateful look. Every little act 
 of kindness made her happy. 
 
 " Come out, Honor, and get me a herrin', ! ' said Billy Hef- 
 fernan. " Faith, I 'm afeard the spuds '11 be broke. I hung 
 'em down to bile when I was comin' out." 
 
 " Good-night," said Tom Hogan, when he came to his own 
 gate. His hand trembled so much that he could not raise 
 the hasp, and Mat Donovan stopped and opened and closed 
 the gate for him. 
 
 " God help him," said Mat, as he rejoined Billy Heffernan, 
 " if ever it comes to his turn." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " To be turned out." 
 
 " There 's no danger uv that," Billy replied. " He 's the 
 snuggest man in the place." 
 
 " All he 's worth in the world," returned Mat, "is buried in 
 the land. He couldn't give a fortune to Nancy. An' as for 
 Jemmy, he tells me he '11 run away an' list, he makes him 
 work so hard, and wouldn't give him a shillin' for pocket- 
 money. An' 'tis a hard thing, Billy, to think that any man 
 could come up to you and tell you to walk out uv the house 
 an' place you wor afther spendin' the labour uv your life on." 
 
 " Begor, Mat," returned Billy, " I could stick the man, as 
 ould Phil Morris says he 'd do, that 'd turn me out of that 
 ould cabin there, not to say a snug house and farm like Tom 
 Hogan's." 
 
 " Peg Brady was tell in' me," said Mat, " that you called 
 into Phil Morris's last night when you wor passin'." 
 
 "I turned in to redden the pipe whin I see the doore 
 open." 
 
 " She was goin' on about somethin' that I couldn't pick 
 head or tail out uv," continued Mat Denovan. " On'y she 
 said if I knew id I 'd be surprised. She said you kem in to 
 light the pipe afther, but 1 couldn't understand her. But 
 she was dhrivin' at somethin'." 
 
 Billy Heffernan put his finger and thumb into his waist-
 
 278 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 coat pocket, and was on the point of saying that he had 
 passed Phil Morris's without remembering to give the little 
 box to Bessy, but he felt instinctively that he ought not to 
 speak of it, though he had no particular reason for supposing 
 that it concerned Mat Donovan more than anybody else. 
 
 "Did you see Bessy?" Mat asked, seeing that his com- 
 panion had offered no remark upon what he had just said. 
 
 " I did," Billy replied; " the two uv 'em wor sittin' at the 
 fire." 
 
 " What two ?" 
 
 "Peg an' Bessy." 
 
 "Wasn't there any wan else 1 ?" 
 
 " Divil a wan whin I wint in. The ould man was in 
 bed." 
 
 " Peg is sich an innocent soart uv a girl," said Mat, as if 
 to himself. " I suppose she wanted to take a rise out uv me. 
 She was hintin' at somethin' or other, but the not a wan uv 
 me knows what id was. She tould me," he added, after a 
 pause, " that Bessy was comin' over to cut a new gownd or 
 somethin' for Miss Mary to-morrow." 
 
 " Begor," said Billy Heffernan, putting his hand again in 
 his pocket, " I may as well give you a message I have for 
 her." 
 
 " What is id?" Mat asked. 
 
 " I won't mind id," returned Billy, as it occurred to him 
 that if he gave the box to Mat, he should tell from whom he 
 got it. 
 
 Billy Heffernan was in the habit of making little purchases- 
 for his neighbours in Clonmel, and Mat Donovan attributed 
 his change of mind regarding the message, to what he con- 
 sidered a very natural desire on Billy's part to deliver it to 
 the fascinating Bessy himself. 
 
 " Come in an' rest," said Billy, when they had come to his 
 house. 
 
 " Oh, 'tis all hours. My mother '11 think the mickillecns 
 is aftber ketchin' me," replied Mat, as he quickened Ms pace 
 with all the appearance of a man in a great hurry. But 
 Billy saw him stop almost immediately, and, after hesitating 
 for a moment as if he thought of turning back to renew the 
 conversation, walk on again very slowly towards his own 
 house.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 
 
 " By my word," thought Billy HefFernan, as he took the 
 "spuds" off the fire which "spuds," to his great relief, he- 
 found were not broken, owing, perhaps, to the length of time 
 the fire had taken to kindle " by my word I 'm afeard he's 
 a bad case too." 
 
 He lighted his bog-pine candle, and examined the little 
 package the dragoon had given him with considerable 
 curiosity. 
 
 " Now, I wondher what might be in id," he thought, as he 
 tried to judge of its weight by moving his hand up and 
 down. '"Tisn't heavy, whatever id is. But what is id to 
 me what 's in id ? I'll give id into her own hands, for maybe 
 if any wan else got id they might make harm uv id, as little 
 as id is. An'," added Billy Heffernan, with a shake of his 
 
 head, " 'tis a d n little thing some people couldn't make. 
 
 harm uv. Well, 'twouldn't be aisy to make me b'lieve any 
 bad uv Bessy Morris; though she is the divil for coortin'." 
 
 He strained the water off the "spuds" into the pool out- 
 side the door, and leaving the pot on the floor to let them 
 cool, he sat upon his block and shook the little box close to- 
 his ear. 
 
 " Now, as sure as I'm alive," said he, " 'tis a thimble. An' 
 sure Nelly Donovan tould me 'twas to larn to be a manty- 
 maker that Bessy stopped in Dublin so long. But 'tis 
 thinkin' uv my two-eyed beefsteak I ought to be." 
 
 And, considering that he had eaten nothing since he 
 breakfasted in the cellar in Clonmel, it was not surprising 
 that Billy Heffernan should now think of his supper. And 
 Avhile he is roasting his herring on the tongs, we will go back 
 for a moment to Bessy Morris, whom we left sitting in her 
 grandfather's arm-chair, with a flush upon her forehead, and 
 nervously tapping with her fingers on the table. 
 
 "When did he come?" she asked, without raising her 
 eyes. 
 
 " A little start afther you goin'," replied Peg Brady, who 
 had returned to her seat, and was occupied in taking some 
 of the partially burnt turf from the fire and quenching it in 
 the ashes in the corner. " I was goin' to tell him to run 
 afther ye, an' have his share uv the fun." 
 
 Bessy looked at her with surprise, and, drawing a long 
 breath, as if she had escaped a great danger for she shrank
 
 280 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 from the idea of the sensation the dragoon's appearance in 
 search of her would have created at the wedding she said 
 with forced calmness, " You had no right to let him stay." 
 
 " Was id to turn him out the doores I was ? An' how was 
 I to know that ye 'd stay so late. I thought you 'd be home 
 before twelve o'clock at the farthest. An' he afther comin' 
 for nothin' else in the world but to see you." 
 
 " But didn't you know how my grandfather hated the sight 
 of a soldier ? There 's no knowing what he might say or do 
 if he saw him." 
 
 . " There 's my thanks for sendin' him into your own room 
 till your grandfather was gone to bed, whin I hear ye 
 comin'." 
 
 " Peg, you are very foolish." And Bessy commenced tap- 
 ping the table more nervously than ever. " What would be 
 said if he was seen in my room?" 
 
 " Faith, you're losin' your courage," returned Peg Brady. 
 "I thought you wouldn't mind what any wan 'd say." 
 
 Bessy Morris closed her lips tightly and gazed into the 
 fire. 
 
 " He said he wrote a letter to you from Dublin," said Peg 
 Brady. 
 
 " So he told me," Bessy replied, absently. "But I did not 
 get it. Maybe 'tis at the post-office." 
 
 "Begor he's a fine, handsome man, anyhow; an' he's a 
 sergeant. He said that in all his thravels he never see' the 
 like uv you." 
 
 The compressed lips parted, and a flash of light shot from 
 Bessy Morris's eyes ; and, bending down her head, she covered 
 her face with her hands as if she wished to hide these symp- 
 toms of gratified vanity from her companion. 
 
 " I don't know how you manage to come round the whole 
 uv 'em," said Peg Brady, with a sigh. " I wish you 'd make 
 up your mind an' take wan an' put the rest out uv pain. 
 An' maybe thin some uv us might have a chance." 
 
 " Well, Peg," said Bessy, as she rose from her chair, " don't 
 say anything about it. You don't know how hard the world 
 is," 
 
 " Oh, yes ; that 's the way. Purtend to the whole uv 'em 
 there's no wan but himse'f, and keep 'em all on your 
 hands."
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 281 
 
 " There it is," said Bessy, stopping, before she had reached 
 the door of her room, as if Peg's remark was a foretaste of 
 what she had to expect. 
 
 " Well, you may depend on me," returned Peg, " I '11 say 
 nothin'." 
 
 Bessy Morris retired to her room greatly excited. 
 
 "But what is there to be frightened at?" she thought. 
 " Sure he 's not the first bachelor that ever came to see me. 
 But people are so bad-minded." 
 
 Yet it never occurred to her that if she had not been such 
 a " divil for coortin'," as Billy Heffernan had expressed it, 
 the dragoon, in all probability, would never have heard of 
 the existence of Knocknagow, where he found himself the 
 previous evening, and learned from Mat Donovan's mother 
 that he had passed Phil Morris's house and left it a mile of 
 two behind him. 
 
 "May heaven direct me!" exclaimed Bessy Morris, as she 
 knelt down to say her prayers. " I feel as if some misfortune 
 was hanging over me." 
 
 "I wish to the Lord," said Peg Brady, as she raked the 
 ashes over the embers on the hearth, " that he was afther 
 whippin' her away. An' sure what betther match could she 
 expect? An' who knows but well, there 's no use in countin' 
 our chickens afore they're hatched. "What a fool poor Mat 
 is!" And Peg Brady broke off with a sigh as she put the 
 back-stick to the door." 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXVII. 
 
 DISCONTENT AND RESIGNATION. 
 
 TOM HOGAN grasped the gate with his trembling hand, after 
 Mat Donovan had closed and fastened it, and resting his 
 forehead upon his arm, remained standing there for some 
 minutes like a man overcome by fatigue or weakness. Rous- 
 ing himself, he looked round the yard at the stacks in the 
 haggard, and the snug thatched dwelling-house, and the new 
 slated barn, of which he was particularly proud. There was 
 a look of blank anxiety, if we may use the expression, in his 
 
 T
 
 282 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 face, till his eyes rested on the new slated barn; and then 
 pride seemed to gain the ascendency over every other feeling, 
 and Tom Hogan stood erect and looked more like a man than 
 he had done since Phil Lahy placed his helpless dependence 
 so vividly before him. From that moment, until his eye 
 kindled with pride as he took in the outline of the slated 
 barn which was equal in every way to Attorney Hanly's, 
 and superior, except in size, to Maurice Kearney's, Tom 
 Hogan was the very picture of a crushed and spirit-broken 
 slave. He tried to banish from his mind the dread thought 
 that so unmanned him, and crossing the yard, went into the 
 cowhouse, and laid his hands upon the cows, one by one, as 
 if to assure himself that they were safe, and that he was in 
 very deed the owner of six cows "as good milkers," he 
 muttered, "as you'd find in the parish." He lifted the latch 
 and pushed against the barn door to see that it was locked ; 
 and after paying a visit to the old brown mare and the colt, 
 which he intended putting to the plough that spring, Tom 
 Hogan pushed in the kitchen-door, and entered with a show of 
 haste and bustle, as if he were in capital spirits, and in quite 
 a hearty mood that evening. His wife, who was as thrifty 
 and hardworking as himself, was "scalding tubs," and his 
 daughter drying a pail, which she had just scoured, opposite 
 the fire, turning it round and round, and occasionally rub- 
 bing the iron hoops with a woollen cloth till they shone like 
 bands of bright steel. His sou, Jemmy, lay upon his back 
 on a form, with his hands clasped over his face ; while Ned 
 Carrigan, the servant boy, was driving a few " pavers" in the 
 toe of his old brogue, by the light of the fire for candles 
 were made to go far by Mrs. Hogan. Tom Hogan sat down 
 and commenced holding his hands to the fire, and drawing 
 them quickly through the blaze, and rubbing them together 
 as if he thought it very pleasant to sit by one's own fire- 
 side on a winter's night. No word, however, was spoken by 
 any one, except the short sentence, " Get up, Spot," which 
 Tom Hogan himself, who was evidently casting about for a 
 pretext for conversation, addressed to the dog, and which 
 that drowsy animal, lying at full length upon the hearth, 
 responded to by lazily wagging his tail, thereby causing the 
 ashes to fly up into Ned Carrigan's eyes, who, at the moment, 
 was stooping to admire the row of nails he had driven into tli"
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 283 
 
 toe of his brogue, the sole of which seemed one sheet of 
 iron, that shone quite as brightly as the hoops on the pail. 
 The tubs having been scalded and rubbed dry, and the pail 
 laid upon the stilling, and Xed Carrigan having put his foot 
 into his brogue and retired to his sleeping apartment for 
 it was after supper when Tom Hogan had walked out for a 
 chat with Phil Lahy Mrs. Hogan lighted a candle, remark- 
 ing that it was "time for honest people to be in their beds." 
 But no sooner had she lighted the candle and snuffed it, and 
 carefully removed a little ashes that adhered to it with a 
 large brass pin by which her shawl was fastened, than she 
 exclaimed in accents of surprise and alarn^ 
 
 "Tom, what's the matther wud you!" 
 
 Jemmy flung himself off the form, looking quite frightened, 
 and Nancy turned quickly round and fixed her eyes upon her 
 father's face. 
 
 " Nothin' is the matther wud me," replied Tom Hogan, 
 looking up at his wife as if he wanted an explanation of her 
 question. 
 
 " Tom," said she, " you 're as white as the wall. Maybe 
 you're not well. Or might id be anything you're afther 
 seein"? God betune us an' all harm." 
 
 "I didn't see anything worse than myse'f," he replied. 
 "An', glory be to God, I was never in betther health in my 
 life." 
 
 "Well, you must be afther gettin' a change, an' let me 
 give you a dhrop out uv the bottle; there was some loft 
 since the last night James was here." Mrs. Hogan alluded 
 to a visit her brother had paid them some months before, 
 when Tom Hogan partook not only of " a bit of his own but- 
 ter," but of a stiff tumbler of whiskey punch in his own house. 
 
 " I don't want anything," he answered impatiently, as he 
 took the candle from her hand. 
 
 " Maybe 'tis nothin', wud the help uv God," Mrs. Hogau 
 observed; " but I didn't see him look so bad since the cow fell 
 in the dyke. Jemmy, what are you doin' there? You ought 
 to be in bed an hour ago. Get him a bit uv a candle, Nancy. 
 An' don't be stayin' up yourse'f, makin' a fool uv yourse'f. 
 'Tis no wondher for you not to be fresh an' sthrong." 
 
 Nancy assured her she would make no unnecessary delay, 
 and Mrs. Hogan followed her husband to the bedroom.
 
 284 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 " I think you ought to go to bed, Jemmy," said Nancy 
 Hogan, in a sweet low voice. 
 
 " I don't know what I ought to do," he replied fretfully, 
 as he dropped his chin on his hand, and stared into the 
 fire. 
 
 He was a singularly handsome young man, with a fresh, 
 clear complexion and light blue eyes. His crisp golden curls, 
 like his sister's, had a tinge of red in them, and it was a com- 
 mon remark among the neighbours that Jemmy Hogan was 
 " too handsome for a boy." He certainly appeared delicate 
 and effeminate to strangers; but such a thought never 
 occurred to his acquaintances, for it was well known that he 
 could do as good a day's work as any man in the parish 
 except Mat Donovan; and that at the hurling he was often 
 the first, and always among the first, to be "called" when 
 the match was making. He was generally good-humoured 
 and amiable; but it was remarked that when strongly moved, 
 all colour would fly from his lips, which were of so bright a 
 red as to make the paleness of his face more striking, and his 
 white, regular teeth seem literally of pearl. 
 
 His sister, who bore a strong resemblance to him, looked 
 at him now with the deepest sympathy, the tears welling 
 into her gentle eyes, and seemed at a loss for something to 
 say that might cheer him. She approached him almost 
 timidly, and laid the tips of her fingers lightly on his 
 shoulder. He took no notice, and after a moment's hesita- 
 tion, she pulled one of his hands from under his chin, and, 
 sitting in his lap, looked playfully into his face. 
 
 "Tell me something about the fair," she said. "Did you 
 meet many people you knew?" 
 
 "I didn't meet any wan you'd care to hear about," he 
 replied. 
 
 "Did you call into Mrs. Burke's?" 
 
 "I did; an' I don't know what business I have to call in 
 anywhere." 
 
 Her countenance fell at this, but forcing a smile, she said, 
 How is Alice?" 
 
 " She 's very well," he replied, with assumed indifference. 
 
 " Oh, yes ! pretend you don't care which ! " 
 
 "You know very well, Nancy," he said, after a short 
 silence, " 'tis no use for me to be thinkin' uv any wan."
 
 OR, THB HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 285 
 
 " Well, maybe you're too young to think uv gettin' married 
 yet awhile, but that's no raison why you wouldn't be thinkin' 
 uv somebody. An' if you knew how light they are about 
 you," she added laughingly. 
 
 " That 's all nonsense," he replied, trying to look displeased, 
 while a smile of gratified vanity played upon his red lips. 
 
 " Nancy," said he, after a pause, " I have my mind made 
 up." 
 
 "For what?" 
 
 " Not to stay here any longer." 
 
 " Jemmy, don't talk that way." 
 
 "Where is my use in stayin' here? My father don't want 
 me. An' what am I betther than a common labourer ? nor 
 so good. So there 's no use in tJalkin' ; go I will. An', for 
 God's sake, don't say anything to throuble me, for 'tis 
 throuble enough that 's on me." 
 
 " Jemmy !" she wailed, resting her head upon his 
 shoulder, and trembling violently. " Jemmy ! I 'd rather 
 be dead." 
 
 " That 's all foolishness," he replied, encircling her waist 
 with his arm. " 'Twill be the best for all uv us. You know 
 yourse'f you never could be settled if I stopped at home, 
 unless I got married and got a fortune to give you ; an' the 
 Lord knows when that might be. So 'tis betther for you to 
 have the place ; an' then there '11 be enough comin' to look 
 for you." 
 
 " I '11 never marry, Jemmy. All I 'd ever ask is to have 
 us all live together as long as God spared us to each other. 
 An' oh ! how happy we 'd be. An' wouldn't you take a 
 delight in improvin' the place, like my father ? An' af ther 
 a time you 'd have some money uv your own. You might 
 have a few heifers or cows I '11 give you my lamb !" she 
 exclaimed suddenly, as if she were sure that the lamb, 
 beyond all doubt, would banish discontent from his mind 
 for evermore. 
 
 " You '11 never have sinse," he replied, smiling. " But 
 why do you say you '11 never marry ? Is id on account of 
 that blackguard, Ned Brophy ? I don't know what kep me 
 from well, no matther." 
 
 " Don't blame him, Jemmy. Maybe he couldn't help it." 
 
 " Didn't he know all along what he had to expect 1 ?" Jemmy
 
 286 KNOCKNAQOW ; 
 
 asjjed, indignantly. " An' when he knew he couldn't marry 
 wudout a fortune, where was he keepin' gaddin' afther you, 
 an' makin' you the talk uv the counthry ?" 
 
 f',I don't care about the talk of the counthry," his sister 
 replied, with tears in her eyes. " Let 'em talk away." 
 
 " But why do you say he 's not to be blamed 1" 
 
 " Well, I don't say he 's not; only not so much as a person 
 might think. I think," she continued, with a sigh, " it was 
 partly my mother's fault. She was so anxious for him that 
 the minute she saw he took notice of me, she was always 
 huntin' him, an' pressin' him, an' nearly makin' him come 
 whether he 'd like it or not. I know I was foolish myse'f. 
 But when every one used to be jokin' about him, an' when 
 I see him so fond of me, I couldn't help it," poor Nancy 
 added, blushing deeply, and struggling to keep down the 
 sob that swelled up into her throat. " Tis all over now," 
 she continued, plaintively, but more calmly, " an' my mind 
 is at rest, an' I 'm satisfied. But I don't think I could ever 
 care for any wan again that way. Miss Kearney stopped 
 a whole hour wud me to-day, an' 'twould do any wan good 
 to talk to her. She says that, no matter what our lot may 
 be, we all have duties to do ; an' so long as we don't neglect 
 'em, an' if we do our best to be contented, we can be happy. 
 An', as she said, what, afther all, is this world, that we should 
 set our hearts on it 1 We ought to think of eternity ; an' 
 that needn't keep us from enjoyin' whatever of the blessings 
 of this life God is pleased to bestow on us. I couldn't 
 explain it as she did; but every word she said went to my 
 heart. 'Tis a shame for us to be frettin' about every disap- 
 pointment, an' so much terrible misery in the world." 
 
 " Well, that 's thrue," returned her brother. " But, for 
 all ." And he continued gazing into the fire. 
 
 " Are you there, Jemmy?" Tom Hogan called out. 
 
 " I'm just goin'," he replied, imagining that his father meant 
 to order him to bed. But instead of that Tom Hogan con- 
 tinued, " Run out, Jemmy, and see who is afther stoppin' out- 
 side the gate. I hear a step." It was said that Tom Hogan 
 knew by instinct when a strange foot, of man or beast, 
 approached that little farm in which " his heart was stuck." 
 Jemmy went out to the gate, and retnrned in a minute or 
 two, saying that it was " only Mick Brien."
 
 OR, THE HOMES OP TIPPERARY. 287 
 
 " Mick Brien," returned his father, apparently both sur- 
 prised and troubled for Mick Brien had a larger and a 
 better farm than his own only a few years ago and " look at 
 him now," thought Tom Hogan, beginning to tremble. 
 
 " God help him," his wife remarked; " his poor wife tould 
 me this mornin' that she was afraid 'twas the faver her little 
 girl had, and she was goin' for a ticket for the docthor, to Mr. 
 Kearney. An' where was he goin', Jemmy, this hour uv 
 the night?" she asked, raising her voice so as to be heard by 
 her son, who was in the act of kicking Spot into the yard, 
 before barring the kitchen door. 
 
 " He didn't well know that himse'f, when I axed him," 
 Jemmy answered ; " but he said he b'lieved he was goin' 
 over the short-cut to Fender's." 
 
 Tom Hogan started up in his bed, to the great bewilder- 
 ment of his wife, who fancied he was going to start off in 
 pursuit of Mick Brien. 
 
 "To Fender's!" gasped Tom Hogan, whose breath seemed 
 quite taken away by the intelligence. " An' Darby Ruadh 
 tould me to-day they wor goin' to throw down the cabin. 
 An' Wat Corcoran remarked he didn't like the job at all." 
 Tom Hogan was quite a confidential friend and crony of the 
 two bailiffs, who were won't to assure him that the master 
 meaning Mr. Isaac Fender had more respect for him (Tom 
 Hogan) " than for any man in the parish." 
 
 Nevertheless, it was not fear, but hope that took Tom 
 Hogan's breath away. 
 
 " I know, Jemmy," his sister murmured, " 'tis that young 
 man of Captain French's that 's puttin' these notions in your 
 head." 
 
 " No," he replied, " I 'm thinkin' uv it this long time. 
 Don't be a fool. Sure I can write to ye, an' maybe I might 
 come home afther a few years in flyin' colours." 
 
 "Is it to America?" she asked. 
 
 "Well, no," said Jemmy, stopping to gaze into the fire 
 again, though he was half-way to his own room when she 
 asked the question " my father would never give me what 
 would pay my passage." 
 
 Nancy bowed her head in sorrow, perhaps in shame for 
 she felt that he had spoken only the truth and remained 
 silent.
 
 288 KNOCKNAGOW J 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 ABE YOU IN LOVE, MARY?" 
 
 " MARY," Grace asked, " do you ever hear from Arthur 
 O'Connor now?" 
 
 She was sitting at the window in Mary Kearney's little 
 room, precisely in the same attitude as when she set about 
 solving the mystery of the footprints in the snow. The snow 
 was gone now ; but it was evident those mysterious foot- 
 prints were still visible to her mind's eye, and she followed 
 them across the gravelled walk, and the box-bordered flower- 
 beds, and through the laurels, and over the stile in the 
 corner, and out upon the road to the Bush, and where 
 then? 
 
 Grace was puzzled. 
 
 A letter she had from her brother Edmund that morning, 
 in which he spoke of his friend Arthur O'Connor whom he 
 called "M. l'Abb6" had set Grace thinking. There was 
 a mystery about her brother, too, in which his friend Arthur 
 was somehow mixed up. Edmund was what Grace called a 
 "jolly good-hearted fellow," and he used to tell how he and 
 Arthur were, by some fatality, always involuntary rivals in 
 their boyish days ; and declared it was quite fortunate that 
 Arthur had decided upon becoming a priest, as otherwise 
 there would be no knowing what might happen. He also 
 often alluded to a certain romantic adventure at the seaside, 
 a year or two before, in which Mary Kearney played a pro- 
 minent part ; and any allusion to which would be sure to 
 bring a glow into Mary's pale cheek to this day. And so 
 Grace could not help connecting either her brother or his 
 friend with those provoking tracks in the snow. 
 
 "But why on earth?" she asked herself, "should either 
 one or the other of them stand there under the window till 
 he must have been half frozen to death?" For Grace held
 
 OR, THB HOMES OF TIPPERART. 289 
 
 fast to her own " solution of the mystery," and dismissed 
 the idea altogether that the person, whoever he was, had 
 been in Mary's room and dropped into the garden from the 
 window. If she could not find out who wrote the note 
 that Barney threw up to her, it might enlighten her; but 
 Mary laughingly refused to tell her anything at all about it, 
 And so Grace went on puzzling her brains, till the old grey 
 cat, stealthily picking his steps close to the ivied wall under 
 the window, startled a blackbird that had been hopping 
 fearfully among the flower-beds; and the harsh cry of the 
 blackbird startled Grace from her reverie; and turning round, 
 she asked: 
 
 " Mary, do you ever hear from Arthur O'Connor now ?" 
 
 " No," Mary answered, looking surprised. "Why so?" 
 
 " No reason in particular," she replied. " But you saw 
 what Edmund said about him; and it just occurred to me 
 that he was looking quite pale and thin when I saw him 
 last and so old. I think he must be unhappy." 
 
 Mary bent her head over the sewing she was doing, but 
 remained silent. 
 
 " And yet," Grace continued, " you are not unhappy, 
 Mary." 
 
 " Indeed I am not," returned Mary, looking up in surprise. 
 "Why should I be unhappy?" 
 
 " Oh, you are one of those angelic beings who are always 
 contented with their lot. But I doubt very much that he is 
 contented. I never could like him much, he is so proud 
 and so cold." 
 
 " You told me the other day that Miss Hanly pronounced 
 me 'as cold as ice,' and you said she is mistaken." 
 
 " She certainly is. But if you would try to appear warm 
 towards people you do not care about, it would be a decided 
 improvement." 
 
 "I try to be warm," she replied, " but I cannot always 
 succeed. Now, would you say that Hugh, for instance, is 
 cold?" 
 
 " Not cold," returned Grace thoughtfully. " He may be 
 reserved, or dark ; but he is certainly not cold. Of course 
 I know Arthur can be hot as well as cold. But a genial 
 warmth is what I like." 
 
 "Are you glad to be going home, Grace?" Mary asked sadly.
 
 290 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 "I believe I am always glad to go home but I '11 be 
 sorry, too." 
 
 " If Richard and Mr. Lowe were going before you, you 'd 
 find this place very dull." 
 
 "Well, it would be dull; but I don't think I ever feel very 
 dull when I am with you, though I confess I do like society 
 very much. And after all, Mary, there is a magic in polished 
 society which can scarcely be found anywhere except among 
 the upper ten. Don't you feel it in the case of Mr. Lowe?" 
 
 " Well, I like his manner, certainly ; but I have seen quite 
 as good manners in my time, though I know very little of 
 your 'upper ten.'" 
 
 " Well, I'll never be satisfied till I set foot within that 
 magic circle." And Grace walked to the looking-glass with 
 4< a hundred coats of arms " in her glance. 
 
 " If you wished to lead a life of usefulness," returned Mary, 
 "to promote the happiness or alleviate the sufferings of 
 others if you even wished to distinguish yourself as a writer 
 or an artist, I could understand you. But the ambition 
 merely to belong to the upper ten, as you call it, is what I 
 can't understand at all. Where can you have got such 
 notions? Not from Eva and surely not from your papa." 
 
 "Oh, papa is a democrat that is, in theory. For, 
 between you and me, Mary, I can see that in his heart he 
 'dearly loves a lord.' I have heard them discuss the ques- 
 tion at one of the literary dinners, and though the ' Brehon ' 
 gave the aristocrats some hard knocks, I was not convinced. 
 What a pity it is that Mr. Lowe is not rich. This black-eyed 
 cousin of his, I suspect, is in love with him. And I really 
 think you have to answer for turning him from his alle- 
 giance. There must be something unpleasant in the letters 
 he gets from his mother. And the interest he takes in 
 hearing about his uncle's romantic marriage looks as if he 
 were thinking of doing something of the kind himself. He 
 is quite a treasure for your mamma, he affords her so many 
 opportunities of talking of her uncle Dan in connection with 
 Sir Garrett and his music and poetry. But then comes 
 the siren with the black eyes, whose singing of the Coolin 
 brought the tears to Mr. Kearney's eyes, he says. Do you 
 feel afraid of her, Mary? I hope she is not revengeful." 
 
 " You are altogether mistaken," returned Mary.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 291 
 
 " Why, he is the picture of misery; and 'tis as plain as a 
 pike-staff he admires you." 
 
 "So do several others." 
 
 " Well, how that modest remark would make some of our 
 mutual friends stare. But, candidly now, are you in love 
 with any one?" 
 
 " I am not" Mary answered, very positively. 
 
 At which Grace turned round, and resting her elbows on 
 the window, followed the tracks in the snow across the 
 flower-beds, and out to the bush, through the laurels and 
 over the hills and far away ; perhaps over the sea. 
 
 " Come, Grace," said Mary, who began to feel afraid of 
 her, " we have had quite enough of idle chat for one morn- 
 ing. I wonder what is delaying Bessy Morris ? Is this she 
 coming down the road ?" 
 
 " Yes," Grace answered ; " and that 's Billy Heffernan 
 stopping his mule to shake hands with her," she added, on 
 seeing Billy reach his hand to Bessy Morris, over his creel, 
 in which he was standing. 
 
 " And there is Mat Donovan strolling up to the Bush to 
 meet her," said Mary. " I suspect Bessy is turning the heads 
 of all the boys since her return from the city." 
 
 " She is very nice," Grace observed. " And I really think 
 the rustics know how to appreciate refinement." 
 
 " I always remarked," returned Mary, " that it is the 
 smartest and most intelligent girls that are most admired." 
 
 " The tastiest," said Grace, " as Nelly Donovan would say. :; 
 
 " Nelly herself is tasty," returned Mary, "but she is not 
 like Bessy Morris. Even before she went to Dublin there 
 was something refined about her. She was always borrowing 
 books from me." 
 
 " Then Mat has no chance?" 
 
 " I don't know that. With all his queer ways, Mat 
 Donovan has something superior about him. And he is such 
 a fine, manly, good-natured fellow; and such a hero with 
 the people, as the best hurler and stone- thrower. He has 
 made the name of Knocknagow famous." 
 
 " Did you remark that roguish glance of his?" Grace asked. 
 " It must be very effective tinder favourable circumstances." 
 
 " He only glances roguishly at roguish people," returned 
 Mary, laughing.
 
 292 KNOCKNAQOW ; 
 
 " Pray don't be personal. But it strikes me you innocent- 
 looking people have just as much mischief in you as your 
 neighbours." 
 
 " You are quite right," said Mary, rather earnestly. 
 " What are called quiet, steady people, are often a? full of 
 mischief as those who have a turn for saying satirical things, 
 and are consequently the terror of their acquaintances." 
 
 " That reminds me," returned Grace, " of what the ' Bre- 
 hon' said in defence of a literary lady of his acquaintance, 
 of whom people were saying hard things. The ' Brehon' 
 is dreadful when, as papa says, he takes to wielding his 
 battle-axe." 
 
 " And what did he say?" 
 
 " I get his speeches off sometimes," returned Grace, press- 
 ing her forefinger against her forehead. " Yes, it was some- 
 thing to the effect that a cultivated woman who happens to 
 have brains and is of a lively disposition has, in fact, ' the 
 flash of the gem' in her is apt to be set down as heartless, 
 and insincere, and designing, and all that sort of thing ; 
 while malice, duplicity, and all uncharitableness will pass 
 for goodness and sincerity, and soforth, when they are found 
 kneaded into a good big lump of the commonest clay, parti- 
 cularly if it be cast in an ugly mould. So you see, my dear 
 Mary, wit and beauty have their disadvantages; particularly," 
 added Grace, with another glance at the looking-glass, " when 
 they happen to be combined in the same unfortunate 
 individual." 
 
 "Well," returned Mary, laughing, " I suppose I am pretty 
 safe ; for at worst I can only be charged with one of these 
 disadvantages." 
 
 " I don't know that. In the difference, I think beauty 
 without wit is a greater sin than wit without beauty. I: 
 is easier to forgive a woman for being clever than for being 
 handsome. I heard a gentleman, not long since, praising 
 some ladies he had met to a lady from their neighbourhood ; 
 and when she said, ' Margaret is a good, sensible girl, she was 
 always my favourite,' I made up my mind that Margaret 
 was the plainest of the lot; and such I found afterwards was 
 the case." 
 
 " Well, as I often said, I don't know what to make of you, 
 and I am puzzled to know how much of what you say you
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERABT. 293 
 
 have heard from your literary friends, and how much is the 
 result of your own observation. But what can be keeping 
 Bessy?" 
 
 " Come and see," returned Grace. " Wouldn't they make 
 a picture?" 
 
 " They really would," said Mary, smiling. " Is there not 
 something graceful in Mat's attitude?" 
 
 "And how coquettishly she looks up into his face," 
 returned Grace. "And the old hawthorn tree, with Billy 
 Heffernan and his mule in the distance. I wish I could 
 make a sketch of it." 
 
 Mat Donovan was leaning against the Bush, talking to 
 Bessy Morris, who carried a small basket in her hand, and 
 looked up at him, as Grace remarked, with a very coquettish 
 air. 
 
 " Mat has been coming out in his usual style," said Mary, 
 as Bessy turned away from him, and ran laughing towards 
 the gate. 
 
 " There is the horse for Mr. Lowe," Grace observed. " He 
 was only waiting for Barney with the letters. We ought to 
 see him before he goes." 
 
 " Oh, it is not necessary," returned Mary. " He is only 
 going to call on Mr. Fender." 
 
 "And on some of the tenants," Grace added. "And, 
 by the way, I think he is afraid he is to be made a target 
 of." 
 
 "Why should he be afraid of that?" Mary asked. 
 
 " Well, you know he thinks we Irish are a peculiar people, 
 and as the rumour has gone about that he will be his uncle's 
 agent at some future time, he fancies it would be quite in 
 character to shoot him beforehand." 
 
 " Bessy Morris is below," said Ellie, who had come in un- 
 observed. 
 
 "Oh, send her up," returned Mary, spreading out the 
 material for the new dress on the table, and assuming an air 
 of business. " Let us lose no more time, Grace." 
 
 Ellie hurried back before she had reached the stair-head, 
 and, with her hand on the door-handle, the following short 
 dialogue passed between her and Grace : 
 
 " Grace, we are going to play hide-and-go-seek in the stacks. 
 Will you come?"
 
 294 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 4 I'd look well." 
 
 "Oh! my dear!" And Ellie turned away with a scornful 
 toss of the head. 
 
 " "We may as well see Mr. Lowe," Mary observed. 
 
 "I thought so," return <rl Grace, with a meaning smile. 
 
 The young gentleman was reading a letter, which so en- 
 tirely engrossed his attention that he did not observe their 
 entrance. On looking up, and seeing Miss Kearney, he 
 crushed the letter into his pocket, and stammered something 
 by way of apology for his apparent rudeness. 
 
 " Oh, by no means," said Mary. " I 'm glad you will have 
 a fine day fc/r your ride." 
 
 " Yes," he replied, glad of an opportunity to look another 
 way, "it is very fine. The mountain has quite a summer 
 look." 
 
 "It is more like an autumn evening look," said Grace. 
 ' Those little white clouds remind me of the last time I was 
 on the mountain. Edmund and Arthur O'Connor were with 
 us that day, Mary." 
 
 "I remember," she replied, quietly. "But let us not 
 detain Mr. Lowe." 
 
 Mr. Lowe bowed; and, after assuring Mrs. Kearney that 
 nothing could induce him to dine anywhere but with herself, 
 he mounted the horse that Barney held for him, and rode 
 slowly up the avenue. 
 
 "He certainly is in a sad way," Grace observed. "And 
 there must be something strange in those letters, too." 
 
 "Maybe ifc is something about the tenants," returned 
 Mary. " There are two of them to be ejected." 
 
 "That is quite a natural explanation," said Grace. "I 
 wonder it never occurred to me." 
 
 " I hope 'tis nothing about my lease," observed Maurice 
 Kearney, who had just come in, looking troubled and uneasy. 
 " That rascal Fender '11 never stop till he makes Sir Garrett 
 as great a tyrant as Yellow Sam. I'm after giving that 
 unfortunate man, Mick Brien, some straw to thatch his cabin 
 that was stript the night before last by the storm, and he 
 tells me they are going to pull it down on him. I wouldn't 
 stand in Fender's shoes this minute for the wealth of Darner. 
 But," added Maurice Kearney, suddenly becoming cheerful, 
 " if we could get Sir Garrett himself to come down for a week
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 
 
 or two, all would be right. "Wattletoes," he shouted, as he- 
 reached the hall, " get the ass, and tell Mat to bring up a. 
 bag of the seed-wheat to Raheen to finish that corner. Jim 
 and Ned are gone with the horses." 
 
 " There is knavery in every lineament of that old Fender's 
 face," Grace observed. " He is even more odious than his 
 ugly son. I declare Mr. Kearney is quite a judge of charac- 
 ter; he described the pair to the life." 
 
 "Yes, he must be a good judge of character. I know a 
 young lady he considers quite a treasure." 
 
 " Better than a piper in the house," added Grace, laughing. 
 " Between Mr. Kearney and my friend Lory, I have some 
 excuse for being a little vain which, of course, I am not,, 
 however." 
 
 " Of course not," returned Mary. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 THE HOOK-NOSED STEED. 
 
 "HERB is Beresford! Here is Beresford! Here is Beres- 
 ford! Going to dine at Woodlands! Going to dine at 
 Woodlands! Going to dine at Woodlands! Well, Beres- 
 ford! Well, well, Beresford, do you expect much company? 
 Do you expect much company to-day?" 
 
 "I think not to-day. Only the family," replied Mr. 
 Beresford Fender, in his mighty voice. 
 
 Old Isaac stood in the lawn in front of his own house, 
 talking to three or four poor men, evidently belonging to the 
 class of small farmers for they looked too spirit-broken for 
 "labouring men" who pulled off their hats as Beresford 
 strode past, and kept them off while he turned round for a. 
 minute on reaching the door, and stared at nothing in par- 
 ticular straight before him. 
 
 "Going to dine at Woodlands!" muttered the old gentle- 
 man, contemplating his son with a sort of wonder, as if his-
 
 296 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 greatness were something altogether bewildering and un- 
 fathomable. 
 
 He was not going to dine at Woodlands and old Isaac 
 knew it; but old Isaac seemed haunted by the idea that 
 Beresford was going to dine at Woodlands at all hours and 
 seasons, because Beresford did dine at Woodlands once in his 
 life. It might be supposed that he had recourse to this fic- 
 tion in order to impress his hearers with a due sense of his 
 son's importance; but if old Isaac were quite alone, he would 
 have muttered to himself three times that Beresford was 
 41 going to dine at Woodlands." 
 
 Mr. Isaac Fender did not at all resemble Mr. Beresford 
 Fender outwardly. He was nervous and fidgety, and seemed 
 perpetually on the look-out for some threatened danger; to 
 escape from which, judging from appearances, he would go 
 through an auger-hole; while Beresford looked a very dare- 
 devil, who would glory in finding himself in a den of lions, 
 and seemed always defying creation in general to mortal 
 combat. 
 
 After scowling defiance at the avenue gate, Mr. Beresford 
 Fender turned into the parlour and commenced pacing up 
 and down the uncarpeted floor. 
 
 " No, no, colonel!" he muttered; "that will never do. 
 
 The scoundrels must be kept down, by ." We will omit 
 
 Mr Beresford*Fender's oaths. 
 
 Mr. Beresford Fender was as fond of holding imaginary 
 conversations with this "colonel" as his father was of send- 
 ing him to eat imaginary dinners at Woodlands. 
 
 "I don't think," said Isaac, closing the door carefully 
 behind him, and looking under the table for a concealed 
 assassin, " I don't think Mr. Lowe wants to have anything to 
 do with the property. I don't think he does. I was afraid 
 he came down to see about these complaints some of the 
 fellows are making. But he never went near any of the 
 tenants. So that it was only Maurice Kearney asked him 
 down for a few days' shooting. That was all. I know that 
 must be the way." 
 
 " But you wouldn't know what them Kearneys might put 
 into his head," returned Beresford. 
 
 "Well, well," rejoined old Isaac in his nervous, anxious 
 way, " I don't think they can take any advantage of us. I
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 297 
 
 don't think Sir Garrett would be bothered with stories. You 
 see he didn't renew the lease for Kearney when I explained 
 to him that the gentlemen of the county were opposed to 
 giving leases. And when Mr. Lowe will be after talking to 
 them at the meeting he will understand how it is. But, on 
 the other hand, if I was sure he had nothing to do with the 
 management of the property, I 'd rather he wouldn't go to the 
 meeting at all. It might only put things into his head. 
 And he might set Sir Garrett astray/' 
 
 " I think," muttered Beresford, " he ought to know the 
 danger of being in this part of the country. He ought to 
 be made see it is no joke to collect rents with the muzzle of 
 a blunderbuss looking into your face at every turn." 
 
 Old Isaac started, and, closing one of the shutters, placed 
 his back against the wall between the two windows, and 
 commenced rubbing his hand over his face as if a swarm of 
 midges were persecuting him. 
 
 " Well, if that could be done," he replied, " it might be no 
 harm. But I don't see how it could be managed." 
 
 " I was talking to Darby about it," rejoined his son, "and 
 I think we can manage it." 
 
 " "Well, Beresford, be cautious. Don't do anything rash. 
 Easy things are best." 
 
 " That 's a fine place Kearney has," Beresford observed, 
 after opening the shutter his father had closed, and looking 
 out on the unsheltered fields around Wellington Lodge. 
 " Do you think he can hold?" 
 
 " I don't know," his father replied. " He was always 
 extravagant. Always extravagant," he repeated, as if he were 
 very sorry that so good a man as Maurice Kearney had not 
 more sense. " But 'tis time enough to think of that. Tis 
 the Ballyraheen business that's making me uneasy." And 
 Isaac rubbed his face as if the midges began biting him 
 again. 
 
 "I'd hunt 'em," returned Beresford, "like rats." 
 
 " Now, Beresford now, Beresford, don't be rash. These 
 things should be done quietly. There's no use in making a 
 noise when it can be avoided. If I had my own way I could 
 manage them. But I don't like making a noise and exas- 
 perating people when it can be done in a quiet way." 
 
 " Xo surrender !" muttered Beresford.
 
 298 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 , Beresford ! There is Stubbleton has his property 
 cleared out to a man without even bringing out the Sheriff. 
 I know 'twas rather expensive at first, but he got it back on 
 the double after a little time; besides avoiding talk." 
 
 "How did he do it?" 
 
 " Well, he let them run into arrears first, and then 'twas 
 easy to manage them. They gave up one by one. Then he 
 commenced extensive drainage and improvements, and gave 
 employment to all the small tenants on condition that they 
 would give up possession, and they could then remain as care- 
 takers. Some of them were earning thirty shillings and two 
 pounds a week with their horses. They were never so well 
 off in their lives, and were always praying for their land- 
 lord. But when the work was finished, they saw whatever 
 they had spared would soon be gone; and as they were aftei 
 giving up their land some of them thought they would get 
 it back again, for his steward is a knowing man, and when he 
 saw any of them unwilling to give up possession he used to 
 give them a hint that if they did not give any trouble they 
 might get back the farms, and larger farms but when they 
 saw they should leave even the houses at a week's notice, 
 they went to America while they were able. So that Stub- 
 bleton had his whole property cleared without as much as a 
 paragraph in the newspapers about it. He divided it into 
 large farms, then, and got heavy fines and a good rent that 
 more than repaid him for what he lost. The parish priest 
 denounced him as an exterminator; but Stubbleton gave a 
 farm to the priest's nephew, and it put a stop to that. I 'm 
 told he 's thinking of standing for the county on Liberal prin- 
 ciples at the next election. So you see, Beresford, easy 
 things are best." 
 
 " And do 'you mean to say," Beresford asked, " that you 'd 
 let the Ballyraheen fellows run two or three years in arrears ?" 
 
 " No, no; that would be too much. But I 'd put out only 
 a few at first and give their land to the larger tenants. Then 
 others would be expecting the same, and they 'd offer money 
 to the small holders for their good-will. In fact they 'd evict 
 one another. The great point is to divide them; for when 
 they pull together 'tis dangerous," added old Isaac, rubbing 
 his face as if he were bent upon rubbing the shrivelled skin 
 off.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TrPPERARY. 299 
 
 " And what are you going to do with Kearney ?" 
 " Well, he owes about a year's rent, but I don't think Si? 
 Garrett will press him. We '11 try and let him alone for & 
 while. Maurice Kearney is a good sort of man, and his lease: 
 is nearly expired. I 'd like to have him let run on till the 
 lease drops, and then we could see what would be best." 
 
 " Why couldn't you press him and make him pay up ? I 'd 
 be down on him the very day the rent fell due." 
 
 " Xow Beresford, I wonder at you. Just think, if he had 
 his rent paid up when the lease dropped, how much harder 
 it would be to get him out than if he owed a couple of years' 
 rent. He's an open-hearted sort of man that never looks 
 before him; and I don't think Sir Garrett would like to press 
 him at present." 
 
 " Is Hanly threatening still to come down on you for that 
 bond? 1 ' Beresford inquired. 
 
 Old Isaac shambled all round the table, and Avas again 
 attacked by the midges. 
 
 " I 'm afraid," he replied at last, " I 'm afraid, if we can't 
 manage to get him a farm, he '11 do something. The two 
 Donnellys are giving up possession; and there will be no 
 trouble about the Widow Keating; but without Tom Hogan's 
 farm there is no use offering their places to Hanly." 
 
 " An' sure Hogan has no lase ?" 
 
 " I know that I know that. But he has improved the 
 place so much, and pays such a high rent, and is so well able 
 to pay it, I 'm afraid 'twill make a noise if he can't be induced 
 to go of his own free will. He 's a headstrong kind of a man, 
 and I '111 afraid he can't be got to listen to reason." 
 
 " But if nothing else will satisfy Hanly?" 
 
 "That's true that's true, Beresford. 'Tis a hard case. 
 A very hard case." And Isaac fell to rubbing his face 
 again. 
 
 The fact was Mr. Isaac Fender had speculated in railway 
 shares, and burnt his fingers, and Attorney Hanly held his 
 bond for a considerable sum. But if Attorney Hanly could 
 get about a hundred acres of land adjoining his own, includ- 
 ing Tom Hogan's farm, he would be accommodating in the 
 matter of the bond. To be sure he never said so but a nod 
 is as good as a wink from an eccentric attorney to an old 
 land agent. And between these two worthies it will, we fear,
 
 300 KNOCKNAGOW j 
 
 go hard with poor Tom Hogan; particularly as his "heart 
 is stuck" in the little farm, which has cost him the labour of 
 thirty long years to make it what it is now, like " a piece of 
 the Golden Vein dropped among the rushes and yallow clay 
 all around it," as Mat Donovan said. 
 
 "But do you think Kearney can hold long?" Beresford 
 asked again, putting his flexible nose against the window so 
 that he could see the fine old trees and young plantations 
 around Maurice Kearney's cottage. 
 
 " Indeed I don't think he can," his worthy father replied, 
 as if in the charity of his benevolent heart he wished to 
 believe that Maurice Kearney was not quite devoid of Chris- 
 tian principles. " I don't think he can. He lost too much 
 by draining that bog; and he met with many disappointments 
 from time to time. He lost his cattle by the distemper, and 
 I don't think the sheep pay so well. He has the Raheen 
 farm all under tillage, too, and if prices continue low he 
 must lose by it. So that I don't think he is likely to hold 
 long." 
 
 " Here is Lowe," said Beresford. "I just want to spake 
 to Darby. I'll be back in a few minutes." 
 
 " My worthy sir," exclaimed old Isaac, as he shambled out 
 to receive his visitor, " I 'in proud to welcome you to my 
 humble residence proud to welcome you to Wellington 
 Lodge. Come in, Mr. Lowe come in. Darby, take Mr. 
 Lowe's horse take Mr. Lowe's horse." 
 
 Mr. Lowe glanced at the " humble residence," and thought; 
 that Wellington Lodge, with its unplastered walls for the 
 house was unfinished, though not new was by no means an 
 inviting domicile. 
 
 " Sit down, Mr. Lowe sit down. Here is Beresford 
 here is Beresford." 
 
 " A fine day, Mr. Lowe," said Beresford, advancing with 
 his arm stretched out like a pump-handle. " I hope you 
 will dine with us to-day," he added; and immediately the 
 runaway look came into his countenance, as if he expected 
 to be forthwith ordered out of the room, for his assurance. 
 
 " I promised Mrs. Kearney to be back to dinner," returned 
 Mr. Lowe quietly. " I had a letter to-day, and it appears 
 Sir Garrett is returning to the Continent immediately. I 
 must be in Dublin early next week."
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPEBARY. 301 
 
 " I knew Sir Garrett would not stay long in Ireland. I 
 knew he would soon go back to the Continent," exclaimed 
 Mr. Isaac Fender in a voice almost as big as his son's the 
 midges which seemed hovering above his head at the men- 
 tion of the letter, vanishing when he heard that the landlord 
 was about leaving Ireland without visiting Tipperary. 
 
 " I think we had better go," Mr. Lowe observed, laughing. 
 " It would be too bad if I went back without at least looking 
 at the houses of some of the tenantry." 
 
 Mr. Isaac Fender laughed too, and shuffled about the room, 
 rubbing his hands instead of his face, like a very pleasant old 
 gentleman. 
 
 "Why, Beresford why, Beresford is it going to ride 
 that old horse you are? Where is your own horse V old 
 Isaac asked, in real surprise, as one of the poor tenants who 
 remained hanging about the house in the hope that some- 
 thing might turn up for their advantage, led the two horses 
 round from the stable. 
 
 "My own horse is after casting a shoe," Beresford re- 
 plied. 
 
 "But is it safe to ride that old horse? Look at his knees 
 look at his knees." 
 
 The animal referred to was a tall, raw-boned, hook-nosed, 
 ill-conditioned brute, both morally and physically. 
 
 "There's no danger," replied Beresford, climbing into the 
 saddle, in which he sat quite perpendicularly, with his elbows 
 as far as possible from his ribs. 
 
 " Where is Darby, to open the gate ?" his father called out. 
 
 " I sent him of a message," Beresford answered, as he rode 
 off upon the hook-nosed steed, who, it may be remarked, 
 rejoiced in the name of " Waterloo." 
 
 Two of the poor tenants before alluded to ran to open the 
 gate, dividing the honour equally between them, as one raised 
 the latch, while the other pulled up the long, perpendicular 
 bolt. There was some delay and a little jostling, as in their 
 hurry the two took hold of the same side of the gate, and 
 then both let that side go and took hold of the other after 
 the manner of people who meet suddenly at a street turning; 
 but at last each took his own side, and the gate stood wide 
 open, the men pulling off their hats and looking, we are 
 ashamed to say, as if they were ready to lie down and let
 
 ?02 KXOCKN'AGOW ; 
 
 "Waterloo" trample upon them, if Mr. Beresford Fender so 
 desired. But, it must be remembered, they were conceived 
 and born under a notice-to-quit; it took the light out of 
 their mother's smile, and ploughed furrows in their father's 
 face while he was yet young; it nipped the budding pleasures 
 of childhood as a frost will nip the spring flowers, and youth's 
 and manhood's joys withered under its shadow; it taught 
 them to cringe, and fawn, and lie; and made them what they 
 are now, as they stand there with heads uncovered while Mr. 
 Henry Lowe and Mr. Beresford Fender ride through the gate 
 of Wellington Lodge. 
 
 They rode for half-an-hour in silence up a narrow road that 
 led into a rather wild looking glen among the hills. Mr. 
 Lowe was busy with his own thoughts; and his companion, 
 not being largely gifted with conversational powers, confined 
 himself to staring at nothing but between the ears of the 
 hook-nosed steed. 
 
 " That 's Kearney's farm," he observed at last, " where the 
 ploughs are at work." 
 
 "I believe that's Mr. Kearney himself at the further end 
 of the field," returned Mr. Lowe. 
 
 "He has that place for twenty-five shillings an acre," con- 
 tinued Beresford. " It ought to be two pounds, but he has 
 a lease." 
 
 "Oh, is that you, Mat?" Mr. Lowe exclaimed, on coming 
 up with Mat Donovan, who was striding along in advance 
 of Barney Brodherick's donkey-cart Barney himself having 
 disappeared down a ravine by the roadside to cut a black- 
 thorn stick which had caught his fancy, leaving Bobby to 
 tumble after him if anything happened to catch his fancy 
 at the bottom of the ravine. 
 
 " Yis, sir, I 'm goin' to scatther this grain o' whate," Mat 
 answered, pointing to a bag in the donkey-cart. "An' where 
 the divil is Wattletoes gone ?" he exclaimed, on finding the 
 driver missing. But Barney soon appeared with his black- 
 thorn under his arm, and Mat walked on with the horse- 
 men. 
 
 "I'm told," said Mr. Fender, who seemed to have re- 
 covered the use of his tongue, " I 'm told Mr. Kearney wants 
 ahorse?" 
 
 "Well, he was talkin' uv buyin' a horse, as the spring
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 303 
 
 work will be heavy; and he don't like to be hard on the 
 ould mare he 's so fond uv her." 
 
 "I'd sell him this horse I'm riding cheap," said Mr. 
 Fender. 
 
 Mat eyed the hook-nosed steed, and shook his head. 
 
 " He 's a first-rate horse for the plough," continued " Water- 
 loo's" owner, patting him on the shoulder. 
 
 " He 's a legacy," returned Mat Donovan, sententiously. 
 
 "What would you say he's worth?" Mr. Lowe asked, 
 laughing. 
 
 " He 's an ould Bian, sir," replied Mat. 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 "Wan uv them broken-down jingle horses," Mat answered. 
 
 " He means one of Bianconi's car-horses," said Beresford, 
 in reply to Mr. Lowe's look. " They call 'em Bians. But 
 you are mistaken," he added, " this fellow belonged to the 
 lancers." 
 
 "Well, now that you remind me uv id," returned Mat, 
 seriously, " he has a warlike look. But the divil a far you 'd 
 ride him before you 'd be axed, ' What tan-yard wor you 
 bound for?'" 
 
 " He 'd do the spring work well for Mr. Kearney," rejoined 
 Beresford, reining up his steed as they reached the gate of 
 the farmyard. 
 
 Mat moved back a pace or two and surveyed " Waterloo," 
 from his apology for a tail to his Roman nose. 
 
 " He '11 never hear the cuckoo," he observed oracularly. 
 
 Mr. Lowe had become sufficiently acquainted with Mat the 
 Thrasher's figurative mode of expression to understand from 
 this that Mat was of opinion the warlike steed would not live 
 till the middle of April. 
 
 " I '11 turn in to speak to Mr. Kearney," he observed. 
 
 " I '11 ride on and you will overtake me," returned Beres- 
 ford. 
 
 " This is a fine day for seed-sowing, Mr. Kearney," said 
 the young gentleman, after riding round the headland; "and 
 this land seems to be in very good condition for it." 
 
 " I drained and subsoiled all this place," returned Maurice 
 Kearney, waving his hand to indicate the extent of his im- 
 provement. "And brought the water all down to the river 
 by that lead. You see it would turn a mill."
 
 304 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 " I should not have expected that land on the side of a 
 rather steep hill like this would require draining." 
 
 "The subsoil was like a flag, and all the water oozed 
 through the surface," replied Mr. Kearney. " Look all along 
 there beyond and you can see the difference." 
 
 " I certainly do see the difference," replied Mr. Lowe. 
 " There, for instance, that field where the man is digging is 
 not at all like this. Even the colour of the soil is quite 
 different. 
 
 " He's preparing that for oats," said Maurice Kearney. " I 
 don't know how that poor man is able to live and pay the 
 nent at all." 
 
 The man looked up and touched his hat, and they saw 
 Mr. Beresford Fender passing within a little distance of 
 him. 
 
 Suddenly he stuck his spade in the ground and started 
 forward towards the road. But, stopping short, after running 
 some ten or twelve yards, he hastened back and commenced 
 digging again with his head bent over his spade. 
 
 "By Jove!" exclaimed Maurice Kearney, "Fender is 
 down!" 
 
 Mr. Lowe put spurs to his horse and galloped to the 
 assistance of Mr. Beresford Fender, who was lying motionless 
 upon the road. " "Waterloo" was down, too, but was exerting 
 all his strength in a straggling effort to gather his bony car- 
 case out of the puddle. 
 
 " I hope you are not hurt," Mr. Lowe observed, for by the 
 time he had reached the scene of the accident, Mr. Fender 
 had risen to his feet, and was scraping the puddle off his left 
 cheek with the nails of his fingers. 
 
 Beresford only glared all around him, by way of reply. 
 He was thinking, as far as the confused state of his wits and 
 the singing in his head would allow, whether the affair could 
 be turned into an " outrage." 
 
 "Didn't you see me fall?" he muttered, addressing the 
 man who had been digging in the field, and who now came 
 up leading Mr. Fender's horse, and carefully wiping the mud 
 from the bridle with the* sleeve of his coat for "Waterloo" 
 had set off for home at, for him, a very respectable trot 
 " Didn't you see me fall?" 
 
 "Begor, I did, sir," he answered, "but when you worn't
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERAKV. 305 
 
 stirrin' I thought you wor dead an' you bein' such a bad 
 cha-rac-ter I was afeard to have anything to do wud you." 
 
 " Xice people to live among," muttered Beresford. 
 
 "What does he mean?" Mr. Lowe asked, turning to 
 Maurice Kearney, who had just come up panting for breath, 
 and wiping his face with his pocket-handkerchief. 
 
 " He means," was the reply, " that if Pender was killed 
 he might swing for it. And, as it is, he may be thankful 
 that you and I saw it all Many a man was transported for 
 less." 
 
 The smoke from the chimneys of Knocknagow attracted 
 Mr. Lowe's attention for dinner hour was approaching 
 and from the pointed gables of Phil Lahy's old house he 
 turned to a pointed gable in the trees, a little to the right ; 
 and thought it would be pleasanter to spend the afternoon 
 in that quarter than riding with Mr. Beresford Pender up 
 among those wild hills. 
 
 "Of course you won't venture to ride that horse again?" 
 he said. 
 
 "No, I'll lead him," replied Mr. Pender. 
 
 "Oh, we'll go back," said Mr. Lowe. "I couldn't think 
 of asking you to walk." 
 
 " But I 'd like you 'd come as far as that place of my own." 
 
 "How far is it?" 
 
 "About a mile. There it is above where you see the 
 three poplar trees." 
 
 "Oh, 'tis very far," returned Mr. Lowe. "I'd much 
 prefer returning." 
 
 Mr. Beresford Pender ground his teeth, and commenced 
 to kick "Waterloo" in the ribs. 
 
 "Could I leave him here?" he asked, "and would you 
 send one of these men for my servant?" 
 
 "Yes," replied Mr. Kearney, not very graciously, "put 
 him under the shed in the yard, and I '11 tell Wattletoes to 
 run up for your man. As you're going back," he added, 
 turning to Mr. Lowe, " I '11 go with you." 
 
 " Oh, don't leave your business on my account." 
 
 "I have no more business here; Mat will see everything 
 right. Mat," he called out, "when you have that seed 
 scattered, bring your own plough-irons to the forge, as I 'm 
 going to break the kiln-field."
 
 306 KNOCKXAGOW ; 
 
 " Goin' to break the kiln-field ! " exclaimed Mat in amaze- 
 ment; "begob, it is a shame for you!" 
 
 Mat Donovan seemed so thunderstruck by this intelli- 
 gence, that Mr. Lowe thought breaking the kiln-field must 
 be a heartless and an altogether unjustifiable proceeding 
 something like turning out a widow and nine young children 
 to perish on the roadside. 
 
 "An' there is the whole winter gone now," continued 
 Mat, looking at Mr. Lowe, as much as to say, "Was the 
 like ever known before in any civilized country under thr 
 sun?" 
 
 "Why so?" his master asked. 
 
 "Why so 1 ?" retorted Mat, almost gruffly. "An' not a 
 field about the place that a goal could be hurled in wud any 
 satisfaction. We couldn't finish the match between the two- 
 sides uv the river in Doran's moon-thaun on account uv the 
 disputes about the fall. An' there was the kiln-field, that 
 ud put a stop to all bother, goin' for nothin'. An' you never 
 let us know you wor goin' to break it." 
 
 "I didn't make up my mind about it till lasb night," 
 replied Maurice Kearney, as if he were really ashamed of 
 himself; for when a large field is intended to be broken, it is 
 customary to give it for hurling matches, and even horse races 
 during the winter months. 
 
 "There's no help for id now," rejoined Mat Donovan, 
 with resignation. " But I '11 send word to Tom Cuddehy 
 this evenin'," he continued musingly, "an' we '11 have wan> 
 Sunday out uv id at any rate." 
 
 He filled the long, narrow straw basket out of the bag, 
 which now stood on the ground beside the little blue cart, . 
 and commenced scattering the seed before the two ploughs. 
 Jim Dunne and Tom Maher both remarked that Mat stopped 
 very often to gaze towards the three poplar trees on the 
 hill, for which Barney Brodherick was now making at the 
 top of his speed muttering curses on Mr. Beresford Fender 
 and his hook-nosed charger for being the cause of sending 
 him upon a journey, that would be sure to entail " Bally hooly" 
 upon his devoted head when he got home, for being away so 
 long. 
 
 " If ever I marry, I solemnly vow, 
 I'll marry young Roger that follies the plough,"
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 307 
 
 Tom Maher chanted, as he passed by Mat in order to attract 
 his attention. But Mat gave no heed to him. 
 
 He was thinking how, one summer evening some years 
 before, he was standing upon the little bridge upon Avhich 
 Xed Brophy's heart was wont to fall to pieces, and seeing 
 the bright face beside him become pensive, he inquired 
 the cause. " t always feel sad," she replied, " when I look 
 at the Three Trees. I love that old place better than any 
 place else in the world." And ever since that summer even- 
 ing, so surely as he looked at the three poplar trees, so 
 surely would Mat Donovan commence to build a castle in 
 the air. 
 
 "God save all here! Where is Darby?" exclaimed Barney 
 in a breath, as he burst into Mr. Beresford Fender's farm- 
 house. 
 
 "Wisha, is that Barney?" returned the old woman who 
 acted as a housekeeper. "An', Barney, what way are you? 
 An' have you any strange news? An' is id thrue ye 're goin' 
 to have a weddin' at the cottage? An' what soart is the 
 young man? I always said that Miss Mary was a lady; an' 
 Barney, is my words goin' to come thrue in earnest, an' no 
 mistake?" 
 
 This torrent of questions bewildered Barney considerably; 
 but he grappled with one of them, and answered : 
 
 "Very well, I thank you, Poll." 
 
 "An' 'tis yourse'f that is lookin' brave an' hearty, sure 
 enough," returned Poll. " 'Tis of'en your mother tould me 
 you wor the very moral uv your poor father, God be good to 
 him. ' Poll,' siz she, ' look at Barney runnin' up the road. I 
 can hardly b lieve the sight uv my eyes that id isn't his father 
 is in id." 
 
 A striking proof, it may be remarked, of the truth of the 
 proverb, "Every eye forms a beauty" bearing in mind the 
 clerk's daughter of Ballyporeen. 
 
 "Where is Darby?" Barney asked again. 
 
 "'Maurice Kearney's daughter is a fine girl, Poll," sil 
 Mr. Beresford. ' 'Tis a pity she hasn't a fortune.' ' 'Faix 
 an' sure 'tis she that will have the fortune, and the fine for- 
 tune,' siz I ; ' for isn't her father wan uv the richest men in 
 the parish V siz I. ' The divil a stiver she '11 get,' siz Mr. 
 Beresford, ' he 's too extravagant, an' he lays out too much
 
 308 KXOCKSTAGOW; 
 
 on his place, dvainin' an plantin',' siz he, 'an' more d n fool 
 Kearney is,' siz Mr. Beresford." 
 
 " Do you think a Kearney would marry one of his breed?" 
 exclaimed Barney, indignantly. " Tell me where is Darby, 
 an' don't keep me here all day, an' all I have to do." 
 
 "Is id Darby? "Well, Darby kem in that doore a while 
 ago, an' tuck down the gun off uv the rack. ' Darby,' siz I, 
 'where are you goin"?' 'Ax the divil,' siz Darby. But it 
 might be betther for Darby if he kept a civil tongue in his 
 head. I do have my eyes an' my ears open, though they think 
 I don't. An' maybe I could tell some things that 'ud get 
 some people into a nice hoult if I liked. So 'twould be 
 betther for Darby to keep a civil tongue in his head." 
 
 " Blur-an'-ouns, Foil, tell me where he is an' let me go." 
 
 " Well, I see him loadin' the gun in the stable," the old 
 woman answered. "An' maybe I didn't notice 'twas a lead 
 ball he put in id," she muttered, " though 'twas little Darby 
 suspected I had my eye on him. An' maybe 'twould be 
 betther for Darby if he kep a civil tongue in his head." 
 
 This speech, except the first few words, was a soliloquy, 
 for by the time it was concluded Barney was running from 
 one to the other of the out-offices in search of Darby Ruadh 
 or Darby the " Eed-haired." 
 
 " Begob," Barney soliloquised, as he ran from one empty 
 and ruined outhouse to another, looking up at the sky 
 through the broken roof, and at the patches of grass growing 
 through the floors " begob, this is a quare soart uv a place. 
 The divil a cow or a calf, or a sheep or a goat, put a fut in 
 there this five year. jSTor a pig, nor a slip, nor a bonnive," 
 he added, running in and out of two or three other offices in 
 the same condition as the cowhouse. " Nor a goose, nor a 
 goslin, nor a duck, nor a cock, nor a hen, nor a chicken nor 
 a wranneen, nor anything!" he shouted, as he stopped short 
 after finishing his round, and gazed in amazement on the 
 ruined concern, from the thatched dwelling-house to the 
 roofless pig-sty. "This is not the soart uv place id was 
 afore poor Dick Morris was turned out, an' Fender on'y 
 keeps grazin' stock in the summer and nothin' at all in the 
 winther. Oh ! be the hoky ! he has a big windy broke out 
 here!" exclaimed Barney, as he turned the corner of the 
 house and. found himself face to face with a large window.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 309 
 
 which certainly was not in. keeping with the old thatched 
 house, but which, according to Mr. Beresford Fender's 
 notions, had the advantage of proclaiming to all passers-by 
 that the place was in the possession of a "gentleman." 
 
 "I'll run over to the double-ditch," continued Barney. 
 "an 5 if he's about the place I can see him bad luck to him 
 for bringin' me up here." 
 
 K"ot a living thing did he see from the double-ditch, but 
 two carrion crows on a little island in the middle of a field 
 covered with water. He felt a sense of desolation as he looked 
 all round the dreary spot. And observing a sirgle magpie- 
 which all the world knows is a sign of bad luck pitching 
 upon one of the rafters of the tumble-down barn, Barney 
 resolved to get away from the ill-omened place as fast as his 
 legs could carry him. He made for a pile of stones at a point 
 of the road, where the engineer had to turn short at a right 
 angle to avoid a level stretch of country, and carry his road 
 over the sharpest point of the hill by which ingenious 
 manoeuvre the engineer added considerably to the length of 
 his road, besides avoiding three miles of a dead level. 
 
 But as Barney approached the landmark by which he 
 steered his course, it suddenly occurred to him that it marked 
 the spot where "Black Humphrey" was found one winter's 
 morning with his skull broken and Barney immediately 
 wheeled to one side, so as to avoid the pile of stones at the 
 turn of the road. For, though it was the middle of the noon- 
 day, and not " the witching hour of night when churchyards 
 yawn," Barney Brodherick felt by no means comfortable, and 
 had a secret misgiving that, in a back-of-God-speed spot like 
 that, Black Humphrey might be met with, looking for the 
 fragments of his cranium, any hour of the twenty-four. He 
 faced now to an old sandpit near the road a little lower down, 
 and was climbing up the embankment on the brink of it, 
 when he suddenly started back and fell down upon his hands 
 and knees. 
 
 "The Lord betune us an' all harm !" he muttered through 
 his chattering teeth, while big drops of perspiration ran down 
 his face. " That flogs all ! 'Twas well Billy Heffernan said 
 there was somethin' bad about the ould sandpit since the 
 night the mule got into a cowld sweat an' she passin' id. 
 But in the middle of the noonday to think he 'd be out uv hi&
 
 310 KXOCKNAGOW; 
 
 warm grave is a show entirely !" For Barney was quite sure 
 he had just caught a glimpse of Black Humphrey himself, 
 with his head all bloody, lying in the old sandpit. 
 
 " If I could get round to th' other side," he continued, 
 " maybe I might be able to cut off before he could see 
 me." 
 
 He crept round the embankment till he came to a gap in 
 it, by which he saw he could not pass without exposing him- 
 self to the object of his terror. Glancing round fearfully, 
 he discovered, greatly to his relief, that Mat Donovan and 
 the ploughmen were within view, though too far off to hear 
 his cry for help if the owner of the bloody head should lay 
 violent hands upon him. He took courage, however, to peep 
 over the embankment again; and to his utter horror the 
 bloody head started up at the same moment, and seemed to 
 be looking along the road, attracted, no doubt, by the sound 
 of horses' hoofs, which Barney could now hear approaching 
 at a brisk trot. This last-mentioned circumstance gave him 
 further courage, and he looked more steadily than before at 
 the figure in the sand-pit. 
 
 " Be the hoky !" exclaimed Barney, " 'tis Darby Ruadh ! " 
 
 And sure enough, there was Darby Ruadh's red head plain 
 'to be seen, as he peered stealthily through a brake of briers 
 over the ravine that divided his hiding-place from the road. 
 A stream gurgled down the hill at the bottom of the ravine; 
 and to its hoarse music, Barney discovered, was added the 
 cawing of a flock of crows, that whirled round and round 
 overhead, sometimes swooping down as if they would preci- 
 pitate themselves into the pit, but suddenly stopping short 
 in their headlong descent, and after a moment's silence 
 and confused clapping of wings, shooting upwards again, 
 till their angry voices were softened and almost lost in the 
 distance. 
 
 "Id must be a fox that's about here," Barney thought, 
 " or else they smell powdher. An', begob, Darby has a gun. 
 [ wondher is id rabbits he's watchin"?" 
 
 The horsemen came nearer and nearer ; and Barney opened 
 his eyes in astonishment and terror, when he saw Darby 
 Ruadh drop upon one knee and thrust the muzzle of his gun 
 through the briers, resting his elbow on the brink of the sand- 
 pit evidently with the intention of taking steady aim.
 
 OR, THE HOMES Of TIPPER ART. 311 
 
 "Be cripes!" Barney mentally ejaculated, " he 's goin' to 
 let the daylight through some wan ! " 
 
 On came the horsemen, nearer and nearer. But just as 
 lie had the gun to his shoulder, Darby Ruadh drew back, 
 as if something unlooked-for had presented itself; and, in 
 stead of firing off his gun, he dropped upon his knees and 
 let the horsemen pass. And, as they got higher up the hill, 
 Barney could see by their shining accoutrements and clank- 
 ing sabres that they were two mounted policemen probably 
 bearing a dispatch to the nearest military barracks for a troop 
 or company of soldiers to protect the sheriff while clearing a 
 townland of its human inhabitants. 
 
 "When Barney looked again into the sandpit, Darby was 
 sitting in an easy position, quietly filling his pipe, with his 
 gun on the ground beside him. 
 
 " Id must be rabbits,'' thought Barney, " though the divil 
 a hole I can see. Bless your work," he added aloud. 
 
 The man in the pit was so startled that his pipe dropped 
 from his mouth, as he scrambled to his feet at the risk of 
 cutting himself with the open knife he held in his hand. 
 
 " In the divil's name what brought you here ?" he growled 
 on seeing who it was who had spoken to him. 
 ' " Your own blessed masther," Barney answered, " an' his 
 ould broken- winded horse that fell ondher him, an' I was sint 
 up to tell you to carry him home. He 's below ondher the 
 shed in Raheen." 
 
 " Aren't they comin' up this way ?" Darby asked. 
 
 " The divil a up," returned Barney. " He 's gone home on 
 shanks' mare." 
 
 " Sweet bad luck to him ! afther all my trouble," growled 
 Darby Ruadh. " I must lave this gun at the house," he 
 added, as he walked off without condescending to take any 
 further notice of Barney, who set off for home muttering that 
 lie 'd want to be able to change himself into a crow, the way 
 he was ordered from one place to another and expected to be 
 back again " while a cat 'd be lickin' his ear" and what was 
 worse, that blackguard Tom Maher would be sure to steal his 
 blackthorn out of the ass's car, where in an evil hour he had 
 left it. 
 
 It was to "Waterloo" that Darby Ruadh wished "sweet 
 bad luck." And we, too, have reason to be indignant with
 
 312 KNOCKNAGOW j 
 
 that unlucky quadruped. Had he but kept upon his legs till 
 he reached the sand-pit, even he, " Waterloo," might have 
 been the making of us. "We 'd have something to tell that 
 would make the reader's breath come and go. The scene of 
 our story would have been immortalised to our hand; half-a- 
 dozen "specials" would have done it. For, had that ill- 
 favoured and in every way disreputable brute not fallen with 
 his rider, Mr. Beresford Fender's horse would have been shot 
 under him or, what would have answered as well, the horse 
 would have been shot when the rider had dismounted and 
 moved to a safe distance; and Mr. Beresford Fender, after 
 discharging all his pistols, would have pursued the intended 
 assassin into the fox cover in the glen and heaven only 
 knows what would have happened after. 
 
 It is a comfort to know that the old " legacy" was " bound 
 for a tanyard;" and that he never did "hear the cuckoo" 
 again. For before that day week his ribs were well polished 
 by old Somerfield's beagles; and for many a day after, his 
 shin-bone might be seen under a little boy's arm at the 
 gable-end of the school-house, behind the quarry, as the little 
 boy glanced over his shoulder at the passing traveller while 
 another little boy was thrusting out his head, impatiently, 
 at the door, and dancing upon his heels. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 THE DRAGOON'S PRESENT. THE BEAUTY RACE. 
 
 DURING all this time Bessy Morris's tongue and fingers were 
 very busy. She talked and plied her needle incessantly ; 
 but ever and anon she would pause for a little while and 
 take to thinking. During those moments of abstraction, 
 Grace remarked that Bessy invariably slipped her hand into 
 her pocket ; and in this little circumstance Grace saw a 
 "mystery" which she resolved forthwith to set about un- 
 ravelling. And as a pocket naturally suggests money, Grace
 
 OB, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 313 
 
 concluded that it was of money Bessy Morris was thinking 
 every time she stopped working and slipped her hand into 
 her pocket. So, by way of a beginning, Grace said : 
 
 "Just before you came in Miss Kearney was lecturing me 
 oecause I allowed my mind to dwell sometimes on so vulgar 
 a subject as wealth. Now don't you agree with me that 
 poverty must be a very disagreeable thing?" 
 
 "Indeed I do," Bessy answered, looking surprised. "I 
 was always wishing to be rich." 
 
 "Did you ever think it would be pleasant to get a ricb 
 husband?" 
 
 "Well, I believe that used to cross my mind sometimes," 
 replied Bessy with a sad sort of smile. " But what I most 
 desired was to be able to do something for myself." 
 
 "I suppose it was that made you learn dressmaking?" 
 Mary observed. 
 
 " It was, Miss," she replied. " Though I pretended to 
 my grandfather that it was on account of my aunt's health 
 I was obliged to stay so long in Dublin. Only for that he 
 would not consent to have me away so long." 
 
 "And were you able to get money?" 
 
 " Well, I was able to lay by a little during the last year. 
 But 'tis very hard to make a fortune, and only that I was 
 stopping with my aunt, I'd find it hard enough to live. 
 My ambition was to earn as much as would make me 
 independent." 
 
 Grace thought that this was a higher ambition than her 
 own. 
 
 " But you seem to have enjoyed the attractions of the city 
 very much, and I wonder how you could come back to the 
 country," she observed, musingly. 
 
 "Well, I could not leave the old man alone," Bessy 
 replied. "And there were other reasons to induce me to 
 come home." 
 
 "And used you not ever wish to be back in the country?" 
 Mary asked. " I fancy I 'd pine away and die longing for 
 the green fields if I were shut up in a city." 
 
 " Well, an odd time I would," Bessy replied. " When I'd 
 be alone of an evening I 'd find myself wishing for the old 
 place and the old friends. But I like excitement, and I 
 think it very dull and lonesome now, having no one hardly 
 
 x
 
 314 KNOCKXAGOW; 
 
 to converse with, and no change, but the same thing over 
 and over every day." 
 
 "I can understand that feeling very well," said Grace. 
 " I am dying to plunge into the gaieties and excitement of 
 Dublin. I am to go next winter, and it puts me in a fever 
 to think of it." 
 
 "I never could be tired of the country," said Mary. 
 
 Bessy Morris made no reply. Her hand was in her pocket 
 again, and her tongue and her needle at rest. 
 
 " Here is a letter that Wattletoes had in his hat, and he 
 forgot it," said Willie as he opened the room-door. 
 
 Mary started in a way that was unusual with her, and 
 snatched the letter eagerly from her brother. "Was she think- 
 ing of another letter which Barney had put in his hat and 
 forgotten ?" 
 
 "It is for you," she remarked, handing the letter to Bessy 
 Morris, who took it without evincing any surprise, and was 
 putting it in her pocket with a quiet smile when Grace said : 
 
 " Oh, you need not stand upon ceremony. Eead it." 
 
 Bessy cut open the envelope with her scissors, and read 
 the letter. 
 
 "Not a love-letter at all events," thought Grace, who 
 was watching the expression of her countenance. " Oh, it 
 is only a habit she has," she added, as Bessy's hand glided 
 into her pocket the moment she had finished reading the 
 letter. 
 
 Grace was wrong in both conjectures. 
 
 "Is it a love-letter?" Mary asked. 
 
 " It is, Miss," replied Bessy, laughing. 
 
 Both Mary and Grace looked at her in surprise, for neither 
 expected such a reply. 
 
 " Maybe you 'd like to read it, Miss," she said, turning to 
 Grace, who eagerly accepted the offer, remarking that it was 
 the first love-letter she had ever seen except in a novel. 
 
 "'DEAR Miss MORRIS,' Oh! that's a shockingly bad 
 beginning. I am quite disappointed ' I take the present 
 favourable opportunity of writing these few lines to you, 
 hoping that you are in the enjoyment of good health, and free 
 from all the ills that flesh is heir to, as Byron says. Dear 
 and best beloved' Ah! that is something," Grace observed, 
 with an approving nod " ' words are inadequate to convey
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 315 
 
 an idea of the state of my mind since that fatal Sunday 
 afternoon, when I called at your highly respectable female 
 relative's, at twenty minutes past one P.M., according to ap- 
 pointment, for the purpose of escorting you to the Zoological 
 Gardens, and the harrowing intelligence fell upon my soul 
 like the war of elements, the wreck of matter, and the crash 
 of worlds as Byron says that you had vanished like a star 
 from the horizon when the storm-lashed barque of the mariner 
 is tossed upon the foaming breakers, and he paces the deck 
 alone, and mourns the hopes that leave him, while his life 
 is a wilderness unblest by fortune's gale, and his fevered 
 lips are parched on Afric's burning sand, and no one near 
 to whisper hopes of happiness and tales of distant lands 
 as Byron says. It was then, for the first time in the course 
 of a chequered existence, that I fully realised the truth of 
 the sentiment that absence makes the heart grow fonder, as 
 the sunflower that turns on its god when he sets the same 
 look that it turned when he rose as Byron says. But, dear 
 Miss Morris, I cannot by any possibility endure my present 
 state of mind, which sleeping or waking 'tis all just the same, 
 8) I have applied for leave of absence for a few days; and, 
 borne on the pinions of affection, I hope to steer my barque 
 to your native locality, the situation of which I have learned 
 from your highly respectable female relative, who has on 
 several occasions poured the balm of hope into my lacerated 
 bosom, and given me all necessary information for finding 
 the whereabouts of the object of my pilgrimage through the 
 valley of the shadow. For truly may I say that the kiss, 
 dear maid, thy lips have left shall never part from mine till 
 happier hours restore the gift untainted back to thine as 
 Byron says. Till then farewell, and give a thought to one 
 who never can cease to think of thee.' " 
 
 "What do you think of it, Miss?" Bessy asked, as Grace 
 was trying to make out the signature, which was dashed off 
 in a manner betokening the distracted state of the writer's 
 mind. 
 
 " Oh, 'tis very fine indeed," she replied with a wise look. 
 
 " But I don't know what to think of that kissing," Mary 
 observed. "Was there really anything of that sort, Bessy?" 
 
 " Well, not much, Miss," returned Bessy, laughing. 
 
 " Take care, Bessy. If he is not a person you really care
 
 316 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 for, there may be something not quite right in it. It is quite 
 possible he feels as he says he does; and if so, what would 
 you do 1" 
 
 Bessy looked grave, but said nothing. 
 
 " Don't mind her preaching," said Grace. " For my part, 
 I'm determined to 'break all hearts like china-ware' as 
 Byron says," she added with her ringing laugh. 
 
 Bessy Morris continued to look grave, and slipped her 
 hand into her pocket, as she had so often done during the 
 day. But this time she drew out the little box Billy Hef- 
 fernan had given her, when Grace thought he was only shak- 
 ing hands with her over his creel. She would have opened 
 it at once, but seeing Mat Donovan approaching, she thrust 
 it hurriedly into her pocket, looking so frightened for a 
 moment, and so very innocent and unconscious immediately 
 after, that Billy Heffernan shook his head as he drove on 
 after the usual "Yo-up, Kit!" to his mule, and mentally 
 came to the conclusion that Bessy had "the two ways in 
 her." 
 
 "But where is the wan uv 'em that haven't?" Billy Hef- 
 fernan philosophically observed, as he untied his whip, and 
 gave Kit who was deliberately bent upon bringing the wheel 
 of his cart into contact with that of an approaching dray a 
 touch upon the shoulder that made her wince, and keep her 
 own side of the road. 
 
 Mat Donovan escorted Bessy to the house, and she had no 
 opportunity to examine the dragoon's gift alone afterwards, 
 though her curiosity was sufficiently strong every time her 
 thoughts recurred to it. 
 
 Removing the paper in which it was wrapped, she hastily 
 took off the lid of the little box. She started on seeing what 
 it contained, and after looking at it for nearly a minute with 
 her eyes wide open, handed it to Miss Kearney. 
 
 "They are very handsome," she observed. 
 
 " Oh, they are just the same as Eve's," exclaimed Grace,, >( 
 snatching the box from Mary's hand, "just the same." 
 
 "Do you think are they gold, Miss?" Bessy asked. 
 
 " Oh, yes, I am quite sure they are gold," returned Mary. 
 
 Bessy Morris seized the box, quite agitated with pleasure, 
 and taking from it one of a handsome pair of earrings, fixed 
 it with a trembling hand in her ear.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF T1PPEUARY. 317 
 
 "Is it the gift or the giver you are thinking of? "Grace 
 asked, as she marked the flush deepen upon her cheek. 
 
 Bessy looked as if she did not comprehend the question, 
 but after a minute's reflection she understood it very well. 
 
 " I believe," she replied thoughtfully, " I was thinking of 
 nothing but that I had a pair of gold earrings. I was often 
 wishing to have them, but they were too dear for myself to 
 buy them." 
 
 " You seem to be very candid," returned Mary. 
 
 " It is too much that way I am," she replied. 
 
 "Some wise man has said," Grace observed, "that the 
 proper use of language is to conceal our thoughts; and, to a 
 certain extent, I agree with him." 
 
 " Indeed you do not," said Mary. " You know nothing is 
 more odious than duplicity and deceit." 
 
 " But a little diplomacy is necessary to get on smoothly 
 through the world. You have told us nothing about your 
 admirer," she added, turning to Bessy Morris. " Who and 
 what is he?" 
 
 " If they are real gold," Bessy observed, contemplatively, 
 as she looked at the earrings, " his love must be true." 
 
 " I am not sure that is quite correct reasoning," said Mary, 
 with a smile. " I fear real gold is not always a proof of true 
 love." 
 
 " But sure he would not go to such expense," returned 
 Bessy. 
 
 " Oh, I have no doubt but he admires you very much," 
 replied Mary; "and, unless he is rich, so costly a present may 
 be a proof of the ardour of his regard for you." 
 
 "Well, he's only a sergeant in the army, Miss," replied 
 Bessy. 
 
 " Oh, it is quite romantic !" Grace exclaimed. 
 
 Bessy Morris suddenly became very industrious, and Miss 
 Kearney thought she was trying to make up for the time 
 lost on account of the gold earrings. But Bessy's mind was 
 busy as well as her fingers. Miss Kearney's warning, though 
 given half in jest, startled her, and she began to examine her 
 conscience in reference to her conduct towards the soldier. 
 She could not conceal from herself that she had done her 
 best to attract him, and was flattered by every evidence of 
 her success. She had tried to " get inside " other girls, and
 
 318 KNOCKXAGOW ; 
 
 it gratified her vanity to see herself preferred to them. She 
 even thought her heart was touched, she felt so pained when 
 she fancied her admirer was wavering in his allegiance. But 
 when she became quite sure he loved her, she found that she 
 did not really care for him; and, perhaps, to get rid of his 
 attentions was one reason for her leaving Dublin. The 
 intensity of his passion was so evident when she met him in 
 her grandfather's house, after returning from the wedding, 
 that it quite frightened her, and, in spite of the candour 
 upon which she had just plumed herself, she shrank from 
 telling Miss Kearney that her martial suitor had already 
 "steered his barque" to Knocknagow; for she devoutly 
 hoped no one in the neighbourhood would ever know any- 
 thing about it, as Peg Brady had promised faithfully to keep 
 the dragoon's visit a profound secret, and Billy Heffernan 
 said nothing about him except that he had met him in 
 Clonmel. 
 
 She stopped sewing, and, resting her hand upon the table, 
 commenced tapping it nervously, just as she had done while 
 sitting in her grandfather's chair, after the soldier's passionate 
 farewell. Happening to glance through the window, a sad, 
 wistful look came into her face; and it was so evident that 
 this look was called up by some object upon which her eyes 
 rested, that Grace followed their direction, to see what it 
 could be that made Bessy Morris look so sad, and, as she 
 thought, yearningly. Grace could see nothing in the direc- 
 tion of her gaze but three tall trees standing all alone upon 
 the bare hill. 
 
 "I often remark those lonely-looking trees," she observed, 
 " and when the wind is drifting the snow or the cold rain 
 over the hill, I quite pity them. I fancy they must feel the 
 cold. And they sometimes remind me of three tall nuns." 
 
 " They are more like round towers, or something of that 
 sort," said Mary. 
 
 " Their shadow is now on the house where I was born," 
 said Bessy Morris. 
 
 "Indeed!" said Grace. "I thought you must feel inter- 
 ested in something up there; you looked so earnestly in that 
 direction." 
 
 " My mother was the daughter of a respectable farmer," 
 Bessy continued. " And though my father was the son of a
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 319 
 
 tradesman, he was considered a good match for her, as his 
 father was able to give him three hundred pounds, which was 
 given as a fortune to my mother's sister. I suppose you know, 
 Miss, a weaver was a good trade in Ireland long ago. But 
 the rent was raised and crops failed, and my father was 
 ejected. 'Twas a cruel case, every one said, and no one ever 
 offered to take the farm since ; so that it conies into my 
 mind sometimes that I '11 live there again." 
 
 " Is your mother dead 1 ?" Grace asked. 
 
 " She is, Miss. The day the sheriff was there to turn 
 them out she clung to the door, and one of the bailiffs, in 
 dragging her from it, threw her upon the ground, and it was 
 thought the fall killed her; but I believe it was her heart 
 that broke." 
 
 "And is your father alive?" 
 
 " I hope he is, but I don't know." 
 
 Grace looked at her with surprise. 
 
 " When he heard my mother scream," continued Bessy, 
 " and saw Darby Ruadh fling her upon the ground, he lost 
 all control over himself, and taking hold of one of the police- 
 men's guns, he dragged it from him and knocked the bailiff 
 down with the butt end of it. He then swore he 'd shoot 
 the first man who would lay a hand on him; and they were all 
 so much taken by surprise that they let him walk out of the 
 yard, and he had a good start before they ran after him." 
 
 "Did they catch him?" Grace asked eagerly. 
 
 " No, Miss," returned Bessy, " he hid himself in an old 
 sandpit on the farm and escaped." 
 
 " Do you remember your father and mother?" Mary asked. 
 
 " I do, Miss, well," she replied. " My mother was a beau- 
 tiful young woman. She died the next night at my grand- 
 father's. And I remember my father coming to take his 
 leave of her though the soldiers and police were scouring the 
 country after him, for 'twas thought Darby Ruadh would 
 not recover, as his skull was fractured. There \vas nothing 
 but meetings of magistrates, and rewards offered, and houses 
 searched, and people arrested to give evidence. You 'd think 
 it was war that was in the country. My grandfather advised 
 my father to go to America, ' and let me see tha man,' said 
 he, ' that '11 offer to take your farm. You were robbed, and 
 no man but a robber will offer for your laud. This trouble
 
 320 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 about the bailiff will blow over, and you can come home 
 again. And I'll be a father and mother to little Bessy,' 
 says he, when he saw my father taking me in his arms and 
 kissing me. And he kept his word," she added, wiping the 
 tears from her eyes. 
 
 "And did you never hear from your father after?" 
 
 " Never," replied Bessy, " except once a man from the 
 colliery mentioned in a letter that he saw him out west, and 
 that he had carpets on his floors. But though we made 
 every inquiry, we could get no tidings of him." 
 
 " And do you wish very much to see him?" 
 
 " 'Tis the strongest wish of my heart," she replied. "Only 
 that I could not leave my poor old grandfather, I 'd go in 
 search of my father. That was another motive that induced 
 me to become a dressmaker; for I said to myself I 'd get em- 
 ployment in the different towns in America, and could travel 
 the whole country." 
 
 " Don't do anything hastily," said Mary. " While you 
 would be looking for him, he might come back to look for 
 you." 
 
 " That 's true," returned Bessy. " But I 'd keep up a cor- 
 respondence with Judy Brophy, or some one. I don't think 
 I can ever have an easy mind till I am sure of what happened 
 to him, at any rate. I am always thinking he is poor and 
 neglected, and was ashamed to write to us." 
 
 She looked again towards the trees ; but her thoughts 
 recurred to the dragoon, and her brow flushed as she recol- 
 lected that she had replied to one or two of his letters. He 
 might, she thought, accuse her of faithlessness; and her con- 
 science told her the charge would not be altogether without 
 foundation. 
 
 " I will request of him not to come again," she said to 
 herself; " and if he be a man of spirit he will respect my 
 wishes." 
 
 " Surely that is Apollo in the garden with Adonis," Grace 
 exclaimed. " I wonder where are they going? I thought he 
 was to be away on business all day what do you think, 
 Mary?" 
 
 " If that is not his fetch, it seems he has come back," 
 replied Mary. " But as to where they are going, I wonder 
 you should think it necessary to ask."
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERART. 321 
 
 " Oh, yes," returned Grace with a toss of her head, " the 
 attraction in that quarter must be very strong indeed. But 
 they might at least have the politeness to inquire whether 
 we would go." 
 
 " Mr. Lowe turned back before he and the doctor had 
 reached the stile, and Grace threw open the window. 
 
 " Going to pay your devoirs to the beauty of Castle- 
 view?" she exclaimed. 
 
 " Yes, the doctor is going to call at Mr. Hanly's; and 
 perhaps you and Miss Kearney would come out for a walk as 
 the day is so fine?" 
 
 " She is such a model of industry, I don't think you can 
 induce her to go out but let her answer for herself." 
 
 After a little hesitation Mary came to the window, saying,. 
 " Well, if you have patience to wait for a few minutes we 
 will go." 
 
 Mr. Lowe bowed, and went to tell the doctor, who was 
 standing with folded arms near the laurels, and looking 
 intensely sentimental. 
 
 " Well, now," said Grace, as she went on arranging her 
 hair on observing Bessy Morris move her chair so that she 
 could see the two young men in the garden " which of those 
 two gallant gay Lotharios do you think the best-looking?" 
 
 " I think Mr. Kichard has the advantage," Bessy answered. 
 
 " He is particularly well got up just now," returned Grace, 
 glancing over her shoulder through the window, " and does 
 really look handsome." 
 
 " 'Twas always given up to him, Miss," rejoined Bessy, 
 " to be the handsomest young man in the parish. 'Tis often 
 I heard it said that he was the handsomest boy, and Miss 
 Mary the handsomest girl going into the chapel of Kilthub- 
 ber. Though some would give Miss Hanly the palm." 
 
 " Why, Mary, you are quite famous ! And do they never 
 talk of those who go to church?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, Miss. Miss Isabella Lloyd has a strong party, 
 who says she is by odds a finer girl than either of them. I'm 
 told she is to be married to Captain French and a fine 
 couple they '11 be. He 's to throw the sledge with Mat Dono- 
 van next Sunday. But, talking of handsome men," conti- 
 nued Bessy, while her eyes sparkled with admiration, " there 
 is a handsomer man to my mind than any of 'em."
 
 322 KKOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 Mary ran to the window with quite an excited look. "Was 
 there some one who, to her mind, was a handsomer man than 
 her remarkably handsome brother ? She smiled at what she 
 mentally called her foolishness, and the flush faded from her 
 cheek. But her eyes sparkled, too, when she saw the person 
 to whom Bessy alluded. 
 
 " Why," exclaimed Grace in astonishment, " 'tis Fionn 
 Macool!" 
 
 " Who is that, Miss?" Bessy asked. 
 
 " Oh, that 's what I call him" she replied, pointing to 
 Hugh, who had just come into the garden. 
 
 " You couldn't call him a grander name," returned Bessy. 
 " He was the great chief of the Fenians long ago. The top 
 of Slievenamon is called Shee-Feen after him. My grand- 
 father would keep telling you stories about him for a 
 month." 
 
 " What way does he tell the story of the Beauty Race 1 
 Is it that he had all the beautiful women in Ireland assem- 
 bled in the Valley of Compsey, to run a race to the top of 
 the mountain, and the first up would be his wife?" 
 
 " Yes, that was the way, Miss," replied Bessy. 
 
 "The longest-legged or the longest-winded was to have 
 him. Do you call him a hero? The man was a savage; 
 and the poor girls that came to grief in the race were most 
 fortunate." 
 
 " Yes, Miss, but several great kings wanted him to marry 
 their daughters, and it was all a plan to keep them from 
 falling out with him. And there was one little girl he 
 would rather have than the whole box-and-dice of them. So 
 lie told her to go fair and easy round by the Clodagh, and 
 take her time, and not run with the rest at all. They all took 
 to pulling and dragging one another the minute they started, 
 and Fionn had Grauna in his arms on the top of Shee-Feen 
 before one of them was half-way up the first hill." 
 
 " The moral of which is," said Grace, as she swung her 
 pretty little cloak over her shoulders, " in running for a 
 husband, ' take your time,' and ' go fair and easy,' and don't 
 take to ' pulling and dragging' your rivals and get yourself 
 pulled and dragged in return, besides losing the pme into 
 the bargain. What's that you called the 'little girl he'd rather 
 than any of them'?"
 
 OR, THE HOMES OP TIPPERAUY. 3J3 
 
 " She was called the Fair-haired Grauna she was a name- 
 sake of your own for Grauna is the Irish of Grace." 
 
 " Oh, I am quite proud to be the namesake of a lady so 
 distinguished. And who knows but it may be an omen, and 
 I may, like her, be clasped in a warrior's arms. Oh, those 
 brave days of old, when one might win the love of some 
 noble knight sans peur et sans reproche. When I think of it 
 I am sick of your Apollos and your Adonises. In fact, 
 Bessy, I could almost envy you your ' sergeant in the army.'" 
 
 " Whether you joke or no, Miss," replied Bessy, laughing, 
 " 'twas something like that was in my mind when I met him 
 first." 
 
 " I wonder at you, who are such a patriot, Grace," said 
 Mary, " to talk in that way." 
 
 " Oh, I was only thinking of the soldier in the abstract," 
 replied Grace, with a frown. "And will not Mr. Lowe be 
 an English soldier one of these days 1" 
 
 " So I understand," returned Mary. " And how would 
 you like," she added, turning to Bessy, " to have your hus- 
 band with those soldiers who passed this way the other day 
 to shoot down the poor people whose houses were going to 
 be levelled if they offered any resistance to the crowbar 
 brigade ?" 
 
 " That 's true," Bessy answered thoughtfully. " And I 
 thought, too, how my grandfather was flogged in '98." 
 
 " But, Bessy," said Grace, as she drew on her gloves near 
 the window, " how can you say such a black-looking fellow 
 as that is handsome ? I always set him down as the ugliest 
 fellow I ever saw. And though I have modified that opinion 
 somewhat latterly particularly since I saw Mr. Beresford 
 Fender still it does make me wonder to hear him called a 
 handsome man. Where, in the name of goodness, is the 
 beauty ? 
 
 " Well, I don't know, Miss," she answered, laying down 
 her work and looking earnestly at Hugh Kearney, " but see 
 how strong, and manly, and honest, he looks. If a lion was 
 rushing to devour you, or a ship sinking under you, wouldn't 
 you feel safe if his arm was around you ?" 
 
 " There is really something in what she says," Grace 
 observed seriously. " If a lion leaped over that hedge and 
 were about seizing you, Fionn would have him by the throat
 
 324 KNOCKNAGOW, 
 
 instantly. Apollo, too, would stand his ground in his cool 
 way. But I strongly suspect Adonis would cut and run. 
 Not out of cowardice exactly, but he always thinks first of 
 his precious self, and would only remember poor me when I 
 was already gobbled up." 
 
 "Are ye going to keep us waiting all day?" the subject of 
 this not very flattering criticism called out. 
 
 " He is not inclined to go ' fair and easy,' " Grace observed. 
 " Are you ready, Mary 1" 
 
 " I '11 be ready in a moment. I merely have to direct this 
 letter to Father Carroll" 
 
 "By the way," returned Grace, "you did not show me 
 that note Barney threw up to you the other evening. It has 
 just occurred to me that Barney put Bessy's letter in his hat, 
 too, and forgot it; and as hers was a love-letter, perhaps so 
 was yours." " That 's all nonsense," said Mary. 
 
 "Did you ever see my brother Edmund, Bessy," Grace 
 continued, "and what did you think of him? 
 
 " He 's a fine pleasant fellow, Miss," returned Bessy. " He 
 used to be fishing with Mr. Hugh at the river, and they 
 sometimes called in to have a chat with my grandfather." 
 
 "I thought he would come home at Christmas," said 
 Grace, " but something turned up to prevent him. I wrote 
 to him to say that he has no business here any more." And 
 she nodded her head towards Mary, and then looked out at 
 Mr. Lowe, in a way that made both Mary and Bessy Morris 
 laugh. 
 
 " And did you tell him that Anne sent her love to him?" 
 
 " Yes, but that's nothing. I am quite sure Anne will end 
 her days in a convent." 
 
 " I thought Edmund would be sure to win that prize for 
 which so many are contending." 
 
 " You mean Minnie Delany ? No, it will never come to 
 anything. He has something in his head that I cannot make 
 out. I heard Father Carroll and Arthur O'Connor jesting 
 about it. Edmund says that he and Arthur always fell in 
 love with the same lady by some fatality; and only that 
 Arthur is to be a priest they would be sure to run foul of 
 each other. Only think of a duel between two such bosom 
 friends, about some beauty that didn't care a pin about either 
 of them."
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERART. 325 
 
 "Come away," exclaimed Mary, " unless you want to have 
 Richard vowing vengeance against us." And she ran so 
 precipitately out of the room, that Grace shook her head and 
 knit her brows, as if she thought that between her brother 
 and Arthur O'Connor and Mary Kearney there was most cer- 
 tainly a mystery, which, as yet, she could make nothing of. 
 She followed Mary to the garden, leaving Bessy Morris in 
 the little room alone. 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 MISS KATHLEEN HANLY THINKS IT ADVISABLE TO BE "DOING 
 SOMETHING." 
 
 "AsK Hugh to come." And Mary's somewhat anxious look 
 brightened as she saw Hugh submitting to be led on with 
 them by Grace, who seemed to take his compliance as a 
 matter of course. Mary was a little afraid of being left 
 alone with Mr. Lowe. His admiration had risen to such a 
 height that it was really no vanity in her to consider a down- 
 right declaration of love within the bounds of possibility. 
 Her good sense enabled her to see the folly of such a pro- 
 ceeding, and her good nature to say nothing of the real 
 liking she had for him made her shrink from wounding his 
 feelings in any way. She said to herself that he would soon 
 forget her in the bustle and excitement of the gay world. 
 And if he passed on with nothing more definite than a bow 
 and a smile or she might have no great objection to a 
 sigh it would be better for both. So that Hugh's docility 
 was a great relief to her, and she talked cheerfully, and even 
 gaily, as they passed on through the hamlet, stopping occa 
 sionally to say a. kind or pleasant word to the women and 
 children, who always greeted her with smiles and sometimes 
 with blessings. Nelly Donovan was examining one of her 
 beehives, which had barely escaped being overturned by 
 Kit Cummins's cat in endeavouring to escape from its deadly 
 enemy, "Friskey Lahy" (in Knocknagow the ra(;ronymic of
 
 326 
 
 the owner was invariably bestowed upon his dog) and Nelly 
 became so eloquent in detailing the injuries and vexations 
 brought upon her by Kit Cummins's cat, that Mr. Lowe 
 forgot his own woes, and stopped to listen to Nelly Donovan's 
 harangue with a more cheerful expression of countenance 
 than he had been seen to wear for several days before. Then 
 old Mrs. Donovan appeared, smoothing her white hair over 
 her temples, after removing her spectacles, and had a word 
 to say in private to Miss Kearney; so that a quarter of an 
 hour was lost before the party came up with the doctor, who 
 was waiting at the corner of the dipt hedge, and gazing 
 pensively towards the old castle. Catching a glimpse of the 
 redoubtable Kit Cummins herself, with arms akimbo inside 
 the threshold of her own door, evidently prepared with a 
 defence of her persecuted cat, the doctor thought at this rate 
 they'd never reach the house on the hill; and, to avoid 
 further interruptions, he proposed to turn in by the short-cut 
 through Tom Hogan's farm. Whereupon Kit Cummins 
 thrust her hair under her cap, and tried to bottle up her 
 wrath for a more favourable' opportunity; but finding the 
 effort too much for her, she relieved her feelings by a long 
 and well-sustained invective upon her next-door neighbour 
 and all belonging to her. Arid the never-varying response 
 on such occasions "Gir-r-r-r-r out, you bla'guard!" fell with 
 such piercing distinctness upon Mr. Lowe's ear, that he stood 
 still in the middle of Tom Hogan's field, and gazed around 
 in amazement though the partition between Kit Cummins 
 and her next-door neighbour was so thin that the purring of 
 the vagabond cat could easily be heard through it. 
 
 Attorney Hanly laid down the newspaper and left the 
 room so abruptly that his wife stared after him for a minute, 
 and commenced rubbing her eyebrow. Mrs. Hanly had 
 dropped an occasional hint during the morning, intended to 
 lead up gradually and naturally to a certain subject with 
 which her mind was occupied. But the abrupt and unex- 
 pected exit of Mr. Hanly seemed to have hopelessly dis- 
 arranged her plans. Looking through the window she saw 
 Mr. Isaac Fender shambling up the avenue; and the attorney 
 soon appeared wrapped in his great-coat, and met the old 
 agent half-way between the gate and the house. 
 
 "Kim, Lory!" exclaimed Mrs. Hanly, as if she saw there
 
 OR. THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 327 
 
 was but one chance left her, "and tell him I want some- 
 money." 
 
 Lory started off without his cap, and quite terrified old 
 Isaac by simply pronouncing the word "money," and holding, 
 out his hand. It seemed to have a stand-and-deliver effect 
 upon Lory's father too; for he at once thrust his hands into 
 his trousers pockets, and then into his waistcoat pockets, and 
 then into the pockets of his great-coat. The result appeared 
 in the shape of two or three pound notes, two or three shil- 
 lings in silver, and two or three pence in copper. Rolling 
 all these into one bundle, Mr. Hanly thrust them into his 
 son's hand, who ran back to the house rejoicing. 
 
 " Well, it is better than nothing," said Mrs. Hanly, after 
 counting the notes. 
 
 "But I wonder why did he mind giving me the odd 
 coppers'!" Lory asked, dropping them into his pocket, and 
 resolving to have a game of pitch-and-toss with Barney 
 Brodherick and Jack Delany's apprentice, the first con- 
 venient opportunity. 
 
 "Ah, you don't know all the plans he has," observed his 
 mother. " Don't you see I am now to suppose that he ha& 
 given me all the money he has, and left himself penniless?" 
 
 Lory uttered that startling two-fold sound he intended for 
 a laugh, and evidently looked upon his father as a clever 
 fellow. " I may as well keep this for myself," he remarked, 
 looking at the silver in his open hand. 
 
 Scarcely had he uttered the words, when his hand was- 
 struck, and the money sent rolling about the floor. 
 
 " You must not keep it, sir. I don't know what you want 
 of money. Come here and hold him, Kathleen." 
 
 There was a tremendous struggle between Rose and Lory 
 for the money; but Kathleen, who was reclining with her 
 lap-dog on the sofa, contented herself with holding the little 
 animal fast, and trying to stop its barking. Mrs. Hanly 
 quietly picked up one shilling which rolled against her foot. 
 Rose seized another. But in spite of all she could do, Lory 
 caught hold of the third and thrust it into his pocket. In 
 vain did Rose exert herself, till she seemed in danger of 
 bursting a blood-vessel, to pull Lory's hand out of his pocket. 
 And finding the hand and arm quite immovable, she paused 
 to parley and take breath.
 
 328 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 "Now, what do you want that money for?" Rose asked, 
 as she twisted up her hair. 
 
 " For the novelty of it," added Lory, jingling the coppers, 
 which were all safe in the other pocket. 
 
 " No, sir ; it is not for the novelty of it. I have found 
 you out. Miss Lloyd, who hates you, because she thinks 'tis 
 purposely to frighten her you talk loud, told me that she 
 saw you call for three pints of beer at Bourke's; and that 
 you drank one yourself, and gave one to Joe Russel and 
 another to Brummagem; and that you talked and swaggered 
 in a most awful manner. She could not understand half 
 what ye said; but it was plain to her ye were steeped to the 
 lips in iniquity, she said." 
 
 "And where was she?" Lory asked. 
 
 " She went in through the yard gate when she saw you in 
 the shop, and remained behind the door while ye were there." 
 
 "I'm sorry I didn't know she was there," returned Lory; 
 " I 'd put Brummagem up to kiss her, and pretend he thought 
 it was Kitty, the servant girl." 
 
 "0 mercy!" exclaimed Rose. "What am I to do with 
 him?" 
 
 " Who is this person you call ' Brummagem'?" her mother 
 inquired. 
 
 " That horrid fellow with the black face," Rose answered. 
 " They call him ' Lovely Delany,' too. I suppose because lie 
 is such a monster of ugliness." 
 
 "Don't mind her," said Lory. "He's Jack Delany's 
 nephew. His face is black because he's a blacksmith; and 
 they call him ' Brummagem,' because he was born in Bir- 
 mingham, in England. I suppose they call him ' Lovely' on 
 the same principle that you are called ' Rose,' " said Lory, 
 with a laugh that would have been the death of his enemy, 
 Miss Lloyd, if she were within reach of it. 
 
 "Don't be impertinent, sir," retorted Rose. "And didn't 
 I see you playing pitch-and-toss at the end of the grove with 
 this person and Joe Russel, and your other interesting friend, 
 Barney Brodherick alias Wattletoes." 
 
 " I suppose it was he gave poor Joe the black eye," Mrs 
 Hanly observed. 
 
 "Oh, HO," said Rose, "that happened the last day he 
 drove us into town. Grace Kiely can tell you all about it."
 
 OR, THE HOMES OP TIPPERAKY. 329 
 
 "The Kearneys are coming up through the fields," Lory 
 observed reminded of the fact by his sister's last remark. 
 
 " How do you know ?" Rose asked. 
 
 " Because I 'm after seeing them," returned Lory. 
 
 "I suppose Richard is with them?" Kathleen inquired 
 with a yawn. 
 
 " Yes, he was on before the rest. He was looking back at 
 them, or I would have spoken to him." 
 
 " Is Grace with them ?" 
 
 "She and Hugh were talking to Tom Hogan, who is 
 making drains in the field next the grove." 
 
 "Kathleen!" exclaimed Mrs. Hanly, bustling about the 
 room to put everything in its proper place, " throw away 
 that wretched little dog, and be doing something." 
 
 Kathleen started up, and flung her favourite from her 
 whose doleful whine was suddenly changed into a yelp, Lory 
 having accelerated its exit with the toe of his heavy boot, as 
 he hurried out to meet the visitors. Kathleen looked about 
 her, at a loss as to the " something" she ought to " be doing." 
 She had a vague idea that her sleeves should be tucked up 
 above her elbows; but as there was not a moment to be lost, 
 she snatched a bunch of keys from the table and ran up 
 stairs; with a view to coming down when called, with the 
 keys at her girdle, and looking greatly surprised on finding 
 her friends in the parlour. 
 
 The doctor's devotion was always looked upon by Mrs. 
 Hanly as a means to an end; and we very much fear the 
 fair Kathleen herself had come round to that way of thinking 
 also. A lecture from her father illustrated by divers ex- 
 amples within his own personal knowledge, of what the 
 worthy attorney called "genteel beggary" made a deep 
 impression upon his charming daughter. And a question 
 casually put by her mother, apropos of Dr. Richard Kearney, 
 to the effect, " was it in his pocket he 'd put her," helped 
 also to give Kathleen's thoughts a practical turn. So that 
 she only yawned and went on pulling her dog's ears as she 
 asked "was Richard with them." But the moment she 
 heard that Hugh was coming, Kathleen started up to "be 
 doing something." 
 
 But it must not by any means be inferred that Hugh 
 Kearney had won the heart of the beauty of Castle view; 
 

 
 330 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 except in a general way. She had come to connect the very 
 opposite of that dreaded "genteel beggary" with the idea of 
 an extensive farmer, and lost no opportunity of recommend- 
 ing herself to that class of wooers. She had on one occasion 
 all but made sure of a wealthy young farmer from the county 
 Limerick, who had purchased some cattle from the attorney, 
 and spent the evening at Castleview. The knowledge she 
 displayed of everything connected with farming and par- 
 ticularly the wisdom of her views as to the making of 
 butter made such an impression upon the gentleman from 
 Limerick, that, over and over again (as he afterwards con- 
 fessed), he found himself repeating the words, " This is the 
 girl for me." And as Kathleen talked and talked in her 
 bewitching way, the only question that troubled the young 
 man's mind was, whether he would then and there ask the 
 attorney off-hand to give him his treasure of a daughter, or 
 put it off to the first Wednesday in the ensuing month, which 
 was the fair-day of Kilthubber. But in the very moment of 
 her triumph, Kathleen asked, with a look of the profoundest 
 wisdom " Ho\v many hundreds of butter do you put in a 
 firkin in your part of the country?" 
 
 The young man stared ; but Kathleen repeated her question 
 with a look of self-satisfied experience that absolutely appalled 
 him. In vain her mother made signs to signify that she 
 had blundered ; in vain her father's sarcastic laugh ; Kathleen 
 would know how many hundred-weight of butter went to a 
 firkin in his part of the country. And she smacked her lips 
 and sighed, and looked as if she had thought of nothing but 
 filling firkins for the best part of her life, as she paused for 
 a reply. To her astonishment, however, the young county 
 Limerick farmer suddenly rose and took his leave; looking 
 as if he found himself in a place where his pockets might 
 be picked if he delayed another instant. 
 
 "0 Lord!" exclaimed the young farmer, looking back at 
 the house on the hill when he had gone some distance from 
 it as if to assure himself that he was safe " Lord, 
 there's no depending on any of them. I was d d near being 
 taken in. I wonder did she ever see a firkin in her life ? 
 'How many H"N 7 DRED of butter do you put in a firkin?' 
 'Tis my opinion she don't know a firkin from a herring-stand. 
 Oh, and the way she talked ! I thought she was the besti,
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 331 
 
 manager in Minister. The fact is," he added, as if he had 
 quite made up his mind upon the point, "they're not to be 
 depended on." 
 
 For nearly a year after, the young county Limerick farmer 
 lived in perpetual dread of being " taken in" the sight of a 
 delicate white "hand affecting him like a snake in the grass 
 and to put an end to his misery, by effectually guarding 
 against the apprehended danger, one fine morning married 
 his dairy-maid; the dairy-maid, in the innocence of her 
 heart, attributing her good fortune to her blooming cheeks 
 and a pair of soft brown eyes never dreaming that she 
 owed it all to Miss Kathleen Hanly's Brobdignagian ideas of 
 firkins of butter. 
 
 And now Kathleen tripped down stairs with the keys at 
 her girdle, and, stopping in the middle of her song, looked so 
 surprised to find that Rose was not all alone. She recovered 
 herself sufficiently to welcome her visitors in the prescribed 
 fashion. But as she looked around, and caught something 
 like a malicious smile in Rose's eyes, Kathleen bit her lip, 
 and immediately became intensely amiable. 
 
 The keys were a mistake; for Hugh did not come in at 
 all. The lap-dog on the sofa would have done much better 
 under the circumstances. 
 
 But that unhappy little lap-dog! How dearly he paid for 
 these little mistakes and disappointments! The Brobdig- 
 nagiau firkin had well-nigh proved the death of him. For 
 when his mistress flung herself ou the sofa, after being 
 informed that a firkin was never known to contain even one 
 hundred of butter, she squeezed the poor creature's windpipe 
 till its eyes seemed starting out of its head. And as if the 
 application of Lory's "blucher" were not enough punishment 
 for one day the fair Kathleen, on resuming her place .on 
 the sofa after seeing her visitors part of the way home, com- 
 menced knocking the persecuted little animal upon his skull 
 with the bunch of keys; as if she were determined to practi- 
 cally test the truth of the proverb, " There 's many a way of 
 killing a dog besides choking him with butter."
 
 332 KNOCKNAGOW J 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. . 
 
 A HAUNTED FARM. 
 
 WHEN Attorney Hanly had delivered up the contents of all 
 his pockets to his son, and left himself penniless, he fixed 
 his eyes on Mr. Isaac Pender, who was immediately assailed 
 by the midges, and rubbed his face all over, as if those 
 imaginary tormentors threatened to set him out of his wits. 
 Still Attorney Hanly kept his eye upon him, and Mr. Pender 
 turned upon his heel for relief, and looked towards the three 
 poplars on the hill. 
 
 "A little outlay," he said, "would make that farm of 
 Beresford's a nice place. Look at Maurice Kearney's farm 
 a little below it, and draining would make the other place 
 superior to it, for it is better situated. I think," he added, 
 venturing to look at the attorney, " I think Beresford would 
 give it up." 
 
 " 'Twouldn't suit me at all," replied Mr. Hanly. 
 
 " If the presentment for the new road passes," Mr. Pender 
 ventured to observe, " 'twill be as convenient to the market 
 as your own house. And I know we could manage a satis- 
 factory lease." 
 
 " I wouldn't take a present of it," said Mr. Hanly. 
 
 " So I thought. So I said. I knew you wouldn't care for 
 it," rejoined Mr. Pender, as if he quite approved of his friend's 
 view on the subject, or, at all events, fully appreciated his 
 motives for not wishing to have anything to do with the 
 farm. "I know you only want some land adjoining this 
 place. And 'tis a pity your farm is not larger, when you 
 have such a good house and offices built on it. I know you 
 only want what will make the farm suitable for such a house 
 and offices." 
 
 To some extent Mr. Isaac Pender was right. It was land 
 adjoining his own that Attorney Hanly was most anxious to 
 get. But a farm even some distance from Castleview would
 
 OR, THB HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 333 
 
 have suited him very well. And when Mr. Fender first 
 spoke of "that farm of Beresford's," Mr. Hanly looked up 
 towards the poplar trees as if they possessed considerable 
 attraction for him; quite as much, one would have supposed 
 from the expression of his face, as the same three trees 
 seemed to possess for Mat Donovan. And, curiously enough, 
 Attorney Hanly, standing in the middle of his own lawn, and 
 gazing at the poplar trees, did precisely what Mat Donovan 
 had done, after gazing at them from the middle of Maurice 
 Kearney's wheat field an hour or two before. That is, 
 Attorney Hanly turned quickly round and fixed his eyes on 
 a cluster of whitethorn trees near the foot of another hill 
 behind Maurice Kearney's fort. And it was after looking in 
 this direction that Attorney Hanly said abruptly he would 
 not " take a present of it," meaning the farm where Bessy 
 Morris was born as she told Grace and Mary and which 
 looked so desolate in the eyes of Barney Brodherick as he 
 stood on the double-ditch trying to catch a sight of Mr. 
 Beresford Fender's servant, to send him to take charge of the 
 hook-nosed steed. It was a rather remarkable coincidence 
 that Mat Donovan and Bessy Morris and Attorney Hanly 
 were all looking towards the three poplar trees at the same 
 time. 
 
 " Who knows ?" said Mat Donovan, as he went on castle- 
 building; " greater wonders come to pass every day." And 
 then Mat turned round and looked towards the whitethorns 
 at the foot of the hill beyond the pit. 
 
 " Something tells me that I will live there yet," said Bessy 
 Morris, as she stood upon the rustic seat in the little garden 
 under Mary Kearney's window, in order to have a better view 
 of the poplar trees over the hedge. And then she, too, turned 
 round and looked towards the whitethorns. 
 
 " Yes, it would do very well," thought Attorney Hanly, as 
 he looked up at the three trees; "but I would not take a 
 present of it !" he added aloud, as he turned round and looked 
 towards the cluster of whitethorns at the foot of the hill. 
 
 Since the day Dick Morris left the bailiff for dead who had 
 flung his fair, delicate young wife from the door, and made his 
 escape, the place had been left without a tenant. Many and 
 many a greedy eye was turned to the three tall trees ; but no 
 one ventured to send in a proposal for the farm. Mr. Beres-
 
 334 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 ford Fender undertook to manage it for the landlord to the 
 best advantage by taking in grazing stock and meadowing so 
 much of the land as was fit for it; and so long had this state 
 of things continued, that his worthy father always spoke of 
 the farm as " that place of Beresford's." Yet even Beresford 
 would not have ventured to formally become the tenant. He 
 was even occasionally heard to declare that his keeping the 
 place was a disagreeable necessity, and that nothing would 
 please him better than to hand it over to any one who would 
 be acceptable to the landlord. The fact was, that lonesome 
 farm, with no living thing visible upon it that bright winter 
 day but two carrion crows in the midst of a sheet of water, 
 and a magpie upon the roof of the tumble-down barn, was 
 haunted. Not by the ghost of Black Humphrey, whose fate 
 was commemorated by the cairn near the sand-pit, but by an 
 old lame man, who usually kept his lips closed very hard, and 
 whose grey eye gleamed in a piercing sort of way that made 
 some people feel uneasy as he stumped about the place at 
 regular intervals, marking the ravages that time was making 
 in it, and seeming to derive particular satisfaction from the 
 grass growing through the floors of the out-offices. Old Phil 
 Morris was never accompanied by his granddaughter on these 
 occasions, though she often asked to be let go with him. 
 " No," he would say in reply to her request, "you will never 
 go till you can call it your own home again." And this is 
 how Dick Morris's farm was haunted, and remained tenant- 
 less in consequence. This is why Attorney Hanly would not 
 " take a present of it." 
 
 "I'm going to tell Tom Hogan," said Mr. Isaac Fender, 
 " that his rent is raised." 
 
 "Is Tom Hogan's rent raised?" Attorney Hanly asked, 
 while his eyes almost flashed with pleasure and surprise. 
 
 "Only a trifle; only a trifle," replied the agent, sorrow- 
 fully. " 'Tis not easy to get Sir Garrett to understand these 
 things. Sir Thomas was a great loss to the country. He 
 understood the proper system; but Sir Garrett knows no 
 more about the management of a property than a child. He 
 spent nearly all his life abroad. And his nephew tells me 
 he 's going again immediately. Why, I believe this is Mr. 
 Lowe coming across the field with those ladies," Mr. Fender 
 added in surprise. " I thought he was with Beresford. But
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 335 
 
 I suppose he didn't mind seeing many of the tenants. Mr. 
 Lowe is a nice young fellow a very nice young fellow ; 
 and doesn't want to meddle in the affairs of the tenants at 
 all. His mother wrote to Beresforcl to have an eye to him 
 and keep him out of harm's way. She understands the state 
 of the country much better than Sir Garrett. And still she 
 thinks she ought to get her rent-charge without any delay. 
 Her eldest son is in India, and he ought to be able to send 
 his mother something. His pay is high, and he ought to be 
 able to do something for his mother. She 's always writing 
 for money." 
 
 The doctor, who thought Mr. Hanly was away from home, 
 looked considerably put out on discovering his mistake. In 
 fact, the doctor was never able to reason himself out of a 
 very unreasonable and absurd feeling of awe of Miss Kath- 
 leen's papa. The attorney had a habit of accosting him 
 with, " Well, lad 1 ?" whenever he happened to encounter him 
 about the house; and no amount of pulling his moustache 
 and looking down at his long legs, could altogether satisfy 
 the doctor that he was not a middle-sized boy on those occa- 
 sions. He felt so disgustingly young in the attorney's pre- 
 sence, that he made it a point to avoid him as much as 
 possible. A short time before he was strolling up through the 
 same field, when the attorney called out from the grove at 
 the opposite side "Well, lad; the girls are out." Where- 
 upon the doctor replied, pointing to the castle " This is a 
 very interesting old ruin up here. And the view from the 
 top is very good." "Ay, ay, very interesting old ruin!" 
 replied the attorney; and his dry laugh made several Avork- 
 men about the place grin from ear to ear, and Dr. Richard 
 Kearney redden up to the eyes. And now the doctor red- 
 dened again, lest Kathleen's papa should treat him as a small 
 boy before his friends. It was a slight relief to him that 
 Grace was so far behind, as he dreaded her more than any 
 of them. He walked back under the pretence of helping her 
 over the fence, but in reality to keep out of Mr. Hanly 's 
 reach as long as possible, and until Mr. Lowe and Mary could 
 have engaged his attention. Grace was highly gratified on 
 seeing him ready to hand her over the fence, and immediately 
 forgot Hugh's existence, though he had not allowed as much 
 as a bramble to touch her all the way, while the doctor
 
 336 KNOCKNAGOW J 
 
 thought of nothing but his own boots and Kathleen Hanly. 
 Hugh was taking her hand to help her up when she raised 
 her eyes and saw the doctor. She had no notion that it was 
 care for his dignity, and sheer terror of finding himself sud- 
 denly metamorphosed into a schoolboy, that drove the doctor 
 back to her. And as she tripped on gaily by his side to over- 
 take Mary and Mr. Lowe, Hugh thought her a very pleasant 
 sight to look at, even though she had deserted him so 
 unceremoniously. 
 
 " Oh ! " Grace exclaimed, looking back with surprise, 
 " what has become of Hugh ?" And she looked so sad for a 
 moment, that Mary felt alarmed, imagining that some acci- 
 dent might have happened to him. But seeing him emerge 
 from a clump of trees and go towards a stile which she knew 
 led to the lower part of their own farm, Mary laughed at her 
 own fears, and asked Grace why she looked so sad. 
 
 " Well, then," Grace replied, " I fear I may have offended 
 Hugh." 
 
 " Offended Hugh ! How could that be ?" 
 
 Grace told what had just occurred, and Mary laughed so 
 heartily that the doctor turned sharply round, under the 
 impression that she was laughing at himself. 
 
 "What are you laughing at?" he asked. 
 
 "Oh, I can't help it. This young lady is so full of 
 humility. She attaches no importance to herself at all ! 
 Ah ! poor Hugh ! I have no doubt he is quite miserable ! " 
 
 " Oh, you may look at it in that light if you choose. But 
 I feel that I have been ungrateful, and must really do some- 
 thing to make it up with him." 
 
 The doctor was in the act of snapping his fingers, and in 
 fact showed some symptoms of cutting a caper, when his 
 sister's laugh made him turn round under the impression 
 that he himself was the occasion of it. The attorney and 
 the agent were walking away by a footpath that led to the 
 road, apparently as if they had not seen him or his friends. 
 And this was such a decided piece of good luck in the 
 doctor's eyes, that he really might in the joy of the moment 
 have executed one of "Callaghan's steps," h la Barney 
 Brodherick, had not Mary's laugh checked him. 
 
 " That is Mr. Hanly walking with the agent," said Mary. 
 They seem to be going to Tom Hogan's."
 
 OR, THB HOMES OP TIPPERARY. 337 
 
 " Fair weather after them," returned Grace. " I 'm glad 
 they did not see us." 
 
 "If all the tenants were like Tom Hogan," the agent 
 remarked, " 'twould be a nice property. 'Tis a pity his farm 
 is so small. But when these three other farms will be added 
 to it, 'twill be easy to make a nice place of it." 
 
 " Two thousand pounds," returned the attorney, " wouldn't 
 make the rest of it like that." And he pointed to what 
 really looked like "a piece of the Golden Vein dropped 
 among the rushes and yellow clay all around," to quote Mat 
 Donovan again. 
 
 ""T.at's true; that 's true," old Isaac muttered. "But if 
 they did like Tom Hogan," he added, half reproachfully, half 
 sorrowfully, "they wouldn't feel it. There is Tom at the 
 drains." 
 
 Tom Hogan got that trembling in his hands when he saw 
 the agent and his neighbour, Attorney Hanly, coming 
 towards him, to such an extent that the spade dropped from 
 them; and not caring that this should be observed, he looked 
 about him for some excuse for having left off his work. 
 Seeing a solitary crow pitch in the middle of his wheat-field 
 which looked as if a veil of green gauze were flung over 
 the red-brown ridges and fearing that the marauder would 
 commence pulling up the young blades for the sake of the 
 grains of wheat at the roots, he got out of the drain and 
 hurried away. 
 
 " One would think he was afraid of us," said the attorney. 
 
 "No, no," returned Mr. Fender. "He knows nothing, 
 unless Darby told him about this trifling rise in his rent, 
 and that would not frighten him. He 's only going into the 
 house for something he wants." 
 
 " There was a very suspicious-looking fellow," Mr. Hanly 
 observed, " lying in the grove there early this morning, and 
 if I 'm not much mistaken 'twas a pistol he thrust into his 
 breast when he saw me coming towards him." 
 
 " What sort of looking fellow was he ?" the agent asked, 
 rubbing his face nervously. 
 
 "A tall, wild-looking fellow, with his clothes all in rags." 
 
 " 'Twas that unfortunate man, Mick Brien," returned the 
 agent. " I 'm sorry now wo ever held out any hopes to him 
 Darby tells me they don't like at all the way he is going on
 
 "338 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 He got straw from Maurice Kearney to-day to thatch his 
 -cabin, though they told him 'twas to be thrown down." 
 
 "Well, to come to business," said the attorney; "you're 
 sure there'll be no difficulty in getting a renewal of my 
 lease, without any increase of rentf" 
 
 "Let us walk this way," the agent suggested. "I think 
 I saw some one moving behind those trees in the corner. 
 Yes, I 'm almost sure we can manage the lease of your own 
 place. But what hurry are you in ? If Maurice Kearney 
 Icnew just now you were getting a renewal, there 's no know- 
 ing what he might do." 
 
 " I think the man has a right to a renewal," said Mr. 
 Hanly who possibly was thinking of settling one of his 
 blooming daughters comfortably. 
 
 "Well, well," muttered old Isaac, taken quite aback, "just 
 let us walk this way." 
 
 " 'Tis a pity Tom Hogan is so unreasonable. He can't be 
 got to see that his farm is too small, and that he ought to 
 give up peaceable possession like the Ryans and Tom Don- 
 nelly. And his son," added the agent, rubbing his face, and 
 looking around, as if he feared some one was about pouncing 
 upon him to tear him to pieces "his son is a wild young 
 fellow." 
 
 "Is it of a beardless boy you are afraid?" the attorney 
 asked contemptuously. 
 
 There was something in old Phil Morris's grey eye that 
 struck terror to the heart of Attorney Hanly. But he would 
 have entered into possession of Tom Hogan's farm without 
 the slightest misgiving! 
 
 "Afraid of a beardless boy!" he muttered. "Bah!" 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 TOM HOGAN BOASTS THAT HE NEVER FIRED A SHOT. 
 
 MR, ISAAC PENDER and Attorney Hanly got over the stile 
 and walked towards the place that Tom Hogan had just left. 
 They looked into the deep drains as they went on, and by
 
 OR. THE HO5IES OF TIPPERARY. 339 
 
 the time they got to the end of the field Tom Hogan had 
 gone into his own house. 
 
 Attorney Hanly looked at his watch, and seeing that the 
 mail car would not pass the cross for some time, he thought 
 of returning home, but changed his mind on recollecting that 
 if he did it would be necessary to show some civility to the 
 visitors from whom he had just escaped. So he walked with 
 Mr. Isaac Pender up and down by Tom Hogan's quickset 
 hedge, talking about business. 
 
 " What is that?" the agent asked, staring and looking 
 terrified. 
 
 " It was not a shot," replied the attorney. " The report 
 was not sharp enough for a shot from a gun or pistol. Yet 
 it seemed to be an explosion of some kind. I'll get up on 
 the ditch and see." 
 
 "Better not," replied the agent, catching hold of him. 
 " Keep quiet, and don't let us be seen." 
 
 " Why, what is it you are afraid of?" the attorney asked. 
 "Your life must be anything but pleasant if every sound 
 half frightens it out of you at this rate. Let us go on to the 
 stile." 
 
 They walked by the quickset hedge till they reached the 
 stile that led into the next field. What we have called the 
 quickset hedge was not merely a hedge planted on the 
 ground. There was a tolerably high embankment of earth 
 a "ditch" in fact and on the top of this the hedge. 
 There were two or three long stone slabs fixed in the "ditch" 
 as steps, and some two feet of wicker-work woven between 
 stakes on the top. Mr. Isaac Pender had one hand on the 
 wicker-work and a foot on each of the two stone slabs, when 
 he suddenly uttered a cry and fell back into the arms of the 
 attorney. The attorney looked up, and he, too, was so startled, 
 that he let old Isaac fall to the ground ; and, retreating a step 
 backwards, Attorney Hanly himself fell upon his back into 
 one of Tom Hogan's newly-made drains. The old agent had 
 fallen upon his back too, but raising himself upon his hands 
 lie looked up at the stile, while every feature gave evidence 
 of the most intense terror. 
 
 The attorney had disappeared altogether in the drain, and 
 .seemed in no hurry to get out of it. 
 
 It was only Tom Hogan, who had suddenly popped his
 
 340 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 liead over the stile. But his face was blackened; and a 
 braver man than Mr. Isaac Fender might well have been 
 startled by such an apparition. 
 
 Attorney Hanly got upon his hands and knees in the drain, 
 and waited for the shot. He thought Tom Hogan must 
 have overheard them plotting his ruin, and determined to 
 wreak instant vengeance upon the plotters; and the thought 
 was a natural one enough under the circumstances. 
 
 Mr. Hanly was not by any means a coward. He would 
 not have thrown himself designedly into the drain at the 
 sight of Tom Hogan's blackened face. But, having fallen 
 accidentally into it, he thought it wise to turn the accident 
 to advantage. He was safe under cover; and resolved to 
 keep quiet till Tom Hogan's gun or blunderbuss had ex- 
 ploded and riddled Mr. Isaac Fender. Then Mr. Hanly 
 would start to his feet and run or fight for his life. He had 
 no notion of staying where he was till Tom Hogan had 
 guillotined him with his spade, perhaps. 
 
 But why does he not fire ? 
 
 The attorney's heart ceased to beat as he waited for the 
 shot. Seconds seemed hours as he crouched there in the 
 damp, narrow drain, which was so like a grave! He felt 
 his flesh creep as, on turning his head to listen, his cheek 
 touched the cold clay. And now the terrible thought 
 occurred to him that the agent had been slain, not with 
 a gun, but with a spade or pick-axe, and that the weapon, 
 hot and bloody, was in the very act of crashing through his 
 own brain. He felt, in that brief moment, the agony of 
 dying a violent death. It was only a moment; but to him 
 it was an age. He tried to rise, but could not. He felt as 
 if the heavy clay had been heaped upon him, and that he 
 was buried alive ! 
 
 The sound of voices fell upon his ear. Some persons were 
 speaking near him in a quiet, unexcited tone. The words 
 were : 
 
 "I hope you are not injured?" 
 
 " Begor, I don't know. Id tuck a start out uv me, at any 
 rate. An' look at the way my hand is." 
 
 Mr. Hanly tried again to stand up, and succeeded. He 
 had not been more than a minute in the drain; but he 
 looked about him as if he expected to discover that the face
 
 OR, THE HOMBS OF TIPPERARY. 341 
 
 of Nature had undergone some wonderful transformation 
 since last he looked upon it. But the trees, and the fields, 
 and the mountains, as well as his own house, and the old 
 castle, and Knocknagow from Mat Donovan's to the cross ; 
 Phil Lahy's pointed roof and thick chimneys, and the beech- 
 tree inclusive were precisely in their old places. And Mr. ' 
 Isaac Fender was still in a half-sitting position, propped up 
 by his two arms, with his under-jaw hanging down, and his 
 eyes as wide open as it was possible for such eyes to be. He 
 was still staring up at the stile; but the black face was 
 turned away, which seeded some little relief to him, for his 
 mouth closed, and a slight movement about the eyes indi- 
 cated that, in course of time, they, too, might recover the 
 power of shutting. 
 
 " Why, Mr. Hanly, what has happened ?" Hugh Kearney 
 asked, looking at the attorney with unfeigned astonishment, 
 as he emerged from the drain, like a grave-digger, Hugh 
 thought, which idea was probably suggested by Mr. Isaac 
 Fender, who, in his suit of rusty black, looked very like a 
 withered old sexton. 
 
 " I merely stumbled, by accident, into this drain," replied 
 the attorney, trying to remove the yellow clay from his 
 shoulders and arms. 
 
 "And Mr. Fender?" 
 
 "I I I stumbled, too," that gentleman replied, but 
 showed no symptom of any intention to rise. 
 
 Tom Hogan looked over his shoulder at the speakers, and 
 his blackened face seemed to astonish them as much as at 
 first. The surprise was mutual. Tom Hogan was quite as 
 much puzzled to see his agent sitting upon the ground and 
 etaring at him as the agent was to account for Tom Hogan's 
 black face. 
 
 Tom Hogan's wife and daughter appeared upon the scene. 
 
 "0 Tom !" exclaimed his wife, " what happened you?" 
 
 "Are you hurt, father?" Nancy asked, looking anxiously 
 into his face. 
 
 " 'Tis nothin' Tis nothin'," he replied. " 'Twon't signify 
 a pin." 
 
 " I think it would be as well if you run up to Mr. Hanly's 
 and tell the doctor to come and see him," said Hugh Kear- 
 ney, turning to Nancy Hogan,
 
 '342 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 r " I will, sir," she replied eagerly, flinging back her auburn 
 hair from her face, and running with the fleetness of a 
 frightened fawn towards the house. 
 
 "I think, Mr. Fender, you had better get up," Hugh 
 suggested. 
 
 "I think so; I think so; I think so," replied old Isaac, 
 as he turned round upon his hands and knees and struggled 
 to get upon his feet. But his joints appeared to have 
 become either too stiff or too weak; and Hugh, catching him 
 by the collar with one hand, placed him on his legs, as if he 
 were a rickety old chair. 
 
 The doctor and Mr. Lowe were soon seen hurrying down 
 the lawn, followed by Nancy Hogan. She had first started 
 off in advance of them, but a feeling of delicacy made her 
 hold back and let them pass. 
 
 " I don't think the eyes are injured," said the doctor, as he 
 examined Tom Hogan. " There is a slight burn on the left 
 cheek, but it will not signify. Ha! yes; the hand must be 
 looked to. But I '11 have you all right in a day or two," 
 added the doctor, as he laid his finger on Tom Hogan's wrist 
 and felt his pulse. " The system seems to have sustained a 
 shock," he continued gravely. "That is the serious feature 
 in the case." And the doctor pulled out hia watch and 
 counted Tom Hogan's pulse for a minute. 
 
 The two Miss Hanlys, with Mary and Grace, joined the 
 group; and Mary, taking Hugh by the arm, questioned him 
 about what had happened. But before he could reply, they 
 were startled on seeing Jemmy Hogan clearing the hedge at 
 a bound close to where they stood. His eyes flashed fire, as 
 he demanded breathlessly, " What happened his father?" 
 
 " Did any one dp anything to him?" he continued, almost 
 choked with passion, as he looked from one to another of 
 those present. 
 
 " No, Jemmy, no," his sister exclaimed, flinging her arms 
 round him. "No one did any thing to him. 'T was an accident." 
 
 His hands were clenched, and he looked as if he would 
 have sprung like a tiger upon any one who would dare to 
 hurt his father. 
 
 "No, Jemmy, no," Tom Hogan repeated and he laughed 
 in a strange hysterical way. "No. Jemmy; no wan done 
 anything to me."
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERART. 343 
 
 His sister clung to him, and all present were struck with 
 their extreme beauty, and the resemblance they bore to each 
 other, notwithstanding the pleading gentleness of her look, 
 and the passionate defiance of his. 
 
 "0 Mary," Grace vhispered, "did you ever imagine 
 Jemmy Hogan had such fierceness in him 1 But what has 
 happened to his father ? The poor man is a perfect fright, 
 with his hair singed and his face blackened. Perhaps he 
 rushed into a fire to save some one but then there is no 
 sign of a fire anywhere." 
 
 " I was just asking Hugh," Mary replied. 
 
 Mr. Lowe came also to inquire of Hugh what had happened. 
 
 " I think I understand the matter," replied Hugh. " I 
 was on my way to the bottom of our farm, and on hearing a 
 noise I turned round, and observed a thick puff of smoke in 
 the middle of that wheat-field. I saw Tom Hogan stagger 
 back with his hands to his face, and as it was evident an 
 accident had occurred, I turned back. He hurried on in this 
 direction, and was just getting over the stile when I came 
 up to him. Those gentlemen," he continued, lowering his 
 voice and laughing, as he nodded his head towards the agent 
 and Attorney Hanly, "seem to have been rather startled, 
 for I found Mr. Fender on the broad of his back on the field 
 there, and Mr. Hanly emerging from that drain." 
 
 Grace laughed, and even Mr. Lowe could not help smiling 
 as he turned quietly round and looked at old Isaac, who had 
 only partially recovered from his fright. 
 
 " But still," said he, turning again to Hugh, " I don't 
 know what the nature of the accident was." 
 
 " Tom," said Hugh, " Mr. Lowe wishes to know how the 
 accident occurred." 
 
 "Frightenin' the crows," replied Tom Hogan, turning to 
 Mr. Lowe. 
 
 "How? I really don't understand." 
 
 "Wud a grain uv quarry-powther, sir," returned Tom 
 Hogan. " I put id into a hole, an' in the way 'twould make 
 a report I was goin' to lay a flat stone on id before I 'd set 
 fire to the bit uv touch. But some way my hand wasn't 
 studdy, an' a spark fell on id, an', begor, id blasted up into- 
 my face. An' that 's the way id happened, sir." 
 
 " And why would you not frighten the crows with a gun?"
 
 344 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 "Is id me, sir? No, sir," said Tom Hogan, looking re- 
 proachfully at Mr. Lowe, as if he had done him a great 
 injustice. " I 'm not that sort of a character, an' never was. 
 I never fired a shot in my life, an' plase God I never will. 
 No, sir," continued Tom Hogan proudly, " no wan could 
 ever say a bad word uv me." 
 
 Mr. Lowe looked in astonishment at Hugh Kearney, as if 
 he wished him to explain what all this meant. 
 
 "Don't you know it is a crime to have arms in Ireland?" 
 said Hugh, sarcastically. " No one can have arms without a 
 licence, and men like Tom Hogan would not get licence. So 
 poor Tom has come to look upon never having fired a shot as 
 a proof of his honesty and respectability." 
 
 " We met a man on the road," said Mr. Lowe, " who had 
 pistols." 
 
 " That was "Wat Corcoran the bailiff," returned Hugh. 
 " He is a great man on the strength of his pistols. In such 
 a case as his, arms are the marks of the gentleman, and the 
 man in power." 
 
 " Tom Hogan," put in Mr. Isaac Fender, " was always a 
 quiet decent man. He never had anything to do with fire- 
 arms." 
 
 " Nor never will, sir, said Tom Hogan. 
 
 But if Tom Hogan that very hour provided himself with a 
 good serviceable musket and bayonet, or a rifle or carbine 
 or even an old duck gun like that with which Dr. Richard 
 Kearney so distinguished himself, it might have been lucky 
 for Tom Hogan, and lucky, too, for Mr. Isaac Fender. 
 
 " Tom Hogan never had anything to do with fire-arms," 
 said Mr. Isaac Fender again. " Nor his son. Nor his son. 
 Nor his son," he repeated, glancing furtively at Jemmy, who 
 was now quite calm, except for a little flurry and confusion, 
 which was perhaps less the result of his late excitement than 
 of the presence of so many young ladies, all of whom were 
 favouring him with a good deal of notice. 
 
 "A very well-conducted, industrious young man," said 
 Mr. Isaac Fender. " A very well-conducted young man." 
 
 Attorney Hanly, seeing the mail-car approaching, moved 
 away to meet it at the cross-roads. 
 
 " Fender was right," he muttered to himself. " That 
 young Hogan is a different sort of character from what I
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 345 
 
 thought. There was a devil in his eye. That chap would 
 do anything if driven to it. 'Tis true for old Isaac. The 
 case is a difficult one. But that 's his business. If his part 
 was done I 'd be able to manage the affair in such a way 
 that it would not appear that I had anything to do with it. 
 Hallo !" 
 
 The driver pulled up, and Mr. Hanly got upon the car ; 
 and was not seen or heard of in that part of the country till 
 he jumped off the same car at the same place that day three 
 weeks. 
 
 " "Which way shall we go back 1 ?" Grace asked. 
 
 " By the road," replied the doctor, who hoped Kathleen 
 would accompany them as far as the bridge. 
 
 " By the road," said Mary, who feared that Norah Lahy 
 might feel disappointed if she returned home without calling 
 to see her. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 HUGH KEARNEY THINKS HE WILL GET HIS FISHING-ROD 
 REPAIRED. 
 
 HUGH KEARNEY changed his mind. He said to himself, 
 instead of going to the lower part of the farm, he would go 
 look at the hoggets on the hill above the fort. Somehow he 
 found that white jacket which had so caught his fancy at the 
 wedding running very much in his mind. But this, in some 
 degree, might be accounted for by the fact that Grace had just 
 been telling him the flattering things Bessy Morris had said 
 of him. And as he had to pass close to the house on his way, 
 he began to think of some excuse for running up to his sister's 
 room, and having a laugh and a few words of conversation 
 with his agreeable partner in the dance at Ned Brophy's 
 wedding. It required a good deal of reasoning to satisfy 
 him that there was nothing objectionable in the step he was 
 about taking; and the mere fact that it did take such an 
 amount of argumentation to satisfy him ought of itself to 
 
 z
 
 346 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 have been enough to convince so steady a young man as Mr. 
 Hugh Kearney that it might be just as well to go on up the 
 hill, and not mind that curious little room up in the pointed 
 roof, in the oldest portion of the old cottage, for the present. 
 
 " She is a remarkably intelligent girl," thought Mr. Hugh 
 Kearney. " If she were a beauty, like ISTancy Hogan, I 
 shouldn't be surprised at the admiration she inspires. And 
 surely intellect can have nothing to do with it; for what do 
 those young fellows I saw crowding about her know about 
 intellect ? And sure she attracted my own notice before 1 
 spoke a word to her, or even knew who she was. It would 
 be quite an interesting study to discover the secret of her 
 tttraction." And he got over the stile behind the laurels 
 with the intention of commencing the interesting study at 
 once. 
 
 He started on entering the garden, for while his eyes were 
 turned to the window in the ivied gable, he found himself 
 face to face with Bessy Morris, who was just passing the 
 laurels with her head bent over her sewing. Possibly she 
 had seen him coming, from the window. 
 
 Hugh Kearney made a few commonplace remarks, and 
 asked one or two commonplace questions as he walked by 
 Bessy Morris's side towards the house. But when she turned 
 round at the end of the walk, somehow he could not bring 
 himself to turn round with her. Perhaps it was pride that 
 prevented him, and he wanted an excuse. So far, he was 
 merely on his way to the house. He found an excuse, how- 
 ever, for delaying her a minute at the little gate to inquire 
 whether her grandfather ever went to fish now 1 There was 
 a little trout stream not far from Phil Morris's house, and 
 the old man, notwithstanding his lameness, was an expert 
 angler. Some years before, Hugh cultivated the gentle craft, 
 and the old weaver occasionally supplied him with a cast of 
 flies, when the contents of his own fishing-hook failed to lure 
 the trout to rise and get themselves hooked. Sometimes, 
 too, the rain would drive him from the stream for shelter to 
 the little house among the hawthorns; and he would listen 
 for hours to the old "croppy's" reminiscences of '98, while 
 the shuttle was allowed to rest as he shouldered his crutch 
 to show how fields were won. Mr. Hugh Kearney used not 
 to be Muite oblivious of the presence of o^ Phil Morris's
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 347 
 
 lively little granddaughter ; yet now he wondered why he 
 had not taken more notice of her at that time, and began to 
 admire her retrospectively, as she moved about the house or 
 sat reading or sewing near the window while the old man 
 talked, and the rain poured down till the young ducks swam 
 up to the very threshold, and seemed to consult among them- 
 selves whether they would have long to wait before they 
 could sail into the kitchen and explore every nook and corner 
 without setting foot 'on dry land. And the glances for 
 Bessy Morris was a coquette before ever she saw a bold 
 dragoon that went for nothing at that time, strange to say, 
 began now .to produce the desired effect on Mr. Hugh 
 Kearney's heart, as memory brought them back again, while 
 he leant over the little gate to ask Bessy Morris whether hei 
 grandfather ever went to fish now. 
 
 She had seen him looking over his flies and tackle a few 
 days before, and Hugh resolved to send his rod to Mat 
 Donovan to be repaired, and said to himself that he would 
 pay an occasional visit to the river during the spring and 
 summer. It would be very pleasant. Old Phil was as 
 entertaining as ever, and told him some capital stories at Xed 
 Brophy's wedding ! 
 
 Hugh Kearney, as he walked alone up the hill, acknow- 
 ledged to himself that he would rather have remained in the 
 garden with Bessy Morris than with any girl he knew if bo 
 had an excuse. 
 
 It was generally said and believed among his friends that 
 Hugh had never been in love. Yet he had a tinge of romance 
 in him, after a fashion. He was a capital builder of castles 
 in the air; but be his castle never so stately, never so gorgeous 
 and glittering, it was to him cold and unattractive till love 
 shed its rosy light upon it. But in spite of all this, he never 
 was in love in downright earnest. He had met some one 
 or two, perhaps whom, under favourable circumstances, he 
 might have loved. But he had got a habit of weighing pos- 
 sible consequences, and looking very far before him, which 
 made him keep clear of actual danger, and content himself 
 with castles in the air. His solitary rambles over the moors 
 and mountains were very favourable to castle-building ; while 
 his close attention to the management of the farm with 
 which his rambles did not interfere at all was calculated to
 
 848 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 give a practical business-like turn to his mind. He found 
 health and relaxation among the moors and mountains, and 
 never thought the time lost which was spent with his dog? 
 and his gun, or upon horseback, clearing stone walls and 
 double ditches, after the foxhounds or the harriers. He read 
 more, and derived more pleasure from books than his ac- 
 quaintances suspected, and was far better informed than he 
 himself knew. He did not parade his knowledge, and conse- 
 quently got credit for knowing nothing.' No day passed that 
 he did not add to his store. But he read solely for the sake 
 of the pleasure it afforded him; and yet he almost shrank 
 from opening a new volume unless he had some previous 
 knowledge of the author or the subject. He felt no craving 
 for novelty, and liked so well to return again and again to 
 some cherished favourites that he often thought it would 
 scarcely be a matter for regret if the art of bookmaking were 
 lost, and he were henceforth obliged to limit his reading to 
 the contents of his own shelves, the greater part of which he 
 owed to that paragon of uncles, his mother's uncle Dan. 
 So that Mrs. Kearney could credit her uncle Dan with Hugh's 
 taste for reading as well as with Richard's taste for music. 
 
 After walking among the sheep and counting them, and 
 even catching one and feeling its ribs, he put his hands in 
 his pockets and looked about him. He could see two figures 
 leaning over the little bridge; and supposing them to be the 
 doctor and the beauty of Castle view, Hugh smiled. He 
 always sympathized with lovers. He considered Kathleen, 
 too, singularly handsome; and he thought Rose an exceed- 
 ingly pleasant girl to spend an hour with. Yet he turned 
 back at Tom Hogan's boundary a while ago, and had deter- 
 mined to do so from the first though Miss Grace was quite 
 troubled to think that it was because he was " huffed" by 
 the way she "treated him" that he left them so abruptly. 
 In fact he felt inclined to keep aloof from the house on 
 the hill; and there can scarcely be a doubt that the habit 
 of looking before him had a good deal to do with producing 
 this somewhat odd frame of mind for a young man who 
 admired beauty and sympathized with lovers in general, and 
 was so given to building castles in the air. Yet he never 
 thought of looking before him in the case of the little house 
 among the hawthorns. Was it because it was so humble a little
 
 OR, THE HOMES OP TIPPERARY. 349 
 
 liouse ? or was it because there was more attractive metal in 
 it? Perhaps both these considerations helped to make Mr. 
 Hugh Kearney forget his usual habit of looking to possible 
 consequences in this instance. And besides, he had an excuse. 
 He would certainly send his fishing-rod to Mat Donovan to 
 have it repaired. And poor Mat Donovan ! had he nothing 
 to do with the affair 1 Was he in no way concerned ? "Was 
 it nothing to him who came or went to and from that little 
 liouse in the whitethorns ? 
 
 At the present moment, however, nothing sublunary seems 
 to be troubling Mat Donovan but how best to convey, with 
 the greatest certainty and expedition, to Tom Cuddehy, of 
 the Rath, the important intelligence that the long disputed 
 hurling match could be decided to the satisfaction of all 
 concerned in Maurice Kearney's kiln-field on the following 
 Sunday. 
 
 " Maybe," said Mat to himself, as he trudged homeward 
 after finishing the seed-sowing, " maybe I might meet some 
 wan from that side of the forge. If not I don't know how 
 best to manage; an' Tom is likely to be at the fair to- 
 morrow." He saw two horsemen riding towards him, and 
 on looking more closely he observed that there had been a 
 funeral in the little graveyard near the castle, for, besides 
 the two horsemen, there were two or three cars on the road, 
 and a group of people, mostly women, standing in the church- 
 yard. 
 
 " I didn't hear of any wan bein' dead about this place," 
 said Mat Donovan to himself, " so I suppose it must be some 
 stranger. Begor, I'm all right," he exclaimed, quickening 
 his pace; "that's ould Paddy Laughlan, an' he'll bring word 
 uv the hurlin' to Tom Cuddehy." He hurried on and came 
 out upon the main road before the horseman had passed. 
 
 "A fine evenin', Mat," said old Paddy Laughlan; "what 
 way are you afther the weddin"? The divil a betther bout uv 
 dancin' I see these fifty years than that last bout ye danced. 
 Have you any news?" 
 
 " Not a word strange. Is id a funeral ye 're at 1" 
 
 "'Tis," was the reply; "a son uv William Maher's." 
 
 " Wisha, now," exclaimed Mat in astonishment. " I didn't 
 hear a word uv id." 
 
 " Oh, 'tis on'y the youngest little b'y. I b'lieve he wasn't
 
 350 KNOCKNAGOW j 
 
 more than about fifteen months ould. Where are ye comin' 
 from?" 
 
 "Well, we wor finishin' the seed-so win' at Eaheen; and 
 I 'm goin' to give some directions to Jack Delany about the 
 plough-irons, as we 're goin' to break a field. An' now as I 'm 
 
 afther meetin' you, maybe you 'd ." Here Mat Donovan 
 
 stopped short. The second horseman, who had loitered behind, 
 rode up; and as soon as Mat Donovan recognised him he 
 ceased speaking, and looked as if he had made a mistake. 
 The horseman was the young man from the mountain, who 
 kept gadding after a certain white jacket at Ned Brophy's 
 wedding, when his allegiance was lawfully due elsewhere. 
 Was Mat Donovan jealous of the young man from the moun- 
 tain? On the contrary, his discrimination in the matter of 
 the white jacket made Mat Donovan feel as if he were the 
 sworn friend of the young man from the mountain. Yet 
 Mat Donovan looked grave, and stopped short in the middle 
 of a sentence, the moment he recognised the young man 
 from the mountain in the horseman who now rode up and 
 resumed his place at old Paddy Laughlan's side. 
 
 "What's that you wor sayin', Mat?" old Paddy Laughlan 
 asked. 
 
 " Nothin' uv any account," Mat replied. " I was thinkin' 
 uv sendin' a message to a friend up in that direction; but I 
 won't mind id." 
 
 " I '11 brin' a message, an' welcome, for you," returned the 
 old farmer. "Maybe 'tis to Ned Brophy? If it is, I won't 
 mind turnin' down an' tellin' him, if I don't happen to meet 
 any wan on the road to send id by. He 's a cousin uv Ned 
 Brophy's," he added, turning to the young man who rode by 
 his side, as if he thought it necessary to explain why he was 
 so civil to a poor man like Mat Donovan. 
 
 The young man only looked at his spurs, which were very 
 large and very bright first at one and then at the other 
 and seemed to think that old Paddy Laughlan was on the- 
 whole too condescending Ned Brophy's relationship to the 
 contrary notwithstanding. 
 
 " I won't mind id now," returned Mat. " Good evenin r 
 to ye." 
 
 " Bad luck to id for money," said Mat Donovan to himself 
 when Paddy Loughlan and his intended son-in-law ha^
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 351 
 
 ridden forward, "'tis doin' harm here an' there. Well, she'll 
 have her twenty cows milkin' at any rate; ay, begor, an' a 
 good-lookin' young fellow, too, though he's a gag itse'f. 
 But if ever a woman was fond uv a man Judy Laughlan was 
 fond of Tom Cuddehy. An' poor Tom 'd marry her if she 
 hadn't a cross to bless herself wud in the mornin'; an' he 
 tould me he would. An' all on account uv her four hundhrecl 
 pounds fortune they're to be separated. I don't know; she 
 might be a happier woman wud Tom, though he has on'y a 
 small farm, an' that tillage, than ever she '11 be in her fine 
 slate house wud her twenty cows comin' into her yard. 
 Well, I was near playin' the divil by axin' the ould fellow to 
 tell Tom Cuddehy about the field. The not a wan uv me 
 ever thought uv how id was betune 'em till the son-in-law 
 reminded me uv id. An' sure I might 'asy know, whin Tom 
 himse'f tould me she daren't look at him for the last twelve- 
 month. ]S T ow, if Tom dhraws her down, as he always do, the 
 next time I meet him, I know the first Avord that '11 come to 
 my mouth is, that there 's as good fish in the say as ever was 
 caught. An' cowld comfort that same ould sayin' is. Well, 
 he '11 soon be out uv pain anyway. An' maybe 'twould be 
 well for more of us if we had the same story." He looked 
 up at the three poplar trees on the hill, and then at the 
 little house among the hawthorns. " Well, I must see about 
 the plough-irons," he added, rousing himself; "an' who knows 
 but wan uv these cars at the church might be from Tom's 
 side uv the counthry, an' I can send him word about the 
 hurlin'." 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 TOH CUDDEHY BIDS HIS OLD SWEETHEART GOOD-BYE. 
 
 BBSSY MORRIS, too, had her reflections as she walked round 
 and round the little garden. But she had not much time to 
 indulge in them when Miss Kearney's return brought her 
 back to the little room, into which the sun was now shining 
 so brightly, that Mary seemed in its rosy light a being too 
 ethereally beautiful for a mere mortal.
 
 352 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 " Now I wonder what that girl on the car is thinking of," 
 said Grace. "And why has she stopped there?" 
 
 It was a farmer's cart, well stuffed with straw, over which 
 was spread a blue woollen quilt. The young woman who 
 sat on the quilt, with the skirt of a rather showy gown spread 
 over the greater part of it, had turned quickly round, and 
 laying her hand on the shoulder of the driver, desired him 
 to stop. It was just at the part of the road nearest to the 
 house, and Grace was able to see the young woman so dis- 
 tinctly, that the expression of her face suggested the remark 
 she had just made. 
 
 "Keally," she continued, "there is something awfully 
 sullen about her. She certainly has about as unprepossess- 
 ing a face as ever I saw." 
 
 " I know her, Miss," said Bessy Morris. " She was at the 
 wedding; and she's to be married to one of the richest men 
 at the mountain-foot." 
 
 "I can't approve of his taste," returned Grace. 
 
 " But she has four hundred pounds fortune, Miss." 
 
 " I suppose this is the intended," Grace remarked, pointing 
 to a man who was just walking by the Bush, with his horse's 
 bridle hanging over his arm. " He is a rather good-looking 
 fellow." 
 
 "That is not the man, Miss," returned Bessy. "I saw 
 him pass with her father a few minutes ago." 
 
 The young woman in the car was now observed to become 
 restless, and floundered about upon her quilt, as if trying to 
 fix herself in a more comfortable position; and opened her 
 cloak and hooked it again; and knocked her bonnet back 
 upon her poll when intending to push it the other way and 
 fasten it on her head; and pulled from around her neck 
 and immediately flung it back again with a swing that par- 
 ticular piece of finery which, even more than the yellow 
 gloves, seemed to have excited Peg Brady's indignation when 
 "indeed she see her goin'" to Ned Brophy's wedding, and 
 which Peg designated her " boy-o." And, after exhibiting all 
 these symptoms of uneasiness, she bent her head and pressed 
 her gloved hand over her eyes; and then looked up. 
 
 " My goodness ! " Grace exclaimed. " Did ever any one see 
 such a metamorphosis'? She is positively beautiful now." 
 
 It was really so. The face that seemed a minute before
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 353 
 
 -so dull and sullen was now radiant and all aglow with 
 smiles. 
 
 " I never thought Judy Laughlan was so handsome a girl," 
 said Bessy Morris, wonderingly. " Look at her teeth, Miss, 
 and her eyes ! I never saw such a change all in a minute." 
 
 'Twas all Tom Cuddehy's doing; though he had not the 
 least notion such was the case. He walked on with the 
 bridle on his arm, and his eyes bent on the ground. He was 
 just conscious that there was a car on the road before him, 
 and on looking carelessly up, was startled, and did not know 
 whether to be glad or sorry when he saw Judy Laughlan 
 holding out her hand to him, laughing and blushing, and on 
 the very brink of crying. Well, why should he not shake 
 hands with her? Why should they not be friends? Of 
 course there was no reason in life why they should not. So 
 Tom Cuddehy stepped up close to the tail-board and shook 
 hands very warmly with his old sweetheart. And it was 
 such a long, long time since he had done the same thing 
 before though they were near neighbours. But she had been 
 forbidden to speak to him; and her father was heard to say 
 that Tom Cuddehy was no match for his daughter; and Tom 
 Cuddehy was not the sort of person to put himself in the 
 way of being insulted by a purse-proud old boddagh. And 
 so the meadow between his house and old Paddy Laughlan's 
 might as well have been the Great Sahara, so far as he and 
 his old sweetheart were concerned. And now as she was 
 going to be married to a rich man the thought crossed his 
 mind that she 'd be driving in her jaunting-car the next time 
 again he 'd see her she wanted, he supposed, to part friends 
 with him. And, like a manly fellow that he was, he shook 
 hands with her in a manly and friendly way. 
 
 " I know him now, Miss," Bessy Morris remarked. " He 
 is the leader of the hurlers at the other side of the river, the 
 same as Mat Donovan is at this side. But he got so stout 
 since I saw him last I did not know him till he smiled." 
 He waited, expecting that Judy Laughlan would speak ; but 
 she only smiled and blushed, and kept back the tears as well 
 as she could. " Oh, go on !" said she at last to the man who 
 drove the car, as if she were really surprised, and could not 
 by any means understand why he should have stopped and 
 remained standing there in such a ridiculous manner for
 
 354 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 nothing at all ! And then she said, " Good evening," with 
 another smile to Tom Cuddehy, and turned her head round 
 very quickly, as if she feared the horse was going to run 
 away. And while she watched every step the horse made,, 
 she was all the time feeling in her pocket for her handker- 
 chief, and, drawing it out in a slow, stealthy way, Judy 
 Laughlan bent her head and had a good cry. Tom Cuddehy 
 did not see this, as she was too far off. He only saw the- 
 smile; and as he caught hold of his horse's mane, and placed 
 his foot in the stirrup, Tom Cuddehy muttered to himself, 
 " God he wud ould times." 
 
 A hand was laid on his shoulder, and on turning round he 
 saw Mat Donovan at his side. 
 
 " I 'm glad I met you," said Mat. " We can get the kiln 
 field for the match on Sunday." 
 
 " All right, Mat. I '11 give notice to the boys to-morrow." 
 
 " I was thinkin' you might be at the fair to-morrow." 
 
 " No, I'm not goin'. You may depend on me for Sunday." 
 
 He rode off, and Mat Donovan turned into the back gate. 
 
 " I should not have thought that he was a leader, as you 
 say, like Mat," Mary observed, in reference to Bessy Morris's 
 last remark. " He 's not a powerful-looking man like him." 
 
 "Oh, he has the name of being the best hurler in the 
 country; but Mat was never beaten at throwing the sledge 
 and things of that kind; though I 'm told some people are 
 saying that Captain French will beat him. There is a great 
 deal of talk about it ; and you 'd think it was a great battle 
 that is to be fought if you heard my grandfather talking, 
 about it." 
 
 " If Mat were beaten," said Mary, " Tom Maher would 
 surely die of a broken heart." 
 
 " And Billy Heffernan," returned Bessy. 
 
 " As for that," Mary observed, " he is quite an idol with 
 them all. His defeat would be looked on as a dreadful cala- 
 mity. But I have not the least fear but that Mat will be 
 victorious in this instance, as he has always been."
 
 OB, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 355 
 
 CHAPTER XL VI. 
 "MAT DONOVAN is KILLED!" 
 
 THE whole family were assembled in the parlour; and Bessy 
 Morris, with her pretty bonnet and cloak on, and her little 
 basket on her arm, was talking to Miss Kearney near one of 
 the windows. The sun was just setting, and the shadows of 
 the trees on the grass were beginning to disappear, when a 
 flash of light through the branches of a large elm tree out in 
 the lawn made Mary start. 
 
 " Was it lightning ?" she asked. 
 
 " I thought so, Miss," Bessy replied. 
 
 But, on looking in the direction from which the flash 
 seemed to have come, they glanced at each other and smiled. 
 They saw Mat Donovan near the top of what remained of a 
 large hay-rick in the lawn. The rick had been cut away till 
 it looked like a rectangular tower, and had quite a picturesque 
 effect, its brown hue contrasting agreeably with the fir grove 
 behind. " Old hay is old gold," was a stereotyped phrase 
 with Maurice Kearney's visitors when they stood at the hall- 
 door and looked around the handsome lawn. Mat Donovan 
 was about commencing to cut away another slice of this okl 
 gold, and it was the hay-knife he held in his head, flashing 
 in the last rays of the sinking sun, that Mary and Bessy 
 Morris had mistaken for lightning. As he buried the sharp, 
 broad blade in the hay, and, bending over it, commenced to- 
 cut away vigorously, Bessy Morris almost laughed outright ; 
 for she caught a snatch of a well-remembered air, which 
 rolled down from the rick in the same old, mellow voice she 
 often loitered to listen to on her way from the school beyond 
 the quarry long ago. Even then, child as she was, she used to- 
 fancy it was of her Mat Donovan was thinking whenever he 
 sang 
 
 "Hi! for it, hi! for it still, 
 And hi! for the little house under the hill."
 
 356 KNOOKNAGOW ; 
 
 And what a world of drollery was in Mat's face while he 
 sang these words, and tossed the cherries over the hedge to 
 her ! The recollection of this came back so vividly now that 
 Bessy could not help laughing. She knew he could see her 
 grandfather's house from the hay-rick; and the consciousness 
 that he was thinking of herself now, as of old, may have 
 had something to do with the laugh that leaped up to her 
 eyes as she turned to say "Good evening !" to Mary Kearney. 
 She intended to run away without speaking to any one else, 
 as the window at which they were standing was near the 
 door; and Mary was just in the act of shaking hands with 
 her, when a cry from outside caused every one in the room 
 to start. It was the cry of a woman, and was followed by 
 the words, " Mat Donovan is killed !" 
 
 Mary looked instinctively to the hayrick. But, to her 
 titter amazement, it was gone ! There was the elm tree; 
 and the grove beyond; and the blue mountain; and the sky. 
 But the tower-like remnant of the hayrick, upon which, one 
 short minute before, she saw Mat Donovan standing, had 
 vanished like a vision ! 
 
 Everything without seemed calm and still; and the last 
 thing she noticed, as she sank almost fainting into a chair, 
 was that the sheep were quietly cropping the grass. 
 
 " Oh! Mat Donovan is killed !" 
 
 The cry was not very loud ; but the words were strangely 
 distinct, and no one could say from what particular direction 
 they had come, or whether the person who uttered them was 
 near or far off. 
 
 Hugh leaped through the window, and Mary saw that he 
 and Tom Maher rushed against each other near the elm tree 
 and fell. In an instant they were on their feet again, and 
 wildly flinging the hay about in armfuls. They were soon 
 joined by others; and immediately the whole place was alive 
 with men, women, and children, who seemed to have sprung 
 up as if by magic from the ground. They were climbing 
 over the gate, and over the fences, and running wildly 
 through the lasvn. Mrs. Kearney, who stood trembling at 
 the window, burst into tears; not because she had, at the 
 moment, any distinct idea of what had occurred but there 
 Avas that in the eager, anxious faces of the crowd that might 
 well have moved a harder heart than hers. Yet Bessy
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 357 
 
 Morris stood still, without moving a muscle, her lips apart, 
 and her eyes fixed upon the mass of hay that now lay flung 
 along the field. The constant falling of a drop of water will 
 wear away a rock, and the constant nibbling of a flock of 
 sheep Avill undermine a hayrick. 
 
 Hugh Kearney and a few others continued to fling the 
 hay from the place where he judged Mat must have fallen \ 
 and his voice was heard shouting to the people to keep back. 
 
 After a while the hay was seen to move, and the tall form 
 of the Thrasher rose out of it as from a heaving sea. There 
 was a moment of breathless silence, and then with a wild 
 cheer the crowd pressed upon him and threatened to smother 
 him a second time. His sister Nelly flung her arms about 
 him, and, with her face pressed against his bosom, sobbed 
 violently. But his mother, pushing her way back till she 
 got outside the crowd, sat down under the elm tree and 
 rested her head upon her knees. Phil Lahy came close to 
 Hugh Kearney's side and solemnly suggested a "little nourish- 
 ment." And Billy Heffernan was seen running faster than 
 ever he was known to run before, to bring the joyful news to- 
 Norah Lahy that Mat Donovan was alive and well. 
 
 But, notwithstanding that wild cheer, there were many 
 faces there as pale as Mat Donovan's own, and several women- 
 were seen wiping the tears from their eyes. 
 
 " I knew something was to happen," said Phil Lahy who, 
 on the strength of picking up Hugh Kearney's hat that had 
 fallen off, and saying to Barney Brodherick, " Barney, you 
 are in the way," was pretty well satisfied that Mat the 
 Thrasher owed his life principally to his, Phil Lahy's, indi- 
 vidual exertions to save him " I knew something was to 
 happen," said Phil Lahy, wiping imaginary drops of sweat 
 from his brow with his pocket-handkerchief. " A mad bull 
 hunting me all night over ditches and hedges, till I thought 
 my heart was broke." And Phil bent down his head and 
 finished off the wiping with the skirt of his coat. 
 
 "And didn't /know something was to happen," exclaimed 
 Kit Cummins. " That robber next doore to me to make off 
 wud my fine new cloak while I was goin' to the well for a 
 can uv wather." And Kit Cummins put her arms akimbo 
 and poured out a torrent of invective against her next-door 
 neighbour for stealing her " fine new cloak." Twas only a
 
 358 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 dream to be sure, and the cloak was at the time hanging 
 safely over the wash-tub where she had flung it before going 
 to bed, with the hood in the suds; but that made no differ- 
 ence in life to Kit Cummins, and, with arms akimbo, she 
 continued her harangue till her breath and her vocabulary 
 seemed to be exhausted at the same moment, and she stopped 
 short. Then from the outskirts of the crowd came the shrill 
 response, "Gir-r-r-r-r out, you bla 'guard !" and Kit Cummins 
 turned round with a bounce, and was beginning again, when 
 she was struck dumb with surprise on hearing a voice from 
 the clouds right over her head. 
 
 " Mat," said the voice, " will I throw down your coat?" 
 
 All eyes were turned upwards; and Honor Lahy was seen 
 to raise her hands as if imploring Providence to take pity on 
 her; for there was our friend Tommy as much at his ease on 
 one of tile highest boughs of the elm tree as if he lived in 
 the old magpie's nest, into which he was just after peeping, 
 and had run out merely to throw Mat Donovan his coat, 
 which he had hung upon a branch of the tree before he com- 
 menced cutting the hay. 
 
 This little episode seemed to some extent to remove the 
 gloom that hung over the crowd. And when Barney 
 Brodherick walked round and round the Thrasher, surveying 
 him from his shoes to the crown of his head, and from every 
 possible point of view, with a look of the profoundest wonder ; 
 and pushing back his hat on his poll, exclaimed solemnly 
 as if the miracle he had just witnessed was too great for his 
 comprehension " Begob, Donovan ! you '11 never be killed ! 
 be a cock uv hay;" there was a shout of laughter, in 
 which Mat himself joined; and all was gladness and congra- 
 tulation as the people dispersed and moved towards home 
 some returning as they had come, through the fields, and 
 others going out by the gate near the Bush and on by the 
 road to the hamlet. 
 
 " Did you remark Bessy Morris 1 ?" Grace asked. 
 
 " Yes; and it has occurred to me she must be cold-hearted," 
 replied Mary. " She was not in the least moved." 
 
 "That was because she was stunned," returned Grace. 
 
 "I don't think so. She said .'Good evening' quite 
 calmly." 
 
 " Remark what I say," said Grace, with a knowing nod of
 
 OB, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 359 
 
 the head. " I was watching her. She can control her feel 
 ings. And you see she has forgotten her basket." 
 
 To some extent Grace was right. \Then the flash of tha 
 hay-knife called her attention to Mat Donovan, and she 
 caught the words of the well-remembered song, Bessy's 
 thoughts flew back to the old happy times. He was the hero 
 of the district. Wherever she turned, she heard his name 
 mentioned with praise. The old people who smoked their 
 pipes round her grandfather's fire, and the boys and girls at 
 school, were equally proud of him. And when he had ac- 
 cepted the challenge of some renowned champion from another 
 parish, or even another county for Mat Donovan's fame had 
 gone far beyond the boundaries of his native district with 
 what nervous anxiety the result of the contest was looked 
 for ! And with what a thrill of joy the news of their hero's 
 victory was welcomed ! And then he was such a warm- 
 hearted, good-natured fellow so gentle and so strong with- 
 out an atom of the bully or the braggart in him. Yes, Bessy 
 Morris remembered the time when she was very proud and 
 happy to think that she was one of Mat Donovan's first 
 favourites. And how soon she came to think that she was a 
 greater favourite than anybody else. Though how she arrived 
 at this conclusion she would have found it difficult to explain. 
 He never spoke of love to her, except in jest; just as he was 
 accustomed to do with every lively girl who was willing to 
 carry on the joke. But somehow Bessy Morris was satisfied 
 that in her case Mat Donovan's palavering was " half joking 
 and whole earnest." He certainly did single her out at the 
 dance, and escorted her from Mass, and dropped in with his 
 "God save all here !" to the little house under the hill pretty 
 often. But her winning ways, and their mutual relationship 
 to Ned Brophy, and her grandfather's stories of '98, ought to 
 have been enough to account for this, without jumping to 
 the conclusion that Mat Donovan was "gone" about her. 
 To this conclusion, however, Bessy Morris did jump; and she 
 was certainly very proud of Mat Donovan's regard for her. 
 But she was not slow in discovering the power of her attrac- 
 tions elsewhere; and when one or two young farmers began 
 to show decided symptoms of being smitten, the thought 
 began to occur to her that Mat Donovan, in spite of all hia 
 good qualities, and notwithstanding the esteem in which ha
 
 360 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 was held, was only a poor labourer. But as time rolled on, 
 and even the most ardent of her wealthier admirers dropped 
 off one by one and took unto themselves wives, the unpleasant 
 conviction forced itself upon her that, however easy she found 
 it to catch a rich admirer, catching a rich husband was a dif- 
 ferent affair altogether. And at the time she left the country 
 to reside with her aunt in Dublin she was beginning uncon- 
 sciously to lean more and more upon the affection of her old 
 lover as she believed him to be than she had done since her 
 girlhood. But the novelty of the change, when she found her- 
 self in the midst of the city, with all its wonders and attrac- 
 tions, and the different sort of people with whom she came 
 in contact, all but completely obliterated her rustic admirer 
 from her thoughts. For a while she was quite intoxicated 
 by the pleasures of the city. She was brought to the theatre, 
 and the different places of Sunday and holiday resort, and 
 flattered and courted, till the simple, but at the same time 
 keen-witted and ambitious peasant girl had her head turned 
 by the brilliancy of this new world. The value of money, 
 too, became more apparent than ever; and she felt a strong: 
 desire, not only to be able to afford to dress well, but to be 
 beyond the danger of want to be independent. But sad 
 experience soon told her that making a fortune in the city 
 was just as difficult as catching a rich husband in the country. 
 And an " odd time," as she told Mary Kearney, when leff 
 alone with her own thoughts, she would think of her native 
 place and the friends of her childhood. And, on returning 
 to her old home after an absence of two years, and meeting 
 Mat Donovan again, his fine, manly, honest face revived in 
 a great degree the admiration she used to regard him with 
 when she was little more than a child; and her heart did 
 warm to him that " night at Mrs. Murphy's," as she reminded 
 him of the time he used to throw the -cherries over th& 
 hedge to her though well she knew he did not require to- 
 be reminded of it ! There was another consideration which 
 helped to raise him in her esteem. She had seen some 
 instances of misery and suffering in homes where there were 
 more of the comforts and luxuries that money can procuro 
 than ever she herself dared to hope for. In fact, Bessy 
 Morris was beginning to see that a poor man's wife might be- 
 very happy, and a rich man's very wretched.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 361 
 
 The soldier's visit had greatly disturbed her; and she 
 wished, though she scarcely knew why, that Mat Donovan 
 should never know of it. No light matter, she was sure, 
 could weaken his love for her. He would go on loving, with- 
 out a hope that his love would ever be returned. But if he 
 once thought her unworthy, she felt he would tear her from 
 his heart for ever. And since her return from Dublin, the 
 feeling that she could not afford to lose his regard was daily 
 growing stronger. And when the cry, "Mat Donovan is 
 killed!" struck upon her heart, and for some minutes she 
 thought his was stilled for ever, a sense of desolation fell 
 upon her, and she felt as if she were alone in the world. 
 She was really stunned, as Grace said. And when that wild 
 cheer announced to her that he was safe, she felt like one 
 just rescued from drowning, and too exhausted to experience 
 the full sense of joy and gratitude which one ought naturally 
 to feel on being snatched, as it were, from the dark grave 
 back to the bright world, with all its life and sunshine 
 never so bright, never so full of life, and light, and gladness, 
 as when it is on the point of being lost to us for ever. 
 Grace, then, was mistaken in supposing that only self-control 
 had anything to do with Bessy Morris's calmness when she 
 mechanically bade them "Good evening" and left the parlour 
 to go home. 
 
 He was thinking of her while he sang the old refrain 
 when was it he was not thinking of her? and when 
 he felt the rick coming down with him, and expected in 
 another second to be flung lifeless on the ground below, the 
 last thought that swelled his heart was a "God be with you," 
 to Bessy Morris. He then became insensible. Conscious- 
 ness, however, soon returned, and he felt that he was being 
 suffocated to death. Then he thought of his grey-haired 
 mother and his sister, and how desolate their little home 
 would be when he was gone; and feeling that he was relaps- 
 ing into unconsciousness, he prayed fervently that God would 
 have mercy on his soul. At this moment he fancied that the 
 weight that was crushing him became lighter, and, exerting 
 all his strength, he raised himself upon his hands and knees; 
 and pulling the hay from about his mouth he found that he 
 could breathe. But the weight of those who were pulling 
 away the hay, when they happened to stand directly over him 
 
 2A
 
 362 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 threatened to crush him down again ; and seizing a moment 
 when they had stepped aside, and the pressure was lightest, 
 lie made a vigorous effort, and emerged into the light like a 
 lusty swimmer through the breakers. 
 
 Bessy Morris's first impulse was to get home without 
 meeting Mat Donovan. She was hurrying through the 
 kitchen in order to get out to the road by the back gate, 
 when she almost knocked against Nelly Donovan, who was 
 running into the house for a drink of water for her brother 
 Their eyes met, and the looks of surprise and inquiry with 
 which they regarded each other, seemed to have something 
 of distrust or suspicion in it. Their looks were not alike, 
 however, for while Nelly's expressed reproach, Bessy's seemed 
 to indicate a dread of being detected. If Nelly Donovan 
 had spoken what she thought, she would have said, " Is that 
 all you care about him, you heartless thing?" And if Bessy 
 Morris gave utterance to her thoughts she would have said, 
 " I wonder has she found out how much I care for him ?" 
 
 Bessy, however, recovered quickly from her surprise, and 
 at once decided upon making the best of the situation. 
 
 "I saw all from the window, Nelly," said she. "Thank 
 God he is safe. It must be a great shock to your poor 
 mother." 
 
 "An' what raison are you runnin' away?" inquired Nelly, 
 who was the soul of candour. 
 
 "Well," replied Bessy who was not quite so candid 
 " I thought it would be only troublesome to you and your 
 mother if I went to talk to him. I knew ye 'd rather have 
 him all to yourselves. And, besides, poor Mat himself might 
 rather be left quiet after such a shock. So I said to myself 
 I 'd slip out by the back gate and run home, when I saw he 
 was safe." 
 
 This seemed natural enough to Nelly Donovan, and she- 
 was satisfied. 
 
 " Well, maybe you 're right," said she. " But, for all that, 
 I believe he 'd be glad to see you, no matter what way he 'd 
 be." 
 
 "Well, Nelly," returned Bessy, after some hesitation, 
 "I'd rather meet him when there would not be so many 
 people about him." 
 
 " Call in when you 're passin'," rejoined Nelly, " an' my
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 363 
 
 mother an' all uv us will be glad to see you. Though they 
 say," she added, shaking her head, you 're too proud now 
 for your ould friends." 
 
 "That's not true, Nelly." 
 
 " Well, I don't say it is. But I must run out wud the 
 dhrink of rather to him; an' as you don't like to get into 
 the crowd, I hope I '11 find you sittin' in the little chair you 
 wor so fond uv long ago." 
 
 The allusion to long ago had a decidedly softening effect 
 upon Bessy's heart; which, perhaps, wanted softening a little. 
 But Mat Donovan's heart which did not want softening at 
 all, but rather the contrary felt very heavy indeed, when he 
 caught a glimpse of her as she tripped lightly by the gate, 
 seeming not to give a thought to himself. 
 
 He raised the cup of water to his lips, and as he looked 
 into his sister's face, and glanced at his mother sitting at the 
 foot of the tree, the pain which the thought of Bessy's in- 
 difference had caused left his heart; and the old smile came 
 back into Mat Donovan's face, as he looked from one to 
 another of the friends who still lingered about him. There 
 was Phil Lahy, holding the coat which Tommy had dropped 
 from the tree with an expression of countenance suggestive of 
 woolsacks, and benches of bishops, and colleges of cardinals, 
 and holy fathers, and martyrs and confessors in general, all 
 rolled into one. And there was Honor, such a picture of 
 hearty, homely good nature, that it did him good to look at 
 her, thinking, in her own mind, whether she could by any 
 means take forcible possession of him, and bring him home 
 with her to rouse him, after his smothering, with a cup of 
 tea of fabulous strength, out of the little black tea-pot. 
 And there was Mary Kearney, as beautiful as an angel, 
 coming from the house, and giving him her hand, with such 
 a heavenly smile, and telling him how glad she was he had 
 escaped unhurt. And there was Grace following her example 
 in her own way; and, strange to say, Mat held Grace's hand 
 so tightly and so long, that she at first felt pleased and 
 amused, and then looked up in surprise, and almost snatched 
 away her hand; for there was something about Grace that 
 reminded Mat of throwing cherries over a hedge and other 
 little incidents of bygone days and so, unconsciously he held 
 her hand and squeezed it; and Grace laughingly submitted.
 
 364 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 Perhaps Grace would have frowned and thought it no com- 
 pliment at all if she knew he was thinking all the time of 
 Bessy Morris. And yet to Mat's mind the greatest compli- 
 ment a human being could be paid was to be thought like 
 Bessy Morris. 
 
 Then Mrs. Kearney herself came out, and, wiping the tears 
 from her eyes, declared that her heart she thought had broken, 
 the shock she got was so great particularly as it reminded her 
 of the day the horse ran away with her uncle Dan and broke 
 his collar-bone and insisted that Mat should come in and 
 take something; a request which Maurice Kearney seconded 
 by seizing Mat by the collar, which he was induced to let go 
 when Mat requested permission to put on his coat. And as 
 Mat Donovan put on his coat, he looked round him again, 
 and wondered that there was one particular face which he 
 could not see anywhere. He looked again and again, and 
 tried to think of a plausible reason for the absence of this 
 particular face as he walked towards the house. And turn- 
 ing round on reaching the door-step, he took another look 
 all round, and rubbing his poll with his open hand, Mat 
 Donovan called out : 
 
 "Do any uv ye know where is Billy Heffernan?" 
 No one could tell where Billy Heffernan was. And as he 
 had been seen watering his mule at the "lough" half-an-hour 
 before, every one wondered what had become of him. And, 
 in spite of all the kindness and congratulations showered 
 upon him, Mat Donovan felt as if a screw were loose some- 
 where, when Billy Heffernan's face was nowhere visible. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII. 
 
 BILLY HEFFERNAN WONDERS WHAT IS " COMING OVER" NORAH. 
 
 BILLY HEFFERNAN had run off over ditches and hedges in a 
 straight line, with his eyes fixed upon the chimney of Phil 
 Lahy's old house, and never stopped till he stood behind 
 Norah's straw chair. And then Billy Heffernan did stop
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 365 
 
 very suddenly, and made a foolish pretence of having walked 
 in very slowly and carelessly, and with no object in the world 
 except to pass away the time. The instantaneous change 
 from break-neck speed and breathless haste to a lazy lounge, 
 as he moved towards Phil Lahy's shop-board, caused Norah 
 to smile. He took up a piece of chalk and coiynenced 
 writing the letters of the alphabet in round-hand on the lap- 
 board very carefully and deliberately till he came to the 
 letter g, and then Billy ventured to glance sideways at Norah, 
 sitting in her straw-chair, with her wasted hand on the head 
 of the rough terrier. 
 
 Now, it occurred, at the last moment, to Billy Heffernan, 
 that to communicate the joyful news of Mat Donovan's safety 
 too abruptly to Norah might give her a shock that would 
 prove injurious to her. And, in his own way, he set about 
 correcting the mistake he had made. But, as he glanced at 
 Norah, and saw how calm and collected she was, he thought 
 she must not have heard of the accident to Mat Donovan at 
 all, and resolved to go on with his writing till her father and 
 mother arrived. To his great surprise, however, before he 
 had got half-way to the end of the lap-board, Norah said : 
 
 "Well, Billy, why don't you tell me all about Mat?" 
 
 He turned quickly round, and to his great astonishment 
 saw not the least symptom of anxiety or agitation about her; 
 but, on the contrary, she seemed as if trying to suppress a 
 smile. 
 
 " She knows nothin' about id," thought Billy Heffernan. 
 "Begor, I'm glad uv id; for I was afeard it might frighten 
 the life out uv her. An' 'twas well she tuck no notice uv 
 the way I ran in. 'Twas well I didn't tumble up against 
 her, I was in such a pucker to make her mind 'asy about 
 Mat." 
 
 " Billy," said Norah, " why don't you tell me all about 
 what 's after happening to Mat Donovan ? Nelly was here 
 with me when the report went about that he was killed, and 
 she was terribly frightened." 
 
 Her apparent indifference about the matter astonished 
 Billy Heffernan beyond expression; and he stared at her with 
 open mouth for nearly a minute before he was able to 
 reply. 
 
 " He 's all right," said Billy at last.
 
 366 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 "Oh, yes, I know that," returned Norah quite calmly. 
 " But he was in danger." 
 
 Billy Heffernan's astonishment now took a different turn; 
 and, as he looked into her dark eyes and pale, spiritual face, 
 he began, with that proneness to superstition for which he 
 was remarkable, to fancy that she had supernatural know- 
 ledge of events passing beyond the ken of mere bodily senses. 
 She seemed to know what was passing in his mind, and the 
 covert smile about her lips and in her eyes tended to 
 strengthen Billy Heffernan's half-formed suspicion that she 
 must be in communion with those invisible beings of whose 
 existence in earth and air he had no more doubt than he had 
 of his own. But, notwithstanding the plenitude of his faith 
 in such matters, it is worthy of remark that Billy Heffernan 
 always held out stoutly against the " black dog" which 
 piece of infidelity procured for him the undying enmity ot 
 Kit Cummins. 
 
 " You 're wondering at me, Billy," said Norah, giving the 
 smile full play at last, and revealing her ivory-white teeth ; 
 which somehow had the effect of imparting a deeper shade of 
 melancholy to her look. " You think I 'm a witch or some- 
 thing of that kind." 
 
 "Begor, if you're anything at all id must be somethin' 
 good," he answered, seriously. 
 
 "Well, I was frightened, Billy," said Norah. "Poor, 
 brave, honest Mat Donovan, that every one is proud of him, 
 and fond of him ! But I said to myself that God was good, 
 and that I 'd offer up a few prayers for him. Then I heard 
 the shout, and I knew he was safe. And I said to myself, 
 too, he must be after escaping some danger, or the people 
 wouldn't shout that way. And, Billy," she added, smiling 
 again, " I knew you 'd be the first to remember me and to 
 relieve my mind. So when I saw you rushing in, I was sure 
 all was right." 
 
 Billy returned to his chalking and went on carefully till he 
 came to m which letter was so well executed that he stopped 
 to admire it but said nothing. 
 
 "Tell me what happened, Billy," said Ko rah, leaning her 
 head against the back of her chair, as if, after all, she felt 
 weary and exhausted. 
 
 Billy told how a high rick, that was higher than the top
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPEHARY. 367 
 
 of the chimney, and, in fact, as far as he could judge, as high 
 as the beech-tree, had fallen while Mat Donovan was " cutting 
 a bench" up near the top of it. And how some thought he 
 was "made bruss of" on the ground; and others that it was 
 only smothered he was by the hay on top of him; while a 
 few asserted positively that Mat was "ripped open" by the 
 sharp hay-knife. But Billy was able to bear witness that he 
 had seen Mat with his own eyes, quite whole, neither pul- 
 verised nor embowelled, and, to all appearance?, having the 
 free use of his lungs. 
 
 "I'm very glad he's not hurt," said Xorah. "But if he 
 was," she added thoughtfully after a pause, " he 'd have a 
 good nurse in Nelly to take care of him." 
 
 "So he would," returned Billy Heffernan; "and his 
 mother, too." 
 
 " Nelly is very good," continued Norah. " She 's the best- 
 hearted poor thing in the world. And. she's very fond of 
 me. She and me were always great friends, Billy." 
 
 "So ye wor," returned Billy. "Always." 
 
 "And if Mat met with an accidence, he'd have some one 
 to take care of him," rejoined Norah, as if thinking aloud. 
 
 "But, Billy," she continued, "if anything happened you, 
 you 'd have no one. And what would you do?" 
 
 " I 'd take my chance," Billy answered. " God is good." 
 
 "That's true," she replied fervently; "God is good. But 
 'tis hard for you to feel happy all alone by yourself. And 
 you are going on very well, by all accounts, and getting more 
 comfortable every year." 
 
 " I know who I have to thank for that," he replied. 
 
 "Who?" she asked in surprise. 
 
 "Yourse'f, Norah," returned Billy Heffernan, leaning on 
 his elbow upon the shop-board and proceeding with his 
 chalking. " You know what I was before you made me take 
 the pledge; and that's what I couldn't do for the priest hiiu- 
 se'f. An' I know I 'd never be able to keep id on'y for you 
 prayin' for me, as you said you would. I do be wondherin' 
 now at myse'f. I can hardly b'lieve I 'm the same unfortu- 
 nate Hilly Heffernan that every wan \ised to have compassion 
 for, when I see the respect they all have for me now. Eegor, 
 I think sometimes 'tis humbuggin' me they do be, the way 
 they talk to me an' ax my advice about this or that, when I
 
 368 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 think how the smallest child in the place used to have a 
 laugh at me before." 
 
 " Well, if I gave you a good advice at that time, Billy, 
 sure you ought to listen to another good advice from me 
 now?" 
 
 "What is id?" 
 
 "Well, you know what I mean," she answered, as if she 
 wished to avoid being more explicit. " I often think of id 
 this while back, when Nelly Donovan and myself do be talk- 
 ing about old times." 
 
 " Norah," said Billy Heffernan, quite agitated, as he hur- 
 riedly wiped out the letters he had chalked with such pains 
 on the lap-board, " for God's sake don't talk to me any more 
 that way. I'm well enough as I am. I want for nothin'. 
 An' if I am lonesome idse'f, 'tis lonesome I 'd rather be." 
 
 Norah smiled. She smiled a little while before, because 
 she was amused. But this was a different kind of smile 
 altogether. Yes; Billy Heffernan's refusal to listen to what 
 she was about proposing to him gave her pleasure. Yet, if he 
 did listen to her advice and followed it, it would have given 
 her pleasure too pleasure sweetened by self-sacrifice. She 
 would be glad to see Billy Heffernan and Nelly Donovan 
 happy. Yet she was glad that Billy Heffernan would not 
 listen to her plan for his happiness. Self-sacrifice is sure of 
 its reward either way. 
 
 "Well, Billy," said Norah Lahy, "you will remember my 
 words hereafter." 
 
 Oh! that "hereafter" how heavily it fell upon his heart! 
 
 His back was still turned to her; and with one elbow on 
 the table, and shading his eyes with his hand, he went on 
 with the chalking again; but instead of carefully formed 
 letters, he covered the board with mere dots and shapeless 
 figures. He felt almost angry with her. " Sure she has no 
 right," he said to himself, " to be talkin' that way. Don't 
 she know I 'd as lief be dead as the way I do be when id comes 
 into my head?" And Billy held the lap-board near his 
 eyes for it was now nearly dark and seemed to be trying 
 to decipher the hieroglyphics he had traced upon it. "1 
 don't know what 's comin' over her this while back," he con- 
 tinued, glancing stealthily at Norah; "every wan used to be 
 remarkin' that you 'd never hear a word from her that 'd look
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERART. 369 
 
 as if she was thinkin' uv dyin' at all. Even her mother says 
 she never heard a word about id from her. But this is the 
 third turn wud her dhrawin' id down to me these days back. 
 She began t'other night about the evenin' I carried her over 
 the sthrame. There 's some change comin' over her I 'm 
 afeard, or she wouldn't be goin' on this way." 
 
 He was interrupted in his reflections by the entrance of 
 Honor Lahy, who rather to the surprise of Billy was 
 immediately followed by her husband. 
 
 "Wisha, is id there you are, Billy?" exclaimed Honor. 
 " Mat is after axin' where you wor ; an' not wan uv us 
 could tell him. We wor all wonderin' what happened you." 
 
 " I ran down to tell Norah, whin I see he wasn't hurt. I 
 thought she might be unaisy." 
 
 " Well, well," returned Honor, as if she felt quite ashamed 
 of herself, " see how not wan uv us ever thought uv that. 
 An' sure I might 'asy know her mind 'd be throubled; an' 
 for all I never thought uv id." She knelt down as she 
 spoke, and arranged Norah's shawl more comfortably about 
 her shoulders. " We had no right," she continued, as she 
 pinned the shawl, " to run away an' lave you by yourse'f. 
 But I got such a start thinkin' poor Mat was killed, that I 
 didn't know what I was doin'. An' sure on'y the mercy uv 
 God 'tis killed he 'd be." 
 
 Phil had flung himself in a chair in an almost gasping 
 condition after his exertions. He fixed a severe glance on 
 his wife, and even on his daughter, and then shook his head 
 and looked into the fire. There was no sign, not the shadow 
 of a symptom of a "little nourishment," and Phil Lahy 
 seemed to have made up his mind that all Christian charity 
 had vanished from the world, and that there was nothing left 
 for him but to be resigned. And he was resigned ! He did 
 not complain in the least. No murmur would ever escape 
 his lips. He was never a grumbler; never " a man for com- 
 plaining." And in a spirit of resignation and self-abnegation, 
 Phil Lahy dismissed all thought of his own sufferings from 
 his mind, and only thought, as a patriot and philanthropist, 
 of the grievances of his fellow-men. 
 
 " Billy," said he, addressing himself to Billy Heffernan, 
 who had turned round and now stood with his back to the 
 shop-board, resting against it, " these are quare times."
 
 370 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 "How so?" Billy asked. 
 
 " Well, I 'm af ther havin' a talk wud that poor crawler, 
 Tom Hogan ; and the fact is I 'm not the betther uv id." 
 
 " How so ?" Billy asked again. 
 
 " I was never a man of extreme views," returned Phil. 
 " I admire some of the extreme party for their genius, and I 
 neve.- took part in the cry against them. But I 'm a man of 
 moderate views, and always was. Old Phil Morris and I 
 couLl never agree on some points. But, Billy, 'tis enough to 
 knock moderation out of any man to talk to a crawler! You 
 heard the conversation I had with that man sitting at this 
 .fire?" 
 
 " I remember," replied Billy Heffernan. " An' Mat re- 
 marked as we wor goin' home, that all he was worth in the 
 world was sunk in his little spot that he hadn't a penny; 
 on'y as fast as he 'd have id lettin' id all go in dhrainin' an' 
 buildin'." 
 
 " Well, that same Tom Hogan calls me over an' I passin'. 
 "* Phil,' says he, ' I couldn't help laughin' a while ago when I 
 thought uv you. Faith, a person 'd think,' says he, ' that 
 you knew what they wor goin' to do.' ' What do you mane, 
 Tom?' says I speakin' as civil as I could to him, because 
 Norah here begged uv me not to be severe on him, since the 
 way he began thremblin' when I spoke about risin' his rent 
 from thirty-eight to forty-eight shillin's an acre. So I asked 
 him civilly what did he mane. 'Well, my rint is riz,' says 
 he, 'just as you said id would.' I thought 'twas humbuggin' 
 me he was, till I remembered I see Darby Ruadh turnin' into 
 his gate a start before. ' Tom,' says I, 'are you in airnest, or 
 is id jokin' you are ?' ' He is in airnest, Phil,' the wife makes 
 answer. ' Darby is afther given us notice of another rise.' 
 I looked at him," continued Phil, turning round in his chair 
 and resting his elbow on the back of it, so as that he could 
 look up into Billy Heffernan's face, of which, however, there 
 was not light enough to afford more than a dim outline " I 
 looked at him; and there he was, breakin'his heart laughin'; 
 ' 'Tis on'y two shillin's an acre, Phil,' says he, ' to make 
 id the even money. A couple uv pounds a year won't make 
 much difference. But whin Darby walked in an' spoke uv 
 another rise, begor, I thought of what you wor sayin' to me 
 last night. An' wasn't id dhroll,' he says, laughin', ' that
 
 OK, THE HOMES OF T1PPERARY. 371 
 
 your words come to pass all at wance?' 'Tom,' says I, 'I 
 have nothin' to say to you.' ' Darby tould me,' says the wife, 
 1 that Mr. Fender was sorry, but that he couldn't help id 
 whin the ordher came down from the landlord.' But 'tisu't 
 Tom Hogan that 's throublin' me," continued Phil, after a 
 pause ; " but I fear we 're goin' to have some bad work in the 
 counthry ! " 
 
 " What bad work, Phil 1 ?" his wife asked in alarm. 
 
 " Well, that blessed bird," he returned, " that came in to 
 light the lamp t'other night honest Darby and Wat Cor- 
 coran wor overheard rnakin' some remarks to-day about bein' 
 near stirrin' times about here. An' we all know what that 
 manes. Mat Donovan is likely to lose his little garden, too. 
 An' that's a bad sign. An' there's poor Mick Brien that they 
 beggared. Kept him hangin' on expectin' they 'd give him a 
 little spot somewhere, if 'twas on'y a skirt uv the bog, till 
 every penny he had was gone uv whatever thrifle he was able 
 to make by sellin' the few things he had left afther bein' 
 turned out uv the nice little farm that his people lived in for 
 hundreds uv years. Well, Maurice Kearney gave him a 
 couple uv bundles uv straw to cover the roof over his wife 
 an' childher. An' just when he had id finished, the guardian 
 angels come to tell him he must go out; that the cabin is to 
 be pulled down, as such cabins can't be allowed on the pro- 
 perty any longer. I 'm tould he 's out uv his mind. The 
 wife is thought to be in a decline, an' two uv the childer have 
 the faver. An' the thought uv the poorhouse sets him 
 mad." 
 
 At these last few words the tears began to fall silently 
 from jS"orah's eyes; and Billy Heffernan, on seeing them 
 dropping clown one by one, began to be angry with some 
 one or other, and felt a strong desire to relieve his feelings 
 by beating Darby Ruadh and Wat Corcoran black and blue. 
 Indeed at that moment Billy would have faced a whole 
 legion of " guardian angels," and done heaven knows what 
 desperate things, if he had the chance. 
 
 " So you see, Billy," said Phil Lahy, " that thinkin' of 
 such things is enough to make any man violent." 
 
 "'Tis thrue!" replied Billy Heffernan, almost fiercely. 
 
 " I of'en think uv Mick Brien's wife," Honor observed, as 
 if she were thinking aloud, while, with her chin on her hand
 
 372 KNOCKNAGOW; 
 
 aud her elbow resting on the shop-board, she gazed at the 
 moon through the branches of the beech-tree. " She was 
 sich a good, charitable woman. 'Tis too good she was. Of en 
 Father M'Mahon said 'twas a pity she wasn't as rich as 
 Darner." 
 
 " 'Tis many a piggin uv milk she made me dhrink," said 
 Billy Heffernan, " when I 'd be passin' comin' from Clo'mel. 
 An' Mick brought home my ould coat that I put about him 
 the last night I was passin'. I 'd rather he 'd keep id," added 
 Billy, "for the divil a much harm a wettin' ever done me. 
 But Mick wouldn't be satisfied. An' whin he was comin' for 
 the straw to Misther Kearney's, he brought home the coat. 
 Ould Phil Morris gave him the lend uv his ass to brin' the 
 straw. An' sure if he kern to me for the mule I 'd give her 
 to him an' welcome. But he says he thought I might be 
 on the road. An' he knew Phil Morris's as was idle." 
 
 " Were you talking to Bessy Morris since she came home V 
 Norah asked, after an interval of silence. " She ran in to see 
 me, but she had no time to delay." 
 
 "She was at the weddin'," returned Billy; "an' I 
 
 called . An' I met her above the Bush" he broke off 
 
 " this rnornin', as she was comin' to Misther Kearney's to 
 make a dhress for Miss Mary." 
 
 Norah raised her eyes quickly when Billy hesitated and 
 seemed embarrassed after saying he " called in." And when 
 he turned the "calling in" to meeting Bessy on the road, 
 she did not know what to think. She admired Bessy Morris 
 very much, and liked her pretty well ; though she never did 
 warm to her so much as to Nelly Donovan and one or two 
 more of her schoolfellows. 
 
 She saw how much superior to them all Bessy was in 
 many respects; but, in spite of her cleverness and winning 
 ways, Norah could not help thinking that Bessy Morris 
 wanted heart. She often accused herself of being unjust, 
 but she could not reason herself out of this impression. Many 
 little instances of selfishness on Bessy's part would occur to 
 her; but it was Bessy's love of conquest and admiration that 
 tended most to prejudice Norah Lahy against her. 
 
 And now, on observing Billy Heffernan's embarrassment, 
 she thought Bessy might have been trying the power of her 
 fascination upon him, too. It was but the thought of a
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERART. 373 
 
 moment, dismissed almost as soon as formed. But Norah did 
 say to herself, after a moment's reflection, that she " would 
 not like it." 
 
 Billy Heffernan's embarrassment, however, was simply 
 caused by remembering his resolution to say nothing about 
 the dragoon. 
 
 "I think," Phil Lahy observed, "I ought to take a walk 
 up to see Mat." 
 
 "Give him time to be done his supper, at any rate," 
 returned his wife. . 
 
 " Very well," he rejoined. " But what I 'm afraid uv is 
 that this fall may come against him in throwing the sledge 
 with the captain. I '11 advise Mat not to venture. 'Tis too 
 serious a matter. And and," added Phil Lahy, in a dig- 
 nified way, " a man should not forget his duty to the public. 
 That 's Mat's weak point. He can't be got to see that he 's a 
 public character. The people at large are concerned. The 
 credit of Knocknagow is at stake. So I must explain this to 
 Mat. The captain, too, though a good fellow, is an aristo- 
 crat. That fact cannot be lost sight of. So I must explain 
 matters to Mat. An', if he is not in condition, he 's bound 
 to decline throwing the sledge with Captain French on the 
 present occasion." 
 
 " Do you think there 's any danger he might be bet?" Billy 
 Heffernan asked, with a blending of terror and incredulity in 
 his look. 
 
 " There 's no knowin', Billy," returned Phil. " A man 'd 
 want to be careful upon important occasions; particularly 
 when the public are are the fact is," said Phil, at a loss 
 for a word, " I must have a talk with Mat." 
 
 "Begor," returned Billy Heffernan, "you're afther makin' 
 me someway uneasy. Good evenin' to ye." 
 
 " Good evenin', Billy," returned Phil Lahy, benevolently. 
 " Don't let anything I 'm afther sayin' prey on your mind. 
 Let us hope for the best." 
 
 "I'll never b'lieve," returned Billy Heffernan, stopping 
 before he reached the shop door, "I'll never blieve the 
 man was ever born that 's able to bate Mat Donovan at the 
 sledge." 
 
 " You are right, Billy unless he does himself injustice 
 an' what I want to prevent is that. You know yourse'f Mat
 
 374 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 is a soft soart of a fellow; and requires a friend to advise him. 
 Are you goin' up that way yourse'f ?" 
 
 "No," Billy replied. "I have to mend the mule's 
 breechin', an' to fill the load, as I 'm to be on the road to- 
 night." 
 
 " Billy," said Mrs. Lahy, " maybe you 'd take a walk down 
 again, as I want a box of candles an' a few other things that 
 I 'm nearly out uv." 
 
 " Very well," he replied. " I '11 take a walk down before 
 I go to bed." And as Billy, after lighting one of his ante- 
 diluvian tapers, sat down upon his antediluvian block, to 
 repair Kit's harness, he felt so oppressed and nervous, think- 
 ing of the strange change he had noticed in Norah Lahy, and 
 of the possibility of Captain French beating Mat Donovan at 
 the sledge, he heartily wished for the long summer days, 
 when he could stretch upon a bank in the lonesome bog and 
 listen to the whistle of the plover. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVIII. 
 
 THE "DEAD PAST" AND THE "LIVING PRESENT." MRS. 
 DONOVAN'S SAD FACE. 
 
 BESSY MORRIS tripped lightly up the hill, till she came to the 
 clipped hedge. And then she began to walk more and more 
 slowly, with her eyes bent on the ground. After passing 
 the little gate and the neatly thatched house, she stopped, 
 and, turning round, looked at the clipped hedge and up at 
 the old cherry-tree. And while she looked, the hedge grew 
 green, and the bare branches of the cherry-tree were covered 
 with leaves, through which the cherries peeped, and seemed 
 to whisper above the hum of the bees " 'Tis for you we have 
 grown red and ripe and juicy; for you we are kept here so- 
 long; for you and nobody else, little Bessy Morris!" just as 
 the cherries used to whisper long ago. The trees flung their 
 shadows across the white and dusty road; the birds twittered 
 among the branches; the swallows skimmed over the bright 
 little river; the distant lowing of the cows floated upon the
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 375- 
 
 clover-scented air; the thrush's evening song rang out bold 
 and clear from the bushy glen; the blue smoke stole up' 
 through the grey sally-trees: and she was a happy, innocent 
 school-girl. 
 
 The deepening shadows and the bleak, wintry landscape 
 called her back from the dead past to the living present; and. 
 after a moment's hesitation, she turned in from the road, and 
 raised the latch of Mat" Donovan's door. 
 
 There was no change. Everything was as it used to be. 
 The little chair of which Nelly spoke was in its old place ;. 
 and she could almost fancy she saw the Bessy Morris of the 
 old time sitting in it. And how fond they all were of her 
 then ! A shadow seemed to fall upon her face as the thought 
 struck her that she had let these true friends drop almost 
 completely out of her memory, except Mat himself; and if 
 she gave him a thought, it was only in some moment of dis- 
 appointment or mental suffering, when the recollection of his 
 unchanging love would cross her mind. Her cheek flushed 
 as she reflected how little she had prized that love; and for 
 a moment she felt as if she had been not only ungrateful but 
 false. She looked again at the familiar objects around. The 
 dresser the wheel upon which Mrs. Donovan had given her 
 her first lesson in spinning Mat's hurly over the fire-place 
 everything just the same ! As her eye rested on the famous 
 Knocknagow drum, hung so high up that none but Mat 
 himself could reach to it, she smiled, and her thoughts seemed 
 to take a more cheerful turn. Seeing a slate upon the little 
 window a blue slate without a frame, and having only one 
 side polished she took it in her hand, for it reminded her of 
 the old school days. A little to her surprise, she saw there 
 was a sum carefully worked out upon the slate, and some 
 sentences correctly and fairly written. The fact was, Mat 
 Donovan had taken to study of late. He endeavoured to 
 induce a sufficient number of pupils to pay half-a-crown in 
 advance, to make it worth the schoolmaster's while to take a 
 lodging in the village instead of sleeping at a farmer's house 
 two miles away and open a night-school for the winter. But 
 a sufficient number of half-crowns not being forthcoming, 
 Mat Donovan set about teaching himself greatly to the dis- 
 tress of his mother, who could see no possible explanation of 
 so strange a proceeding, but an intention on Mat's part of
 
 376 KNOCKNAGOW) 
 
 "going to join the peelers;" which, to her mind, was as bad 
 as going into the poor-house, and infinitely worse than going 
 to be hanged. For poor Mrs. Donovan got that sad face of 
 hers one bright summer day in the year '98, when her 
 father's house was surrounded by soldiers and yeomen, and 
 her only brother, a bright-eyed boy of seventeen, was torn 
 from the arms of his mother, and shot dead outside the door. 
 And then a gallant officer twisted his hand in the boy's 
 golden hair, and invited them all to observe how, with one 
 blow of his trusty sword, he would sever the rebel head from 
 the rebel carcase. But one blow, nor two, nor three, nor 
 ten, did not do; and the gallant officer hacked away at the 
 poor boy's neck in a fury, and was in so great a passion, that 
 when the trunk fell down at last, leaving the head in his 
 hand, he flung it on the ground, and kicked it like a foot- 
 ball; and when it rolled against the feet of the horrified 
 young girl, who stood as if she were turned to stone near the 
 door, she fell down senseless without cry or moan, and they 
 all thought she too was dead. She awoke, however, the 
 second next day following, just in time to kiss the poor 
 bruised and disfigured lips before the coffin-lid was nailed 
 down upon them. But the sad look was in her face, and 
 never wholly left it from that hour. It was beginning to 
 clear away in after years; till once again the house was sur- 
 rounded by soldiers. They came with the sheriff and bailiffs. 
 It was not a bright summer day, but a bitter cold day in the 
 bleak December this time. Yet, as she and her father and 
 mother passed through the glittering bayonets and shining 
 accoutrements that filled the yard, that fatal summer day in 
 '98 came back with such strange vividness that she thought 
 she felt her brother's head strike against her foot; and again 
 she fell down senseless without cry or moan. After that the 
 sad look became fixed and permanent, and she was destined 
 to carry it with her into her coffin. It was the shadow of a 
 curse. 
 
 So Mat Donovan's slate and pencil made the sad look in 
 his mother's face a shade sadder, lest by any chance he should 
 be qualifying himself for the " peelers." She would rather a 
 thousand times see him dragged out and shot like the bright- 
 eyed boy whose head rolled against her foot in '98, or hanged 
 from the old cherry-tree in the garden.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OP TIPPERARY. 377 
 
 It strikes us that statesmen might learn something from 
 the sad look in Mrs. Donovan's face. 
 
 Bessy Morris carelessly turned over the slate, and as she 
 looked at the unpolished back, a strange light came into her 
 eyes. Every inch of the back of Mat Donovan's slate was 
 covered with B's. 
 
 She laid the slate down quickly on hearing his footstep, 
 and looked along the road, as if she had been brought to 
 the window by the braying of Mr. Beresford Fender's tin- 
 horn, which he had just put to his lips to warn all whom it 
 might concern to keep out of the way of the wheels of his 
 tax-cart, and clear the road for a " gentleman." And how 
 Mat Donovan did start when he saw her ! For a moment he 
 could scarcely credit the sight of his eyes, that it was really 
 Bessy Morris, all alone in his own house. Eecovering, how- 
 ever, from his surprise, he advanced a step or two and held 
 out his hand. 
 
 "You're welcome!" said he, with that odd smile of his. 
 He thought there was something very cold in her manner as 
 she placed her hand in his. Not the faintest pressure could 
 he feel from that dear little hand. 
 
 "You 're welcome !" was all he could say. And as he said 
 it a second time, for want of something else, there was a 
 very little pressure upon his fingers, just as if she couldn't 
 help it. 
 
 " You had a narrow escape," said she ; " I hope you are 
 not hurt." 
 
 " Tis nothin'," he replied, letting her hand go suddenly; 
 for he felt that she was trying to withdraw it. But the 
 withdrawing of the hand would not have caused that pain he 
 felt coming about his heart again, if he knew it was done 
 simply because she saw his sister Nelly coming towards the 
 door. 
 
 " 'Tis nothin'," said he, " on'y a tumble in the hay." 
 
 He was surprised and displeased to see that Nelly took 
 scarcely any notice of Bessy Morris; but he did not know 
 they had met a few minutes before. He watched with some 
 anxiety to see if his mother's greeting would be as cold as 
 his sister's; and when the old woman came in, with her sad 
 face seeming sadder than ever, and looked first surprised, and 
 then glad, and then held out her hand to Bessy and said, 
 
 2B
 
 378 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 " You are welcome," in such a kind way, Mat felt quite 
 happy. 
 
 "And won't you sit down?" said Mrs. Donovan, with a 
 brighter look than Mat had seen in the sad face for many a 
 long day. 
 
 " Tis getting late, ma'am," returned Bessy; sitting down 
 at the same time in the little old chair. 
 
 Mrs. Donovan sat down too, and, putting .her hand under 
 her chin, looked into Bessy's face for a full minute. It was 
 plain she was thinking of the bright little girl who used to 
 sit in that old chair a few years before, and so delight them 
 all with her merry laugh and her ready wit, and her quaint, 
 half-childish, half-womanly ways. 
 
 "Is id yourself that's in id at all?" said Mrs. Donovan. 
 
 Bessy laughed ; but she was moved by the kind tone of 
 the old woman's voice, and still more by her look. She felt 
 it was in such a tone and with such a look her own mother 
 would have addressed her. 
 
 " An' how is the old man?" she continued. " 'Tis a long 
 time since he stopped to talk to me now about the year uv 
 the hill, an' the hangin' an' the floggin' an' all. An' Bessy, 
 avoorneen, had ye any account of your father since ? Or is 
 there any tale or tidin's uv him ?" 
 
 " Not a word, ma'am," Bessy answered. 
 
 " Well, Bessy, as sure as you 're sittin' in that chair a man 
 from near the colliery met him in America, an' was talkin' to 
 him in his own house. An' he had carpets on his flure, he 
 says. The man that he was tellin' was in here wud me." 
 
 " Well, we heard about that, ma'am; but 'twas a long time 
 ago since the man you speak of saw him, or rather thinks he 
 did. For all he could remember was his surname, and that 
 he made inquiries about my grandfather." 
 
 " Well, from what the man from the colliery said, I 'm 
 a'most sure 'twas your father he was talkin' to," said Mrs. 
 Donovan, beginning to rock herself softly from side to side 
 as she looked kindly into the young girl's face. 
 
 The desire to find her father was a redeeming trait in 
 Bessy Morris's character. It helped to guard her heart 
 against the worldliness, and vanity, and discontent which 
 sometimes threatened to take possession of it. And sitting 
 there in that little chair, her heart began to warm to the
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERART. 379 
 
 kind old woman, whose look was so like a mother's; and 
 Bessy Morris felt that at that moment she had more of good 
 in her than at any other time since the innocent days of her 
 childhood. 
 
 Mat Donovan sat on the bench, which Billy Heffernan was 
 wont to take possession of whenever he paid them a visit. 
 Mat chose this seat rather than the ' sugan-bottom" chair, 
 because from it he could watch the play of Bessy's expres- 
 sive features without attracting attention. And how his 
 heart did swell as he looked and looked, and asked himself 
 how or when she managed to get into it a question which 
 for the life of him honest Mat could not answer satisfactorily. 
 But there she was, and no mistake; and Mat sighed such a 
 big, heavy sigh at the thought of how hard it would be to 
 eject her when that proceeding would become an absolute 
 necessity and a duty that Bessy Morris looked at him with 
 a melancholy sort of look, as if she knew exactly what he 
 was thinking of. Whereupon Mat Donovan assumed an 
 exceedingly humorous expression of countenance, and wanted 
 to say something in his usual style ; something very droll 
 and extravagant as became a "palaverer" and a "deluder" 
 and "a rag on every bush." But somehow his drollery had 
 quite deserted him ; and not a single " quare thing" could 
 he remember, that would convince Bessy Morris that he, 
 Mat Donovan, commonly called Mat the Thrasher, was the 
 rollickingest, rovingest blade in all Tipperary, whom it was 
 not given to woman born of woman to capture and hold cap- 
 tive. So Mat Donovan could do nothing better than lean 
 the back of his head against the partition, and look up the 
 chimney. 
 
 "An' what way did you lave your aunt?" Mrs. Donovan 
 asked. 
 
 " She was very delicate for a long time," Bessy replied ; 
 " but she 's better now. The doctor advised her to come to 
 the country. And if her son comes home from England, as 
 he promised, I think she '11 spend part of the summer with 
 us." 
 
 " Well, I 'd be glad to see her," returned the old woman. 
 
 " We all thought she made a fine match he was such a 
 grand elegant young fellow. But I b'lieve the poor woman 
 met with her own share uv the world."
 
 380 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 " Indeed she had her trials," replied Bessy. 
 
 " 'Tis little any wan thought he 'd turn out as he did," 
 rejoined the old woman. " But 'tis hard to judge uv people 
 by their looks. Id might be betther for her if she married 
 some honest b'y she knew always. But 'tis 'asy to talk now 
 when we see the difference ; but no wan 'd think so at the 
 time." 
 
 " I '11 call in again to-morrow, or after, Mrs. Donovan," 
 said Bessy, as she stood up and rested her hand on the little 
 old chair. " But I promised my grandfather to be home 
 early; and he might be sending Peg Brady to know what is 
 delaying me." 
 
 "Go wud her a piece uv the road, Mat," said his mother, 
 looking reproachfully at him, as if she thought he ought to 
 have at once volunteered his services. 
 
 " Oh, no," Bessy exclaimed ; " 'tis a fine bright night. 
 An' sure I ought to know the road well." 
 
 " I '11 put you apast the sthrame," said Mat, stretching out 
 his arms and yawning, as if he felt very tired and lazy, 
 and would much prefer being left to doze upon the bench 
 with his poll against the partition, and a bright little star 
 looking down through the chimney at him from a patch of 
 blue sky. 
 
 " See I was near forgettin' to tell you," said Mrs. Dono- 
 van, as Mat and Bessy were going out, " to tell your grand- 
 father about the soger." 
 
 Bessy Morris looked at her with surprise, not unmingled 
 with alarm. And Mat, too, stopped in the doorway, seeming 
 at a loss to understand what she meant. 
 
 " Bad cess to him," continued Mrs. Donovan, " he tuck a 
 great start out uv me, when he walked in, an' nobody wud 
 me but myse'f, as they wor at the weddiri'. I was hardly 
 able to answer him whin he axed me where Phil Morris 
 lived. Id brought the time uv the Coercion Act to my 
 mind." 
 
 " Oh, wait till you see himse'f," said Mat, who evidently 
 thought the story was an old one. 
 
 This mistake was a relief to Bessy, and she brightened up 
 on seeing him walk out without waiting for further particu- 
 lars ; but as she walked quickly after him, her mind became 
 troubled. The dragoon, it seemed, had been as far as the
 
 OB, THE HOMES OF TIPPERART. 381 
 
 hamlet; and the object of his visit she feared might become 
 a subject for gossip and even scandal. 
 
 Mat Donovan looked up at the little star that was looking 
 down at him through the chimney ; and then Mat Donovan 
 looked at the moon, which was tolerably bright. But star 
 and moon failed to inspire Mat Donovan with a suitable topic 
 for conversation. And failing to find it among the heavenly 
 bodies, he bent his gaze on the muddy road, and seemed to 
 search diligently for it there, as he walked on, with Bessy 
 Morris by his side. Greatly to his surprise, he found him- 
 self at the stream before he had spoken one word to her. 
 He strode across and reached her his hand. She placed her 
 foot on the single stepping-stone, and leaped lightly over. 
 
 " 'Tis a fine night," said he, still holding her hand. 
 
 " Very fine," she replied. " Good night." 
 
 He was looking at the moon again, and seemed to forget 
 that he had hold of her hand, when they were both startled 
 by the words : 
 
 " Wisha, is id there ye are!" 
 
 It was only Peg Brady, who had been sent by Bessy's 
 grandfather to meet her. And Peg laughed, as if Mat 
 Donovan holding Bessy Morris by the hand and looking at 
 the moon were the best joke in the world. But there was 
 something in the laugh which Bessy did not like. And for 
 an innocent, good-natured, " harmless sort of a girl" like Peg 
 Brady, her glance was very sly indeed, as, turning to Mat, 
 she said : 
 
 "The little house undher the hill, Mat?" 
 
 " God be wud ould times," returned Mat, with a shake of 
 the head and a smile, in which there was something so sad 
 that Bessy Morris fixed that thoughtful, inquiring look upon 
 him, and then looked down at the moonbeams shimmering in 
 the little stream. 
 
 What did he mean? Might it be that he had been told 
 something about her, and that he was sorry she was no longer 
 the Bessy Morris of "old times'"? 
 
 " What's coruin' over me at all?" he thought, after bidding 
 them good-night. " Sure I never expected she 'd ever think 
 uv me except as a friend and a neighbour. An' she's as 
 friendly an' plasin' in every way as ever I see her. But, 
 for all that, I feel quaver than ever I felt in my life. She
 
 382 KNOCKNAGOW : 
 
 looks some way sorrowful at me sometimes, just as if she 
 knew what was in my mind. I must take care an' not let 
 her know, for I know id would throuble her. An' sorry I 'd 
 be to give her throuble. "Well, God bless her ! anyway," he 
 added, stopping, just where she had stopped an hour or two 
 before. "The like uv her is not within the walls uv the 
 world." 
 
 He looked at the clipped hedge, and up at the old cherry 
 tree, and down towards the school-house behind the quarry. 
 And the hedge grew green, and the ripe cherries peeped from 
 among the leaves, and he, too, heard the twitter of the birds, 
 and the song of the thrush, and the lowing of the kine; and 
 he waited for the shout of the children "just let loose from 
 school." The candle was, just then, laid in its usual place 
 in the little window, and its light recalled him. to the living 
 Present. The "living Present"? And the "dead Past"? 
 We hold that the Past is the more living of the two, some- 
 times. 
 
 Mat Donovan looked at the outline of the mountains, and 
 all around the horizon. 
 
 "Hi! for it, hi! for it, hi! for it still, 
 And hi ! for the little house under the hill." 
 
 he sang, as he closed the little gate of the "haggart," 
 which, no doubt, Nelly had left open when she came to pull 
 the leeks for her mother's supper. 
 
 Mat Donovan's house was not " under," but rather on the 
 top of a hill. But Peg Brady had her own reason for her 
 allusion to a little house that was under a hill. And we fear 
 Peg's reason was not a very amiable one ; for she shook her 
 head and repeated the phrase, " the poor fool !" several times 
 on her way home, glancing at the same time from the corners 
 of her eyes at Bessy Morris. 
 
 The light in the little window recalled another dreamer 
 besides Mat Donovan from the dead Past to the living Pre- 
 sent. This dreamer was a woman. She sat alone at a win- 
 dow. Her face was pale and very beautiful; and her white 
 arm gleamed like snow in the moonlight through her abun- 
 dant dark hair, which had fallen down and flowed in glossy 
 waves over the little table upon which the arm was leaning. 
 Her lips were parted, and her face wore a look of sadness, as
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPEUARY. 383 
 
 she gazed intently at the moon. She was dreaming. She was 
 walking by the sea-side not alone. She leant upon the arm 
 of one whom she regarded as a very dear friend; one who to 
 her mind was a superior being something higher and nobler 
 than ordinary mortal men but whom to regard as more than 
 a friend she would have thought a crime. The waves stole 
 in softly over the smooth sand. The wide expanse of waters 
 was calm as her own soul. They stood still, neither looking 
 at the other, and gazed along the tranquil main. And she 
 was happy, and thought he must be so too. But how rudely 
 was she awakened from that happy dream ! It is the thought 
 of this awaking that has brought that look of pain into her 
 face, upon which the cold moonlight falls like spray upon 
 a lily. And while her mild blue eyes are raised to the pale 
 moon, a gleam of light, as if a little star had peeped over the 
 brow of the hill, shines through the branches of the elm tree 
 and Mary Kearney is recalled to the living Present; for 
 she knows it is the light in Mat Donovan's window. She 
 looks around her, as if fearful of being observed; but she is 
 alone, and the light laugh of a girl from the next room 
 assures her that her absence has not been remarked upon, or 
 Grace would have come to seek her. She ties up her hair 
 with a steady hand; and joins the laughing circle with a 
 face so calm and unruffled that no one could for a moment 
 have suspected that it ever wore a look of pain. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 IN THE LONESOME MOOR MEDITATING MURDER. DARBY RUADH 
 
 THINKS HIMSELF BADLY USED. TOM HOGAN HAS AN ARGU- 
 MENT AGAINST PHIL LAHY. 
 
 THE light in Mat Donovan's little window called a third 
 dreamer back from the dead Past to the living Present. He, 
 too, was gazing on the moon, which shed its silvery light 
 upon him as softly as upon the pale face and mild eyes 
 of the lovely girl who at the same moment sat alone ia
 
 384 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 the window of the old cottage amqng the trees. His 
 dream is of a goldea autumn evening. He is standing in 
 the shade of a row of elders, at the back of a thatched 
 farmhouse, looking out upon the stooks in a newly reaped 
 corn-field. His hand rests on the shoulder of a blushing 
 girl; and he tells her that the field is his, and points out 
 how thickly it is studded with stooks, and what a rich 
 harvest it will prove. The scene changes to a bright fire- 
 side. The blushing girl is a happy wife with an infant at 
 her breast, listening to the prattle of three rosy children 
 who crowd about their father's knees as he takes his ac- 
 customed place by the hearth after the day's toil. And, 
 though his toil was hard, he did not grudge it so long as 
 he could keep that hearth warm for those happy prattlers, 
 and feel that at least the dread of want would never cast a 
 shadow upon that dear face bent so sweetly over the sleeping 
 infant. But the gleam of light from Mat Donovan's little 
 window makes him start to his feet. The bright hearth is 
 quenched for ever. The mother and children are cowering 
 over a few embers in a wretched hovel. The fields which his 
 toil had made fruitful are added to the broad acres of his 
 wealthy neighbour, whose gold induced the irresponsible 
 absentee landlord to do the deed that left him a pauper, with 
 no prospect in the wide world before him but a pauper's 
 grave. He had been leaning against a bank out in the lone- 
 some bog one of those banks upon which Billy Heffernan 
 loved to recline, and revel in bliss till he would scorn to claim 
 relationship to royalty itself ! But far different from Billy 
 Heffernan's visions were those of him who now, kneeling upon 
 one knee, and with one hand resting upon the black mould, 
 looked cautiously around the desolate moor. There scarcely 
 could have been any necessity for this caution; for at that 
 hour, and in that place, it was extremely unlikely that any 
 human eye could observe his movements. He took a gun from 
 where it lay beside the bank, and after carefully examining 
 the lock, placed it at half cock. As he was about letting down 
 the hammer again, a sound like a sigh, or a deep breathing, 
 close to his ear, made him pause, and a sensation of fear 
 crept through his frame. A shadowy object passed over his 
 head, and, on casting his eyes upwards, he beheld something 
 between him and the sky which filled him with amazement
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 385 
 
 and terror. In shape it was a bird ; but of such monstrous 
 dimensions, that it seemed like a great cloud hanging in the 
 air. For a moment he thought it was only a cloud; but the 
 slow, regular waving of the huge wings satisfied him that it 
 was a living thing. The long snake-like head and neck were 
 thrust out towards him, and in his terror he let the gun fall 
 from his nerveless grasp. The head was quickly drawn back, 
 and the monstrous bird waved its huge wings, and sailed 
 away through the moonlit air. He followed it with his eyes 
 till it dropped on the brink of the water that covered a large 
 portion of the bog like a lake. And now he saw it was only 
 a heron that had lodged for a moment on the bank above 
 his head. "While he thought it high up in the air, the bird 
 was within a few feet of him; and hence the illusion by 
 which he was so terrified. With an exclamation of scorn at 
 being frightened like a child, he stooped to pick up his gun. 
 But he had been lying near the brink of a square bog-hole 
 filled with water, and the gun had fallen into it, and, of 
 course, sunk to the bottom. He knew the hole was eight or 
 ten feet deep, and that to attempt recovering the gun would 
 be useless. He ground his teeth with rage ; but after gazing 
 round the silent moor, and up at the peaceful moon, it 
 occurred to him that the weapon had been snatched, as it 
 were, by the hand of Providence, from his grasp ; and the 
 thirst for vengeance ceased to burn within him, and he felt 
 as if God had not abandoned him. 
 
 " I must see about gettin' id up anyway," he observed to 
 himself, " or poor Barney might get into throuble about id. 
 He tould me he was bringin' id to Mat Donovan to put a 
 piece on the stock, where the doctor broke id when he fell 
 on the ice. But he 's such a fool he won't remimber the bush 
 he stuck id in when he med off afther the hounds. I don't 
 know what put id into my head to take a fancy to such an 
 ould Queen Anne, when this is handier and surer." And he 
 took a horse-pistol from his breast and clutched it firmly in 
 his hand. He looked down into the square bog-hole, and 
 touched the smooth black surface of the water with his 
 hand. The action reminded him of the holy water with 
 which he used to sprinkle himself on entering and leaving 
 the chapel before his clothes had become too ragged to allow 
 him to appear with decency among the congregation; and
 
 386 KXOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 involuntarily he sprinkled his forehead, and made the sign 
 of the cross. 
 
 " There 's some great change afther comin' over me," he 
 thought. " My mind is someway 'asier ; an' the madness LJ 
 gone off uv me." 
 
 And looking at the pistol again, he replaced it in his breast. 
 
 " I '11 do nothin' to-night," he continued with a deep sigh, 
 like a man overpowered by fatigue. " If I could lie down 
 here in the heath an' fall asleep, an' never waken again I 'd 
 be all right. But," he added, rousing himself by an effort, 
 "but I musn't forget poor Mary !" He walked towards a 
 road which looked like a high embankment, the surface of 
 the bog having been cut away at both sides of it ; and as he 
 climbed up this embankment, the light in Mat Donovan's 
 window again caught his eye. 
 
 " 'Tis long since I exchanged a word wud any uv the ould 
 neighbours," he continued, " till Billy Heffernan chanced to 
 come on me th' other night, an' I makin' a show uv myse'f. 
 An' sure 'tis little wish I had to talk to any wan. But 
 someway I think now I 'd like to hear a few friendly words 
 from some wan. An' that light in Mat's window reminds 
 me how I used hardly ever pass by wudout callin' in to light 
 the pipe." 
 
 He looked wistfully towards the light, and then looked 
 down upon his tattered habiliments. 
 
 " I 'm a quare object," he muttered with a bitter smile, 
 "to go anywhere. But as 'tis afther comin' into my mind 
 I '11 turn back." 
 
 Instead of following the road or " togher" upon which he 
 stood, he crossed an angle of the bog till he came to the 
 stream or canal in which Dr. Richard Kearney left the leg of 
 his nether garment, and following it for a few hundred yards 
 came out on the public road. 
 
 The road was quite deserted. He reached the hamlet 
 without meeting a living thing; and as he stood at the 
 " cross," and looked up along the silent street, he felt a 
 strange wish to steal through it without being seen by any one. 
 He moved on like a spectre, treading lightly as he passed 
 those houses the doors of which were open, and glancing 
 furtively to the right and left at the lights in the window 
 panes. On coming to the beech-tree he stood still and looked
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIFPEKARY. 387 
 
 up at the pointed gables and thick chimneys of the "barrack;' 1 
 and happening to glance through the kitchen window, he 
 caught a glimpse of Norah Lahy's pale face. She was praying, 
 with clasped hands and eyes raised to Heaven ; and there was 
 something in her look that moved him instantly to tears. 
 
 "I wondher is id dhramin' I am?" hs said to himself, 
 "I can't remember what's after happenin' to me, or what 
 brought me here, except like a man 'd feel afther the faver, 
 or somethin' uv that soart. On'y I 'd be afeard I 'd frighten 
 her, I 'd go in an' ax her to pray for me, an' I know 'twould 
 do me good. An' as id is I feel I 'm the betther of lookin' 
 at her ; for no wan could see such a look as that an' not 
 know there was another world besides this. I could kneel 
 down on the road here an' pray rnyse'f ; what I didn't do this 
 many a day right, at any rate. I might go on my knees 
 an' say the words ; but id wasn't prayiu'. The curses used 
 to choke the prayers ! I could hardly keep from tellin' God 
 that He was a bad God ! But I 'm not that way now at all; 
 an' maybe 'twas the Lord that sint me round this way. No 
 wan lookin' at her could doubt there was a heaven. The 
 angels are talkin' to her this minute ! An' someway I think 
 'tis for unfortunate sinners like me she is prayin'. For sure 
 she don't want to pray for herse'f. Oh, an' look at her now," 
 he exclaimed in surprise, "an' how she smiles an' laughs 
 like a child whin her mother came in. She wants to cheer 
 up the poor mother that knows she won't have her long. 
 The Lord save us ! I feel my heart laughin' wud her ! But 
 I 'd betther not let anyone see me standin' here," he observed, 
 as he walked on, on hearing Kit Cummins calling to her hus- 
 band to come home to his supper, and judged from the pitch 
 of Kit's voice that Jack was down towards the forge, and 
 must necessarily pass by the beech-tree on his way home. 
 
 Mat Donovan was humming " The little house under the 
 hill" by the fireside, while Nelly was turning the "quarters" 
 of a griddle of whole-meal bread that was baking over the 
 fire, when the latch was raised, and a tall, gaunt figure stood 
 between them and the candle in the window. The fire, being 
 covered with the large griddle, did not afford sufficient light 
 to enable them to recognise the new-comer; and the candle 
 being behind his back only showed the outline of his figure, 
 in which Nelly fancied she saw something wild; and she felt
 
 388 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 and looked somewhat frightened as she thought of the 
 " gang," which, according to common report, were just then 
 prowling nightly about the neighbourhood. Mrs. Donovan, 
 too, seemed alarmed, as she dropped her knitting on her 
 knees, and stared over her spectacles at the man, who stood 
 looking at them for nearly a minute without speaking. 
 
 " God save all here," said he, at last. 
 
 " God save you, kindly," returned Mat, starting from his 
 zhair, and moving towards him till he was able to see his 
 face. "IsidMickBrien?" 
 
 " The very man," was the reply. 
 
 Mrs. Donovan and Kelly exchanged looks of the deepest 
 pity, but remained quite silent. 
 
 " Sit down," said Mat, placing a chair for him. 
 
 " I don't know," he replied, irresolutely. " I just see the 
 candle in the windy, an' id reminded me to come in." 
 
 " Sit down and take a hate uv the fire," said Kelly, in a 
 subdued tone, and as if it required an effort to address him. 
 " I hope herse'f an' the childher is in good health 1 ?" 
 
 " They're on'y middlin', then, Nelly," he replied. " The 
 winther was very hard." 
 
 He sat down, however, and said more cheerfully : 
 
 " I 'm glad to see you lookin' so well, Mrs. Donovan. 
 You 're as young-lookin' this minute as you wor the night uv 
 poor little Sally's wake; God rest her sowl. But sure I 
 needn't pray for her; for she had as little sin on her as an 
 infant, though I b'lieve she was goin' on thirteen years when 
 she died." 
 
 " She was a beautiful child," returned Mrs. Donovan. 
 "But God is good; and maybe 'twas for her good, and your 
 good, and her mother's good, that she was taken from you. 
 God knows what is best for us all." 
 
 " That 's thrue," rejoined Mick Brien. " An' 'tis of en I 
 think 'twould be well for the whole uv 'em if they went too." 
 
 " Don't say that, Mick," returned Mrs. Donovan. " Ye 
 had yer own share uv sufferin' and throuble ; but there 's no 
 knowin" what might be in store for ye yet." 
 
 "I'm afeard," said he in a hollow voice, " 'tis gone too far 
 for that." 
 
 While his mother was speaking, Mat was hurriedly filling 
 his pipe, which, after lighting, he presented to Mick Brien,
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERAUV. 389 
 
 who took it eagerly, but checked himself as he was putting it 
 to his mouth. 
 
 " No, Mat, I 'm obliged to you," said he, handing back the 
 pipe. "Tis a good start since I tuck a blast.; an' maybe 
 'twould be betther for me not to mind id." 
 
 Nelly and her mother exchanged looks again, and the old 
 woman shook her head sorrowfully. 
 
 Drawing his chair to the fire, he held the backs of his 
 hands close to the blaze that struggled from under the griddle. 
 
 " Was id in the bog you wor ?" Mat asked, " Your hands 
 are black wud the turf-mould. An', begor, there 's enough 
 uv id stuck to your old brogues, too." 
 
 Mick Brien was taken by surprise, and seemed embar- 
 rassed. He could have had no legitimate business in the 
 bog at that late hour, and felt at a loss what reply to make. 
 
 Mat noticed his embarrassment, and, with instinctive 
 delicacy, appeared to forget the question altogether ; and 
 turning to his sister, he said : 
 
 " Are you goin' to let that bread be burnt ?" 
 
 She turned the four quarters of bread, and finding them 
 properly baked, placed them standing on their ends on the 
 griddle, so as that the thick edges cut by the knife in 
 dividing the circular cake into four quarters might be fully 
 baked. While she was thus employed, the door was opened, 
 and two men walked in with an apologetic grin, holding theii 
 pipes in their hands." 
 
 " God save ye !" said the foremost, as he approached the 
 fire to light a piece of paper which he held between his 
 fingers. 
 
 " God save you kindly !" returned Mat, in a manner that 
 plainly showed they were no welcome guests. 
 
 The second man was advancing to light his pipe at the 
 fire also. But the moment their eyes fell upon Mick Brien, 
 both wheeled quickly round, and, lighting their bits of paper 
 at the candle in the window, hurriedly applied them to their 
 pipes as they made for the door, where they encountered 
 something which drove them backwards into the kitchen 
 again. 
 
 It was only Tom Hogan, who walked slowly after them ; 
 and, after glancing at Mick Brien who never raised his 
 head all the time and looking wildly about them, the two
 
 390 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 men, with a sneaking sort of " Good-night to ye," left the 
 house. 
 
 " Wisha, is that Tom Hogan ?" said Mat for Tom was not 
 a frequent visitor there. " Sit down." 
 
 " I was down at Phil Lahy's," returned Tom Hogan, " an' 
 Honor towld me he was up here. So I tuck a walk up." 
 
 In fact, Tom Hogan had got quite a mania for talking 
 about landlords and agents, and kindred subjects, since that 
 conversation with Phil Lahy when his hands began to tremble 
 in so strange a manner. Before that, he only cared to know 
 about "the markets;" but now nothing that bore on the 
 land question, or, indeed, upon any social or political question, 
 from Columbkille's prophecies to the latest missive orna- 
 mented with a skull and cross-bones, came amiss to Tom 
 Hogan. And he felt so restless and ill at ease all the even- 
 ing, he walked down to Phil Lahy's the moment he was done 
 his supper, for the sole purpose of getting himself abused as 
 a " crawler." 
 
 Mick Brien continued warming his hands, and never raised 
 his head. Nelly took up the quarters of bread and laid them 
 on the dresser, and, whipping the griddle off the fire, raked 
 up the lighted turf that was spread out under it till it blazed 
 so brightly that he was obliged to draw back his chair and 
 close his eyes, as if the light dazzled him. 
 
 Tom Hogan was quite as much astonished as the two men 
 who had come in to light their pipes, on seeing Mick Brien 
 sitting before Mat Donovan's fire; but, instead of retreating 
 like them, Tom Hogan seemed fascinated by the gaunt and 
 ragged figure over which the firelight flickered; and as the 
 hollow eyes were turned towards him, he mechanically drew 
 near and sat down on the chair from which Mat Donovan had 
 risen when he recognised him. 
 
 " Mick," said Tom Hogan, keeping his eyes fixed on the 
 worn, emaciated face, " did they rise the rint on you?" 
 
 Mick Brien seemed surprised, and evidently did not under- 
 stand the question. 
 
 " Did they rise the rint on you 1" Tom Hogan repeated 
 anxiously. 
 
 "Is id the rint of the cabin?" he asked. 
 
 " No," returned Tom Hogan, " but the rint uv the farm, 
 before they put you out 1"
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPER ARY. 391 
 
 "Well, no," replied Mick Brien; " when the lase dhropped 
 they said I should go, as my houldin' wasn't large enough* 
 An' no matther what rint I'd offer 'twouldn't be taken." 
 
 " So they never riz the rint?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "What did I tell you?" exclaimed Tom Hogan excite-- 11 ^ 
 turning to Mat Donovan, his eyes lighted up with joy. 
 "What did I tell you, Mat?" he repeated triumphantly. 
 
 Mat was greatly astonished; for it happened Tom Hogan 
 had never spoken a word to him on the subject. 
 
 "What did I tell you, Mat?" he exclaimed a third time, 
 apparently in the greatest glee. 
 
 " Begor," returned Mat at last, greatly puzzled, " you never 
 tould me anythin' about id at all, so far as I can remember." 
 
 " They never rise the rint, Mat, when they 're goin' to put 
 a man out. Never. Don't b'lieve any wan that tells you 
 anything else. Never. Such a thing was never known." 
 
 " Oh, maybe so," said Mat, quite unable to comprehend 
 his meaning, but wishing to be civil. 
 
 " You may be sure uv id, Mat," rejoined Tom Hogan. 
 
 " Make your mind 'asy on that p'int," he continued, laying 
 his hand on Mat's knee, as he sat down on Billy Heffernan's 
 bench. "No, Mat. There's nothin' so incouragin' to a 
 poor man as to have the rint riz on him. For then he knows 
 they 're not goin' to disturb him, Mat. Look at this poor 
 man that held, I b'lieve, as good as fifteen acres more than 
 I have mese'f ; an' see what a loss it was to him that the 
 rint wasn't riz on him. There 's nothin' like a rise to give a 
 poor man courage. I must go an' find Phil Lahy, an' have 
 a talk wud him. He thinks there 's no wan able to argue 
 these p'ints but himse'f. But let me alone if I don't open 
 his eyes for him. Good night to ye." He turned round at 
 the door and asked: "Ah, thin, Mat, what was Wat an' 
 Darby doin' here 1 ?" 
 
 " They on'y came in to redden their pipes," Mat replied. 
 
 " Oh, is that all? Well, I must go look for Phil Lahy to 
 open his eye for him." 
 
 "An' I wondher where them fellows wor?" Mat muttered, 
 after appearing to brood over the question for some time. 
 " They passed up this way late in the evenin'." 
 
 "Wisha, how do I know?" his sister replied, as if the-
 
 392 KNOCKXAGOW ; 
 
 question were addressed to her. " But wherever they wor, 
 'tisn't in the betther uv them, you may be sure." 
 
 The two worthies of whom she spoke walked quickly and 
 in silence down the road, seeming wholly absorbed with their 
 pipes. 
 
 "'Tis an admiration," said Wat Corcoran, at last, "how 
 long he stuck about the place. I thought he 'd be gone uv 
 his own accord long ago." 
 
 " So did we all," returned Darby Ruadh. " But whin we 
 found him thatchin' the cabin, the masther said he should 
 get notice. He's not safe; an', begob, we'd want to keep an 
 eye on him." 
 
 " 'Tisn't you or me he 'd mind," replied "Wat. 
 
 " You wouldn't know," rejoined Darby Ruadh. " "When 
 they 're in that soart uv way, whoever comes next to hand 
 '11 meet id. They 're d n fools," continued Darby mildly. 
 "They seldom or ever knock down the right bird. Kow, 
 he'd as soon stretch you or me, as the man that sent us; 
 an' that 's foolish." 
 
 "What about Tom Hogan?" Wat asked. 
 
 "Well, from all I can see, he must go." 
 
 "There'll be no great throuble wud him. He'll get a 
 thrifle uv money, an' he '11 go away quiet an' 'asy." 
 
 " I don't know that, Wat. Men uv his soart is the worst 
 of all." 
 
 " He knows nothin' about firearms, nor nothin'," returned 
 Wat Corcoran. "He's always braggin' he never fired a 
 shot." 
 
 " Thim 's the men, Wat, that '11 get a fellow to do the job. 
 I met some coves uv that soart in my time." 
 
 " Faith, be all accounts, you done some quare things your- 
 se'f in your time, Darby." 
 
 "Well, maybe I did, an' maybe I didn't. An', by !" 
 
 he added fiercely, " maybe I would agin, if id was worth my 
 while. 'Tis enough to dhrive a man to anything to think uv 
 the beggarly way we 're paid. They want you to put your 
 life in danger every day in the year an' to swear anything 
 
 they ax you besides ; an', by , you 're not paid betther 
 
 than a cowboy afther." 
 
 "'Tis a hard life," returned Wat Corcoran; "an' 'tis of en 
 I do be wishin' to give id up, an' turn to somethin' else.
 
 OR, THE HOMBS OF TIPPERARY. 393 
 
 But when wance you get into id, 'tis hard to get out uv 
 id." 
 
 " Unless a man could make a haul," returned Darby Ruadh, 
 " an' make otf to America. Good night, Wat." 
 
 "Good night, Darby; an' safe home." 
 
 They parted at the crossroads ; Wat Corcoran turning to 
 the right towards his own house, and Darby Ruadh going on 
 straight to Wellington Lodge. 
 
 Mick Brien drew his chair still further back from the 
 blazing turf fire. The heat seemed too much for him, for 
 the perspiration stood iu large drops upon his face: and when 
 he took off his hat, they remarked that his hair was damp 
 and clammy. Yet it was not the heat that so affected him. 
 It was the smell of the newly-baked bread. He was fainting ; 
 but by a great effort he roused himself, and asked for a drink 
 of water. 
 
 Xelly dipped a cup in the never empty pail under the 
 window, and handed it to him. He gulped down the clear 
 spring water hurriedly; and, as he handed back the cup, he 
 turned to Mat, and, with apparent cheerfulness, asked : 
 
 "What news, Mat? is there anything at all goinT' 
 
 " No, then," replied Mat. " I don't know uv anything." 
 
 Mrs. Donovan, who had kept her sad eyes fixed upon 
 Mick Brien's haggard face, while her knitting rested upon 
 her knees as if she had forgotten it, now rose from her chair, 
 and, going to the dresser, poured something from a jug into 
 a saucepan which she placed upon the fire. Her daughter 
 looked inquiringly at her as if this proceeding had taken her 
 by surprise; but the old woman resumed her seat without 
 speaking. 
 
 "I think," said Mick Brien, "the weather is likely to 
 hould up." 
 
 " This was a fine day," returned Mat. " But I 'm afeard 
 'twas on'y a pet day. Phil Lahy tells me we 're to have a 
 change uv the moon to-morrow; an' he says the almanac 
 talks uv broken weather, wud cowld showers, an' aistherly 
 winds." 
 
 Mick Brien made no reply. His head drooped, and he 
 seemed to be falling fast asleep. 
 
 "Nelly," said Mrs. Donovan, "hand me that white bowl." 
 
 She filled the bowl with warm milk from the saucepan she 
 
 2c
 
 394 KNOCKN'AGOW ; 
 
 had placed on the fire; and Nelly looked quite frightened on 
 seeing her mother present the bowl to Mick Brien. 
 
 "Here, Mick," said she, "dhrink this. I know by you 
 there 's somethin' the matter wud you. An' if id be a touch 
 uv an' inward pain you 're gettin', there 's nothin' like a 
 dhrop uv hot milk for id." 
 
 On opening his eyes and seeing the bowl held close to him 
 he started like one suddenly awakened from sleep. He looked 
 at the milk and then into Mrs. Donovan's face, upon which 
 he kept his eyes fixed for several seconds. Then taking 
 the bowl between his hands, he looked at her again with a 
 bewildered stare. 
 
 "Drink id while 'tis hot, Mick," said she, "an' 'twill do 
 you good." 
 
 'T\vas a great relief to Nelly to see him lift the bowl to his 
 lips and drink; not swallowing the milk hurriedly, as he had 
 swallowed the cup of water, but slowly and continuously, as 
 a child will do. 
 
 Mick Brien had been one of the most comfortable and 
 respectable small farmers in the neighbourhood ; and he 
 and his handsome wife used to call in on their way from 
 town for a rest and a chat with Mrs. Donovan, who was 
 much respected by them as indeed she was by all who knew 
 her. And now that he was reduced to poverty, Xelly was 
 quite afraid the offer of the milk, under the circumstances, 
 might hurt his feelings, and be taken as an insult. 
 
 Mick Brien handed the bowl to the kind ould woman, and 
 buried his face between his hands. He remained so long in 
 this position they all began to look embarrassed, and did not 
 well know how they ought to act fearing that to rouse him 
 might look as if they wished him to go away. 
 
 After some time, however, he raised his head, and stretch- 
 ing out his arms, but without venturing to look at any one, 
 said with assumed cheerfulness : 
 
 " Faith, I b'lieve 'twas fallin' asleep I was." 
 
 "What hurry are you in 1 ?" said Mat, on seeing him rise; 
 " sure you may as well rest yourse'f ." 
 
 " I must be goin'," he replied ; " herse'f '11 be wondhcrin' 
 where I was all the evenin'." 
 
 He had been lying many hours by that bank in the bog, 
 maddened by hunger and the thought of the cruel wrongs
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERART. 395 
 
 inflicted upon him and his. He lay there waiting for the 
 night, and bent upon having revenge. He lay there hour 
 after hour, meditating a deed of blood; till the mild moon 
 called up visions of the " dead Past." And then the light in 
 Mat Donovan's window recalled him to the " living Present," 
 and to his purpose. And it was only the waving of a bird's 
 wing saved his soul from the guilt of murder ! 
 
 No word has ever escaped our pen intended to justify such 
 a deed as that contemplated by this poor maddened victim of 
 tyranny. Yet when we think of his blameless life of patient 
 toil ; of his cheerful unquestioning surrender of the greater 
 part of the fruits of that toil to the irresponsible taskmaster 
 to whose tender mercies the rulers of the land had handed 
 him over body and soul ; of the pittance which he was con- 
 tent to retain for himself ; of his terror and anguish on dis- 
 covering that a felon hand was determined to tear even that 
 pittance from him, and fling the wife of his bosom, and the 
 little ones that were the light of his eyes, homeless outcasts 
 upon the world; of the roofless cabin, the cold, the fever, 
 the hunger, when we think of all this, we find it hard to 
 brand Mick Brien as a MURDERER. And surely no one will 
 for a moment class him with the human wild beasts with 
 whom the writer of these pages was doomed to herd for 
 years, and among whom at this hour Irishmen, whose only 
 crime is the crime of loving their country, are wearing away 
 their lives in the Convict Prisons of England? 
 
 Mat Donovan stood up to open the door for Mick Brien 
 and see him out to the road. 
 
 " Good-night to ye," said Mick Brien, as nearly as he could 
 in the same tone as he used to say it in after a chat and a 
 smoke on his way from Kilthubber on market days. 
 
 Nelly ran to the dresser ; and then followed them to the 
 door. "Mr. Brien," said she. 
 
 He turned round, but Nelly seemed to have forgotten what 
 she was going to say. She stood with her hands behind her 
 back, and looked into his face. At last, while the blood 
 mounted to her forehead, she quickly brought her hands 
 round to the front, and pressing two of the quarters of bread 
 against his breast, she wrapped his coat over them, placing 
 his own hand so as to keep them from falling, and looking 
 anxiously into his face all the time. He remained quite pas-
 
 396 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 sive, gazing with a vacant stare straight before him. Seeing 
 no sign of displeasure in his look, she cautiously withdrew 
 her hand as if in doubt whether he would continue to hold 
 the bread where she had placed it. He did continue to hold 
 it, however, and followed Mat outside the door without 
 speaking a word. 
 
 Xelly leant over the back of the chair he had been sitting 
 on, and rested her cheek on her hand. 
 
 "God help him !" said she. 
 
 " God help him !" returned her mother, whose head was 
 also resting on her hand. 
 
 So they continued gazing into the fire. 
 
 "God help him!" said Mat Donovan, as he resumed his 
 seat by the fireside opposite his mother. 
 
 These were the last audible words spoken under Mat 
 Donovan's roof that night. 
 
 Yet poor Mick Brien had unconsciously laid the train of 
 much suffering for those kind hearts that sympathized so 
 deeply with him. 
 
 " Tom," said Phil Lahy solemnly, " I wish you would not 
 be introducin' these subjects to me. I don't want to hurt 
 your feelin's, or say anything offensive or insultin'. But 
 indurance has its limits. An' now I tell you what, Tom 
 Hogan, 'tisn't in human nature to have patience wud you !" 
 
 "Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Tom Hogan. " I knew I 'd open 
 his eye. I knew I had an argument that 'd put him down. 
 Ha, ha, ha ! Begor, Phil, you 're bet ! Good-night to ye. 
 Good-night to ye. There's no thin'," muttered Tom Hogan, 
 as he closed the door behind him, " there 's nothin' to give a 
 poor man courage like a rise in the rint now an' then. 
 Look at that unfortunate man, Mick Brien, an' wouldn't id 
 be a lucky day for him if his rint was riz ? What signifies a 
 few pounds a year? I'll let Jemmy go sell that grain uv 
 oats, as my face is marked afther that powdher. Jenimy is 
 a good boy. An' how wild he was whin he thought 'twas 
 any wan was afther touchin' me ! I 'm very fond uv that 
 fellow! Aye, an' I '11 give him lave to spind a shillin' in 
 Clo'mel ; unless he 'd rather keep id for the races. Ha, ha, 
 ha ! the divil a word I left Phil." 
 
 " Father," said Norah Lahy, " I 'm afraid poor Tom Hogan 
 is not right in his mind."
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERAUY. 397 
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 TOM CUDDEHT FEELS "SOME WAY QUARE." A GLANCE B VCICWAr.D3 
 
 TO CLEAR UP THE MYSTERY OF THE TRACKS IX THE SNOW. 
 
 TOM CUDDEHY took down his hurly from the hurdle over the 
 chimney corner, and examined it carefully, as a soldier might 
 examine his sword before the battle. His eye could detect 
 no crack or flaw; but to make assurance doubly sure, Tom 
 Cuddehy let his hurly drop several times against the hearth- 
 stone, holding it by the small end as loosely as possible in 
 one hand, in order to test its soundness by the ring it gave 
 out. The great match between the two sides of the river 
 was to come off next day in Maurice Kearney's kiln-field, and 
 Tom Cuddehy's twenty picked men had reported themselves 
 ready in all respects to meet the Knocknagow boys on their 
 own chosen ground. The excitement at both sides of the 
 river was at its height; and it was known that Mat Donovan 
 had despatched a messenger all the way to Cloughshannavo, 
 for Tom Doherty, whom Mrs. Kearney had induced to go as 
 servant to her cousin, Father Carroll, when he was appointed 
 administrator of that parish to the great grief and sorrow 
 of the Knocknagow boys ; for Tom Doherty was one of their 
 best hurlers. If Tom Doherty failed to put in an appearance, 
 it was the general opinion that victory would fall to " the 
 farmers" for Tom Cuddehy's men were all farmers' sons 
 while Mat Donovan's were all "labouring men." But, in 
 spite of these favourable omens, Tom Cuddehy put back his 
 hurly in its usual resting-place with a heavy sigh. 
 
 That accidental meeting with his old sweetheart the day 
 before had awakened a curious feeling in his breast, which 
 he described as " someway quare." The young man from 
 the mountain had spent the night at old Paddy Laughlan's, 
 and Tom had just been told that the old man and his 
 intended son-in-law had ridden away together after breakfast 
 to get the marriage articles drawn by Attorney Hanly, if they 
 were fortunate enough to catch that eccentric limb of the
 
 398 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 law at home. So Tom Cuddehy sighed, and wished that 
 dreary Saturday were well over; for nothing less, he thought, 
 could rouse him to shake off that " snmeway quare" state of 
 mind than the excitement of the hurling match between the 
 two sides of the river. He was throwing his riding-coat 
 over his shoulders to go out, when the half-door was flung 
 open, and Lory Hanly in a fearful state of excitement stood 
 before him. 
 
 " I have a message for you," he exclaimed. 
 
 Lory's voice was sufficiently startling in itself, and his 
 manner of opening his eyes very wide added considerably to 
 the effect. But, in addition to the voice and the look, the 
 unusual circumstance of Lory's wearing an old straw hat of 
 the rudest description suggested to Tom Cuddehy that his 
 sudden and unexpected appearance could only be the result 
 of some very startling occurrence, of the nature of which he 
 could not form the remotest conjecture. 
 
 So he stared at Lory, and Lory as was his wont after 
 causing a sensation stared at him. While waiting to hear 
 the expected " message," which Lory seemed on the point of 
 projecting every moment from his half-open mouth, but which 
 did not come for all that, Tom noticed that his visitor wore 
 the immense straw hat in a peculiar fashion that is, the 
 broad leaf was turned back into the high and somewhat 
 conical mould in front, so that the straw hat looked like a 
 bonnet put on wrong side foremost. It just occurs to us, 
 however, that this attempt to convey an idea of the manner 
 in which Mr. Lory Hanly was pleased to wear his hat on this 
 occasion, will be quite thrown away upon most of our readers, 
 including (as a matter of course) all our fair readers ; for it 
 is not for a moment to be supposed that one of them could 
 remember what a bonnet was like, when a bonnet was a 
 bonnet. 
 
 " What is id T Tom asked at last. 
 
 . " Miss Laughlan desired me to tell you" Here Tom 
 
 Cuddehy's bitch, Venom, took it into her head to start up 
 from her place in the corner with a vicious snarl, misled, no 
 doubt, by that peculiarity of Mr. Hanly's which Mrs, Kearney 
 designated his " terrible throat," into the belief that his 
 " message" was anything but "a message of peace." 
 
 "Down, Venom!" said Tom Cuddehy, who got very red
 
 OR, THE HOMES OP TIPPERARY. 399 
 
 in the face at the mention of Miss Laughlan's name, and 
 somehow connected Lory's appearance with the marriage 
 articles which Tom supposed Lory's father was busy in draft- 
 ing at that moment. " Well, what is id you wor goin' to 
 say?" he added meekly, as he lifted Venom up in his arms 
 and flung her over the half-door. 
 
 But here we must leave Lory to deliver his message, and 
 Tom Cuddehy to act upon it or not, as he thought fit. We 
 must even leave the great hurling-match in Maurice Kearney's 
 kiln-field undecided to which the message had no reference 
 whatever, and in which we openly avow our sympathies are 
 with the "labouring men;" and if Tom Doherty fails, let 
 him not hope for mercy at our hands. We must also leave 
 the reader in suspense concerning the result of the contest 
 between Mat Donovan and Captain French and here again 
 we are heart and soul against the "aristocrat;" though v.e 
 by no means approve of Tom Doherty's knocking down old 
 Major French's steward for confidently predicting the cap- 
 tain's victory, and offering to lay a gallon of beer thereon. 
 But we were about to say that we must leave these exciting 
 events undecided, and interrupt the regular course of our 
 chronicle, in order to throw light upon certain circum tances 
 of which the reader may have caught fitful glimpses in the 
 foregoing chapters, and which, perhaps, ought to have been 
 made clear long before now. And for this purpose the 
 courteous reader will please to go back with us a year or 
 two, and take a rapid glance at one or two new faces and 
 scenes ; after which we shall return to our old friends, and 
 follow their fortunes, through gloom and through gladness, 
 over oceans and into strange lands, till we kneel by the 
 graves of some, and God be praised! feel our heart beat 
 -quick while AVB tell of the happiness of others. 
 
 A young man in the garb of an ecclesiastical student was 
 pacing up and down in front of a long, low, thatched house, 
 which might be taken for an ordinary farm-house of the 
 humbler sort were it not for its green hall-door the fan- 
 light of which was quite hidden by the eave and the thre4 
 good-sized windows of twelve panes each, two at one side 
 and one at the other of the door, which was not exactly in 
 the middle, and suggested the idea that the room at one side 
 of the hall was twice the size of that on the other side.
 
 400 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 The field in which the house stood and there was no 
 gravelled space before the door or round the house, and no 
 avenue but a pathway from which the grass had been worn 
 off would be by no means a favourable sample of the 
 "emerald isle," for it was dry and dusty-looking, and so 
 bare that the old white donkey who had leave to roam at 
 will, without let or hindrance, over the whole two acres, 
 seemed to have given up as hopeless the task of gathering a 
 belly-full there being no thistles within the enclosure and 
 philosophically resigned himself to that state of existence 
 which it is said the canine species either affect or are doomed 
 to, and which is popularly supposed to consist in " hunger 
 and ease." The country, as far as the eye could reach in 
 front and rear, and on one side of the house, was treeless and 
 without hedges, the fences being either of stone or clay, and 
 presented generally that sterile appearance which we have just 
 noticed in the old donkey's paddock. But though this was 
 the general aspect of the landscape on the right and left, and 
 in front of the young student as he closed his book on reach- 
 ing the low wall of loose stones that divided the lawn from a 
 potato-field to the right of the cottage; far different was the 
 picture he had before him when he turned full round, and 
 the rich green slopes of Hazelford met his gaze. The demesne 
 was only divided from the field in which he stood by a little 
 river that seemed to belong more to the poorer than to the 
 more favoured portion of the landscape, from which it was 
 shut out by the hazels which grew so thickly along the bank, 
 thai, except at a few places, narrow and far apart, the exist- 
 ence of the stream could be known to the denizens of this 
 paradise only by its dreamy murmurings as it wound round 
 the roots of trees, and coiled into hollows and caverns, or 
 dashed itself fretfully against some little promontory of rock, 
 as if it sought, or would make for itself, an entrance into 
 the shady woods and sunny meadows of which it had caught 
 glimpses as it hurried down the furze-covered hill in the 
 distance, where it ceased to be a mere brook, and was first 
 honoured with the name of river. But strive and murmur 
 as it would, the cool groves and sunny meadows were for- 
 bidden ground, and the river went its way to the great ocean 
 without ever once reflecting the fair scenes around Hazelford 
 Castle in its bosom.
 
 (>R, THE HOMES OF TIPPERART. 401 
 
 There was something in the deep-set eyes of the young 
 student as they dwelt upon these fair scenes, that might 
 suggest the thought that he, too, felt that he was excluded 
 from them. There were fair forms gliding backwards and 
 forwards upon a terraced walk under the ivied wall of the 
 castle, and his pale face flushed on observing a field-glass, or 
 telescope, directed towards himself, and handed from one to 
 another of a group of ladies, who had evidently suspended 
 their promenading for the purpose of surveying him. He 
 mechanically looked around him for some less exposed place 
 where he could continue his walk, but there was not a tree 
 or bush near the cottage to screen him, except two old grey 
 sally-trees, that served the purpose of piers to the wooden gate 
 it the road. His first impulse was to walk down to the river, 
 where he would be screened by the bushes on the opposite 
 bank ; but this, he thought, would look as if he wanted to 
 get a nearer view of the group on the terrace, who seemed to 
 concern themselves so much with his movements; and, 
 throwing back his shoulders, and holding his head very high, 
 he faced towards the cottage, and pushing in the green hall- 
 door, with the fanlight up in the thatch, turned into the 
 parlour and sat down by the window. 
 
 Father Carroll was lying on a very stiff-looking straight- 
 backed sofa, after a long ride to the farthest-away part of his 
 parish. He was mentally contrasting his uncomfortable 
 couch with the soft velvety loungers in the dean's well 
 furnished rooms, when the young student entered. 
 
 "Well, Arthur," he asked, "has Edmund made his ap- 
 pearance yet?" 
 
 " No," was the reply, " though he ought to be here before 
 now." 
 
 "And why have you come in?" 
 
 "Those women at the castle are so unmannerly, I couldn't 
 stand it." 
 
 "What did they do to you?" the priest asked, smiling; 
 for the student's sensitiveness was a source of amusement to 
 his friends. 
 
 " They looked at me," he replied in a tone of displeasure. 
 
 A hearty laugh from the priest prevented his finishing 
 the sentence, and he turned to his book without attempting 
 any further explanation.
 
 402 KNOCKNAGOW J 
 
 The priest looked round his scantily furnished room, with 
 its bare Avails and uncarpeted floor. The least bit of mould- 
 ing on the ceiling would, he thought, be a relief to his eyes 
 to say nothing of hangings to the windows, or a more 
 modern article of furniture in lieu of the old mahogany con- 
 cern called a desk, with its eight or ten drawers, and their 
 brass handles like the mounting of a coffin ; though this same 
 desk was the especial pride and glory of Mrs. Hayes, the 
 housekeeper, who always watched the faces of visitors when 
 she flung open the parlour door to see the effect produced by 
 the mahogany desk and its brass handles. " But there 's 
 nothing like independence," said Father Carroll to himself. 
 " I wouldn't go back again as curate for a good deal. And 
 I '11 be economical for a while, and will soon be able to fur- 
 nish the old cottage comfortably. I 'm sorry now I never 
 thought of laying by a little money." 
 
 " Do you think," the young student asked, " I ought to 
 go back to the college for another year ? " 
 
 " I certainly think you ought," returned the priest. " You 
 may have a vocation, though you fancy you have not. Or it 
 may come in good time, if God wills it. I was at times 
 myself perplexed and in doubt as you are now ; but it all 
 passed away." 
 
 " But I never had a wish to be a priest from proper motives. 
 Since I was born, my mother's daily prayer has been that 
 she would live to see me a good priest, and I cannot bear the 
 thought of disappointing her hopes, particularly since the 
 failure of this unlucky bank has left us in rather straitened 
 circumstances. Nearly all that was left by my father to 
 educate me for a profession is gone ; and 'tis fearful to think 
 that so much has been thrown away upon me ; and here I 
 am now and don't know what course to take, even if I had 
 the courage to tell my mother the state of my mind. But 
 will it not be like acting a lie to go back again?" 
 
 " I don't think so," returned Father Carroll, " unless you 
 take the loss of more time and money into account." 
 
 " The time, and the money, too, would be lost even if I did 
 not return to college, for I could not make up my mind what 
 to do next, for some time at least. Indolence and pride are 
 my besetting sins. My only idea in reference to becoming 
 a priest was that it was the easiest way to become a gentle-
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERART. 403 
 
 man, and have people putting their hands to their hats for 
 me." 
 
 " I don't know that most of us have not some such notion 
 as that," returned Father Carroll, laughing. " I think you 
 will be a priest yet." 
 
 " Here is Edmund," exclaimed the student, his sad face 
 lighting up with pleasure as he hurried out to welcome his 
 friend, who had just leaped off a car on the road, and vaulted 
 over the gate, leaving the driver to open it and follow with 
 his portmanteau to the cottage. 
 
 Edmund Kiely looked the very opposite of the pale, slightly 
 built student whose thin hand he grasped in his warm palm, 
 while his blue eyes and fresh, laughing face beamed with 
 hearty good-nature. Edmund, as his little sister Grace used 
 to say, was a "jolly fellow," never by any chance out of 
 spirits for more than five minutes at a time. And yet the 
 two friends whose society he most loved were Arthur O'Con- 
 nor and Hugh Kearney. His father wished him to com- 
 mence the study of the law, as he had a strong dislike to his 
 own profession. But the young man had set his heart upon 
 an open-air life, and in order to prevent his flying away to 
 the antipodes, or to hunt buffaloes on the prairies of the 
 West, Doctor Kiely promised to purchase some land for him 
 in Ireland when a favourable opportunity presented itself. 
 And Mr. Edmund Kiely is now one of those enviable mortals 
 who have nothing on earth to trouble them. He and Arthur 
 and Father Carroll had made several tours together, which 
 proved such out-and-out pleasant affairs, that he is now bent 
 upon adding one more to the number. 
 
 " I like the look of your house," he said, as he shook hands 
 with the priest at the door of his thatched d< micile. " There 
 is something suggestive of the romantic about it. I have no 
 doubt many a runaway couple dismounted at this door in 
 the good old times, to demand the services of Father Cleary. 
 Oh," he exclaimed on entering the parlour, " surely that arm- 
 chair in the corner must have belonged to him. I can aim' st 
 fancy I see the venerable old sogyarth sitting in it at the 
 present moment. 
 
 "Yes; it and all the rest of the furniture belonged to 
 him," Father Carroll replied. " I bought them all at the 
 auction ; and though, as you see, they are not over elegant
 
 404 KNOCKXAGOW ; 
 
 or expensive articles, I am in debt on account of them for 
 the first time in my life." 
 
 " And talking of romance," Edmund went on, " of course, 
 it was in this room Sir Thomas Butler's brother was married. 
 I'd like t> know all about it. Did you ever see his wife?" 
 
 " No ; but Arthur can tell you all about it. She was his 
 cousin." 
 
 " So she was, sir," old Mrs. Hayes, the housekeeper, who 
 Avas laying the table, quietly observed somewhat to Ed- 
 mund's surprise. " You'd think he 'd break his heart crying 
 after poor Miss Annie. ' uncle,' he used to say, ' what 
 made you let that old man take her away?' An' sure he 
 wasn't an old man, though he was stooped and delicate-look- 
 ing. We all thought he was only a painter, or an artist, 
 as he used to say; but he told Father Ned who he was, an' 
 when he saw poor Miss Annie so given for him, though she 
 thought he was only a poor painter, he gave his consent to 
 the marriage. The poor thing got delicate soon after, an' 
 when she found that his brother and family were makin' 
 little of him, I know it used to fret her. He took her away 
 to Italy for the air, for he was as fond of her as of his life. 
 But she only held two years, an' her last letter to her uncle 
 would bring tears from a rock, 'twas so movin'. Her husband, 
 she said, was as kind an' lovin' as ever, an' she was sure 
 he'd be kind an' lovin' to her little Annie when she was 
 gone." 
 
 "How did they happen to become acquainted first?" 
 Edmund asked, as Mrs. Hayes took her bunch of keys from 
 her pocket, and ostentatiously shook them, preparatory to 
 unlocking one of the drawers of the brass-mounted desk. 
 
 " Well," Mrs. Hayes replied, as she selected the key she 
 wanted from the bunch, " herself an' Father Ned gave three 
 weeks that year at the water. An', it seems, Mr. Butler 
 spent all his time abroad learning the paintin' business an' 
 sure, I never see a man so fond of anything as he was of makin' 
 pictures. He painted all Major French's children while he 
 was here, an' 'tis little they thought 'twas a near cousin of 
 their own was paintin' 'em. There is the three of 'em 
 beyond fine young women now," said Mrs. Hayes, pointing 
 to the ladies who so annoyed the over-sensitive student a few 
 minutes before. " But the pictures are all there still, an' if
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPEKARY. 405 
 
 ever you are at the Castle 'twould be worth your while to 
 look at 'em you 'd think they wor alive. But he was always 
 practisin'. That an' playin' the flute was all that troubled 
 him." 
 
 " So, 'twas while he was at the castle he saw Miss Cleary?" 
 "Yes, sir; but he was shipwrecked, an' a'most dhrowned, 
 an' Father Ned took him to the house where he lodged, an' 
 Miss Annie nursed him; for 'twas thought he'd never get 
 over it. An', afther that, he went about paintin' at the 
 great houses. An' that 's the way it came about. Poor Miss 
 Annie was an orphan, you know, sir, an' lived wud her uncle 
 ever since she came from the convent where she was educated. 
 I 'm told they had nothin' to live on but what he was able to 
 earn, an' his brother an' all his family turned against him. 
 Tis said now that Sir Thomas is near his end, an', as he 
 never got married, Miss Annie's husband, I suppose, will 
 come in for the property." 
 
 " And the title," added Father Carroll. " By the way, I 
 trust it may turn out well for our friends at Ballinaclash." 
 
 "Why, what difference can it make to them 1 ?" Edmund 
 asked. 
 
 " Oh, 'tis a matter of no little anxiety to a farmer to know 
 what sort his new landlord will be. But any change is 
 likely to be for the better in this case ; for the present man 
 is a rack-renter." 
 
 " I never heard Mr. Kearney say anything against him," 
 returned Edmund. " Though he is by no means sparing of 
 censure," he added, laughing. " 'Tis a treat to listen to his 
 comments sometimes." 
 
 " Yes, but he has a lease," replied Father Carroll. " But 
 numbers of his tenants have been smashed trying to pay 
 impossible rents. I should not wonder if his agent, old 
 Fender, is urging him on in this course. But I 'm inclined 
 to think his brother will be a kind landlord, unless he is led 
 astray; and it is said, too, Sir Thomas will leave the property 
 greatly incumbered." 
 
 "Why, Arthur," exclaimed Edmund, "as your cousin's 
 black eyes made so deep an impression on your boyish heart, 
 I can't help thinking, if her daughter be at all like her, 
 you had better keep out of her way, or she will spoil your 
 vocation."
 
 406 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 " I am not likely to corne in contact with her," returned 
 Arthur. "Though, for her mother's sake, I should like to 
 know her." 
 
 " Of course, if he succeeds to the property, he will return 
 to Ireland." 
 
 " I think not," Arthur replied. " It is said he is a com- 
 plete Frenchman in his tastes and habits, and I suspect he 
 will always live on the Continent. But where are we going 
 to go?" 
 
 " To Tramore," Edmund answered. 
 
 "Nonsense," returned Arthur. "Let us go somewhere 
 where there will be no crowds. I detest the class of people 
 you meet at these bathing places." 
 
 "Oh, yes," rejoined Edmund, laughing. "I remember 
 your notions in that respect. You used to say you could 
 imagine yourself marrying a peasant girl or a high-born lady; 
 but that you could not abide the bourgeoisie." 
 
 " That is my idea still," replied the student. " They are a 
 compound of ridiculous pride and vulgarity. But a peasant 
 girl is seldom vulgar to my mind." 
 
 " Well, I have seen something of all classes," Father Car- 
 roll observed, " and I must say I have met some women of 
 the class you condemn, who certainly were neither ignorant 
 nor vulgar." 
 
 " He ! s a humbug," said Edmund Kiely, as if his friend's 
 remark had nettled him a little. " 'Tis sour grapes with him, 
 because a certain lady had the bad taste to prefer me to him- 
 self, once upon a time. You know we were always sure ta 
 be smitten by the same divinity, and though I gave him every 
 fair play, he was never able to win a single smile the moment 
 I entered the lists against him. And that 's why he detests 
 the sort of people one meets at the seaside. But what da 
 you say to Tramore ?" 
 
 " I vote for it," Father Carroll replied. " I suppose old 
 associations have something to do with it, but I can enjoy a 
 stroll along the ' Great Strand,' more than I can the grandest 
 cliffs and finest scenery we have. And then we '11 be sure to 
 meet some old friends there." 
 
 " Hear, hear," Edmund exclaimed. " We start to-morrow. 
 I '11 introduce you," he continued, turning to Arthur, " to the 
 brightest and most fascinating little being that ever turned a
 
 OB, THE HOMES OF TIPPERA.RY. 407 
 
 wise man's head. And an heiress, too, for she is an only 
 child, aud her father is as rich as a Jew." 
 
 "I don't want to be introduced to her," was the reply. 
 " The less I see of such people the better I like it." 
 
 "I suppose it is Miss Delany 1 ?" said Father Carroll. "I 
 heard something about her. She has got an immense deal of 
 polishing at all events." 
 
 "And it has not been thrown away nor has it spoiled her 
 in the least," returned Edmund. " But, by the way, I 'm 
 told Mary Kearney has turned out a downright beauty. My 
 little sister Grace says I must marry her. She is twenty 
 times handsomer, Grace says, than Minnie Delany. But I 
 always thought her sister Anne would be a finer girl." 
 
 "I have not seen them for a long time," said Father Car- 
 roll. " I 'm in the black books with their mother, it is so long 
 since I paid her a visit. Father Hannigan told me she was 
 saying to him that the world was gone when one's own flesh 
 and blood will forget you and pass by your door without 
 inquiring whether you are dead or alive. In fact, I got what 
 Barney Brodherick calls ' Bally hooly' from her. 'After 
 getting him the best servant in the three counties,' said she, 
 'never as much as to say "Thank you !"' I'm quite afraid 
 to show my face to her. I suppose you have met Kichard in 
 Dublin?" 
 
 " Yes, we had some pleasant evenings at his uncle's. He 
 will soon be a full-blown surgeon. I am promising myself a 
 few days' shooting with Hugh shortly, and, if you could 
 manage to come while I am there, I '11 make your peace with 
 Mrs. Kearney, as I am a great favourite of hers." 
 
 "Do you know any of them, Arthur?" Father Carroll 
 asked. 
 
 " Xo, I never met any of them," he replied. " But I often 
 heard of them." 
 
 "Come," said Edmund, pushing away his plate, "let us 
 go out and look about us. Do you ever venture into Major 
 French's grounds 1 I 'd like to get a nearer view of those 
 nymphs I caught a glimpse of as I was coming in. Unless 
 it be that ' distance lends enchantment to the view,' they are 
 worth looking at." 
 
 " Yes, we can cross the river by the weir," returned Father 
 Carroll. " There is a place there in a grove of large fir-trees
 
 408 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 called the Priest's "Walk. Poor Father deary was accustomed 
 to read his Office there for more than forty years; and it is 
 even whispered that he may be met there still on a moon- 
 light night. It was there his niece and her husband always 
 walked, too, Mrs. Hayes tells me. But, according to Tom 
 Doherty, there are other associations of not quite so innocent 
 a character connected with the Priest's Walk; particularly 
 one in which a French governess figures." 
 
 " Oh, let us go to the place at once," exclaimed Edmund, 
 tossing his white hat carelessly on his brown curls, " and you 
 can tell the story of the governess; and who knows but we 
 may catch a glimpse of the old priest and his beautiful niece? 
 I wish I could believe in such things." 
 
 " Just wait till I tell Tom Doherty that we are to start 
 early in the morning. But what do you say to a glass of 
 punch before going out?" 
 
 " Oh, wait till we come back, and sitting in that old chair 
 I'll drink the health of all true lovers, and sympathizing 
 uncles, who, like kind old Father Ned, will let them be 
 happy." 
 
 CHAPTER LI. 
 
 MAT DONOVAN IN TRAMORB. MRS. KEARNEY AND HER " OWN 
 CAR." THE "COULIN." 
 
 TRAMORE the "Great Strand" is a household word in 
 very many Tipperary homes. There the child gets the first 
 sight of those waves, whose singing had been so often listened 
 to in the sea-shell on the parlour chimney-piece; and there 
 the grandsire, leaning upon his staff, gazes for the last time 
 upon the same waves with wonder and delight more childish 
 than the child's. Few married couples will you meet along 
 the Golden Vein, and for many a mile to right and left of 
 it, who have not wandered over that level, velvety strand, 
 or reclined upon the sloping turf above the steep shore, 
 while the bay flashed in the autumn sun, when life's journey
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERAUV. 409 
 
 seemed to them a very "path of rays." And when the corn 
 is " drawn in," and the orchard " shook," and October frosts 
 make it pleasant to come within the glow of the farmer's fire, 
 see if the mention of "Tramore" will not call a dreamy look 
 into the eyes of stalwart youths and blushing maidens ! 
 
 Yes, pleasant memories of the sea are cherished in the 
 homes of Tipperary. Yet who could ever look upon the 
 sea without a sigh for the homes of Tipperary and the 
 homes of Ireland ? 
 
 Father Carroll and his two young friends were walking 
 down the steep street towards the beach, when Edmund 
 exclaimed : 
 
 " Surely, that is Mat Donovan with the spade in his hand. 
 What on earth can have brought him here?" 
 
 Mat was greeted as an old acquaintance by both Edmund 
 and Father Carroll, but Arthur O'Connor had never seen 
 him before, and contented himself with admiring the broad 
 shoulders and sinewy limbs of the young peasant. 
 
 " Miss Mary, an' Miss Ann, an' the Misthress, sir," said 
 Mat, in reply to a question from Father Carroll. " We 're 
 goin' home to-morrow, an' the misthress wouldn't be satisfied 
 to have anyone dhrive 'em but myse'f, an' she sent for the 
 car the week before last, so that I 'm here now nearly a 
 fortnight." 
 
 The fact was, Mrs. Kearney found that her neighbour, Mrs. 
 O'Shaughnessy, had her own car at the seaside, and dis- 
 covered at the same time that she herself was by no means 
 well, and required "the sea air" to bring her round. Mary 
 pointed to the window-curtain, which was fanning her 
 mother's face at the moment, as she watched the breakers 
 leaping up to clasp the dusky cliffs in their white arms, and 
 then slide down and hide themselves in the bosom of the 
 blue waves that rolled in as if to call back the truants to 
 their proper home. 
 
 "What do you mean? "says Mrs. Kearney with severity, 
 on observing the laugh in Mary's blue eyes. 
 
 " Is there not sea air enough here ?" returned Mary. 
 ' And sure you can sit on the rocks, or on one of the seats 
 on the Doneraile Walk. You have the sea air wherever 
 you go." 
 
 But Mrs. Kearney had made up her mind that the sea air 
 
 2o
 
 410 KN'OCKNAGOW J 
 
 could only be taken in its purity while driving in " her own 
 car" down to the Babbit-burrow and back again. And so the . 
 car and the old mare and Mat Donovan were sent for ; and 
 every day after their arrival Mrs. Kearney might be seen, with 
 her plump hands folded over her stomacher, jogging slowly 
 by the tide which ever and anon glided under the old 
 mare's feet and startled the two young ladies on the other 
 side of the car, whose exclamations were utterly ignored by 
 their mamma, as she gave her whole mind to the " sea air ;" 
 with Mat Donovan " in an ezad" to borrow his own ex- 
 pression on the driver's seat. For Mat's legs were long and 
 the driver's seat was low, and he always descended from his 
 throne after a long drive, vowing that he was metamorphosed 
 into the last letter of the alphabet. 
 
 This jogging by the tide was a severe penance to Mary 
 Kearney and her sister, who often turned round to gaze with 
 longing looks at the promenaders on the " Doneraile Walk;" 
 and we fear Miss Anne sometimes wished that the wheel 
 would fall off, or that the old mare would obstinately refuse 
 to walk or trot upon sea sand for love or money. 
 
 But really, young ladies, you must have patience. The 
 moon will be bright to-night; and don't you see the 
 O'Shaughnessys driving behind you? 
 
 "'Twould be worth your while, sir," said Mat Donovan, 
 " to go out in a boat to the Metal-man's Cave, an' fire a shot 
 in id. Such an ai-cho you never heard in your life ! I 'd 
 give a crown to get wan box at the Knocknagow dhrum in 
 id. 'Twould be like the end uv the world ! Mr. Richard 
 fired a shot in id a few days ago, an' id made the hair stand 
 on my head. But I know a box uv the big dhrum would be 
 a show intirely ! " 
 
 " So we have Richard here," said Edmund ; " that 's 
 fortunate." 
 
 "No, sir; "returned Mat, "he cut away home. All they 
 could say couldn't stop him. The minute he laid his eyes 
 on that bit uv paper stuck on that windy above," continued 
 Mat, pointing to a window they were just passing, " nothin'' 
 could keep him. You 'd think that little scrap was a latitat, 
 be was so frightened when he see it." 
 
 "Do you mean the label with 'Lodgings' on it?" Father 
 Carroll asked.
 
 OR, THE. HONE3 OF TIPPERARY. 411 
 
 "Yes, sir," replied Mat, "the Miss Hanlys wor lodgin' 
 there; but their father came to bring 'em home unexpected." 
 
 " Oh, I understand," said Edmund, laughing. " He is now 
 rambling under the shadow of the old castle with the fair 
 Kathleen." 
 
 As they walked along the beacli by the "storm wall" they 
 were obliged to cross to the other side of the road, as some 
 hundred yards of the footway were enclosed by a high paling 
 with a gate at each end. This arrangement puzzled Arthur 
 O'Connor a good deal, and he wondered what was the object 
 of locking out the public from this portion of the walk. 
 
 " The gates will be open by-an'-by, sir," Mat Donovan 
 observed. " That palin' was put up to keep the men from 
 speculatin' on the ladies." 
 
 "Speculating on the ladies'?" Arthur repeated, inquiringly. 
 
 " Yes, sir," replied Mat seriously. " They 're here from all 
 parts they 're here from London" he added, with emphasis, 
 as if London were at the other end of the world. " There 's 
 a Lady Elizabeth, an' a Lady Mary, an' ladies the divil knows 
 what here." 
 
 " How did you happen to learn the names of those 
 distinguished visitors, Mat?" Father Carroll asked with a 
 smile. 
 
 " Well, sir," Mat answered, with a very solemn, expression 
 of countenance, " Phil Morris is here, an' he 's lodgin' at a 
 mantymaker's up near the chapel, an' their women do be in 
 there. You might as well thry to understand a turkey-cock 
 as to understand wan uv 'em," added Mat with a blending of 
 astonishment and indignation in his tone. 
 
 " But about the speculating?" asked Arthur O'Connor, who 
 was able to make nothing of Mat Donovan's explanation of 
 the paling along the storm wall. 
 
 " He means that the paling is intended to keep the men 
 from looking over the wall at the ladies bathing," returned 
 Edmund. " That 's what he calls speculating on the ladies. 
 But, Mat, what are you going to do with the spade 1" 
 
 " To bury Phil Morris, sir," Mat answered. 
 
 " Is old Phil dead ? I 'm very sorry to hear it. It was a 
 treat to listen to him telling of his adventures when he was 
 'out 'in '98." 
 
 "He's as stout as a buck," returned Mat. "I'm on'y goin'
 
 412 KNOCKNAGOW; 
 
 to bury him for the pains. If you walk down as far as the 
 mast of the ship that was wracked last winther you '11 see him 
 buried in the sand, wud on'y his head above ground, and the 
 sweat runnin' down his face from the weight on him. He 
 says wan buryin' is betther than twenty baths." 
 
 " Was there a vessel lost in the bay last winter ?" 
 
 " There was, sir. Wanst they get in them apast two 
 white pillars they 're done for. Though the fishermen at the 
 Boat-cove tells me there 's not an honester bay in Ireland, if 
 the captain would on'y run the vessel in on the strand, 
 instead uv tryin' to get back again." 
 
 " By the way, Mat," said Edmund, " has old Phil Morris 
 his pretty granddaughter with him ?" 
 
 " He has, sir," returned Mat ; " he couldn't live wudout 
 her, I b'lieve. An', begor, she 'd surprise you. She 's able 
 to talk to the best uv 'em, an' to undherstand what they 'd 
 say. An' she was able to show the dressmaker how to 
 manage some turns an' twists in a new-fashioned gown that 
 she wasn't able to come at herself, afther takin' id asundher. 
 I was standin by myse'f ; an' she might as well thry to make 
 a watch as put id together, on'y for Bessy." 
 
 Mat did not mind telling that he spent a good deal of his 
 time picking shells with Bessy Morris which shells, in after 
 days, he could never catch the slightest glimpse of, on the 
 fire-board to which they were glued, in Bessy's own little 
 room, without a sigh and a mental " God be with old times." 
 
 The bathers were now flocking up from the strand, and 
 Edmund Kiely, recognising a light-footed nymph among them, 
 with her silky tresses hanging down her back, was about 
 giving instant chase, when Arthur caught him by the arm, 
 and requested that he would take the world easy. 
 
 " It is Minnie Delany," exclaimed Edmund, keeping his 
 eyes on the shining tresses. " Just let me see where she is 
 stopping." 
 
 " I '11 show you the house," said Mat Donovan, who seemed 
 to be a walking edition of that interesting weekly sheet, 
 'The Tramore Visitor.'" 
 
 "She's too damp yet," Arthur observed; "and possibly 
 her nose is blue, for the water must be rather cold to-day. 
 Let us get a boat and go to the cave, and you can see your 
 friends in the evening."
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 413 
 
 " They '11 be out in all the colours uv the rainbow, by-an'- 
 by," Mat Donovan observed. "But I can't see wan uv 'em 
 to equal Miss Mary." 
 
 " Then this lady Mr. Kiely was about running after does 
 not come up to Miss Kearney, in your opinion 1 ?" asked 
 Arthur^ who was greatly amused by Mat's free-and-easy 
 remarks on things in general. 
 
 "Not at all!" returned Mat indignantly. "She's a nice 
 lively little girl, an' she has so many bows, an' feathers, an' 
 goold chains, an' sich things, that people take notice uv her. 
 But she 's on'y an Ally Blasther near Miss Mary. But I see 
 Phil Morris waitin' for me, an' I must be off to bury him." 
 
 "But who is Ally Blaster?" Arthur asked. 
 
 " Ha'penny dolls are called Ally Blasters," replied Father 
 Carroll. " I suspect it is a corruption of ' alabaster.' " 
 
 " I hope you will introduce me to your Ally Blaster," said 
 Arthur. 
 
 Edmund Kiely was too disgusted to reply, and, buttoning 
 up his "zephyr," he strode on towards the Boat-cove in 
 advance of his friends, looking as if he considered their 
 observations quite beneath contempt. 
 
 "This is really a nice bathing place," Arthur O'Connor 
 remarked as he sat at the window of his room in the evening. 
 "But is it not a wonder that the people who build these 
 handsome houses never plant a tree 1 ?" 
 
 " Come, brush yourself up and be ready to come out," said 
 Edmund, who had run up to his friend's bed-room to protest 
 against his shutting himself up for the evening. " The belles 
 you see, are just about to appear in all the colours of the 
 rainbow, as Mat Donovan said." And Edmund pointed to a 
 young lady at a door a little lower dowu the street, opening 
 and shutting her parasol. 
 
 The evening was calm and sultry, and as Edmund ran his 
 eye along the row of houses opposite, he remarked that all 
 the windows were thrown open and pretty faces were visible 
 at more than one; but for some reason or other none of them 
 as yet emerged into the open air. 
 
 "What are they waiting for?" the young gentleman 
 thought to himself, as the parasols at the doors became more 
 numerous. "By Jove, Arthur, I'm in luck !" he exclaimed, 
 aloud. " There she is in the bow-window just opposite !"
 
 414 KNOCKNAGOW; 
 
 ' What are you talking about?" returned Arthur. 
 " But I must warn you to take care of your heart and 
 vocation," Edward ran on, "for I am positively haunted by 
 the thought that sooner or later you will come to look upon 
 me as the destroyer of your happiness." 
 
 " In the name of common sense what are you talking 
 about?" 
 
 "Look at that dazzling little being in the bow-window." 
 " I see her, but can see nothing wonderful about her." 
 "But, my dear fellow, don't you see it is sweet little 
 Minnie Delany." Here Edmund Kiely bowed and smiled, 
 but the young lady seemed quite unconscious that the eyes 
 of her admirer were on her. She had leant out of the 
 window and looked up at the sky, and Edmund Kiely, fol- 
 lowing her example, saw that a heavy cloud was hanging like 
 a pall above them. The bay, which an hour or two before 
 looked so sunny, was now almost black. The fringe of white 
 along the strand had become broader, and little eruptions of 
 foam were bursting up here and there far out between the 
 Metal-man and the two white pillars on the opposite side of 
 the bay, marking where those treacherous rocks, so dangerous 
 to the mariner, lifted their iron foreheads almost to the sur- 
 face of the heaving billows, which now seemed roused from 
 sleep by some mysterious agency; for 
 
 "There was not wind enough in the air 
 To move away the ringlet curl" 
 
 from Minnie Delany's cheek, as, with her chin resting on her 
 gloved hand, she leant out of the bow-window and glanced up 
 at the great black cloud hanging in the sky. 
 
 " I fear the evening is likely to be wet," Edmund observed 
 ruefully. " I '11 ask Father Carroll to step over to see Mrs. 
 Delany, and manage to have us all asked to tea. There will 
 be no walking. There is Somerfield's carriage going back 
 to the stable-yard, too. A splendid pair they are; Mat 
 Donovan pointed them out to me as we Were coming up, 
 and I was honoured by a nod of recognition from one of the 
 ladies." 
 
 ""Who are they?" Arthur asked. 
 
 " Sam Somerfield's daughters, of "Woodlands," returned 
 Edmund. " It is he, or rather his father, keeps the harriers.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARV. 415 
 
 Hugh Kearney and I have often had a good run with 
 them." 
 
 Arthur O'Connor gave very little attention to what his 
 friend was saying. He was listening with a look of surprise 
 to the soft sweet tones of a flute, which he could hear dis- 
 tinctly through the hoarse chant of the breakers. The cir- 
 cumstance which excited his surprise was, that the music 
 suddenly stopped almost as soon as it had commenced, and 
 then began again, to cease as suddenly as before. This was 
 repeated over and over till Arthur's surprise began to change 
 to something like irritation; for the strain seemed familiar 
 to him, and affected him strongly, as will often happen 
 
 " Should some notes we used to love 
 In days of boyhood meet our ear." 
 
 "Can you recognise the air?" he added, turning to 
 Edmund, who was pensively contemplating the movements 
 of Miss Minnie Delany's fingers, as she twisted up her 
 ringlets after taking off her bonnet and it would be no 
 violent stretch of the imagination to suppose that Miss 
 Delany had at least a slight suspicion that Mr. Edmund 
 Kiely was so engaged. 
 
 " Yes," he replied, after listening for a moment, " 'tis an 
 Irish air." But it stopped again before he could be sure 
 what particular Irish air it was. 
 
 Those snatches of melody were becoming fainter and 
 fainter, as if the performer were moving farther away from 
 them; but they soon noticed them becoming more distinct 
 again, till every note of the few oft-repeated bars could be 
 plainly heard. 
 
 " I see how it is," said Arthur. " He began to play at this 
 side of the street, and now he is coming back at the other 
 side." 
 
 "Yes, there he is," returned Edmund, "and a most pictur- 
 esque-looking figure he is, with his cloak and long white hair. 
 He must be a foreigner, I should say." 
 
 The musician commenced his melody for the twentieth 
 time; but the window before which he stood was pulled 
 down, and he let his flute drop into the hollow of his arm, 
 and, hesitating for a moment, walked a few steps, and com- 
 menced again but only to meet with the same reception.
 
 416 KNOCKS AGO W ; 
 
 He tried again and again with no better success, till he came 
 within a door or two of the house at the window of which 
 Miss Delauy stood toying with her curls. 
 
 " He must be new to the business," said Edmund, " or it 
 would not be so easy to shut him up. Did you remark the 
 way his hands trembled when that window was pulled down 
 with such unnecessary violence? And, by the way, what 
 tli in, delicate hands they are. And there is something strik- 
 ing in his pale, melancholy face, too. He certainly must 
 have seen better days." 
 
 "'Tis a shame !" exclaimed Arthur O'Connor, as the poor 
 flute-player met with still another repulse. " What sort of 
 people must these be ?" 
 
 " I know the air," said Edmund. " It is the Coulin." 
 
 For the poor musician had walked on to the next house 
 without taking the flute from his lips. 
 
 "Hang her!" muttered Arthur, as Miss Minnie Delany, 
 too, pulled down her window; though she did it so slowly 
 and hesitatingly, that the old minstrel played on seemingly 
 unconscious of this last repulse. Or it might be that he was 
 borne away to other scenes by the sweet melody 
 
 " The home-loving Coulin, 
 That's sobbing, like Eire, with Sorrow and Love" 
 
 and that poverty and sorrow and humiliation were all for- 
 gotten. This, indeed, must have been the case, for the two 
 friends observed, as he turned his mild, melancholy face side- 
 ways, towards the sea, that his eyes were closed. 
 
 Edmund Kiely reddened, and bit his lips. 
 
 Yet pretty Minnie Delany had done only what she had 
 seen others do. She had not the courage to do as her own 
 heart prompted. And, perhaps, the same excuse, such as it 
 is, may be pleaded for some of the others who so rudely 
 spurned the poor flute-player from their doors. 
 
 When the Misses Somerfield, of Woodlands, would not 
 listen to the "Coulin" for the splendid pair of bays champ- 
 ing their bits before the Miss Somerfields' door induced the 
 old musician to begin with them how could those who had 
 no carriages-and-pairs at all venture to listen to it? But if 
 the Misses Somerfield, of Woodlands, had the faintest suspi- 
 cion of who that poor flute-player was, they would have been
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 417 
 
 charmed with the "Coulin," or any other tune he might 
 choose to play, even though it were as Irish as " Garryowen '' 
 itself. 
 
 He played on now with his face towards the " melancholy 
 ocean," as if he were playing in a dream. 
 
 "Though the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see, 
 Yet wherever thou art will seem Erin to me. 
 In exile thy bosom shall still be my home, 
 And thine eyes make my climate wherever we roam." 
 
 Edmund had murmured the words softly to the air, and 
 was commencing the next verse, when the sweet tones of the 
 flute were drowned by the shrill voices of a couple of ragged 
 urchins, who accompanied themselves with a most unmusical 
 rattling of bones as they sang, or rather yelled 
 
 " Out of the way, old Dan Tucker, 
 You 're too late to get your supper." 
 
 The window was thrown up again by Miss Delany's 
 mamma, who seemed quite charmed by the hideous din; and 
 even Minnie stopped twisting her curls, and beat time to it 
 with her little rosy fingers upon her shoulder. But still the 
 old musician played on, with his pale face turned towards 
 the sea. 
 
 A hand an exquisitely fair and delicate hand was laid 
 upon his arm, and a pair of large dark lustrous eyes were 
 raised to his. It could be seen at a glance that she was his 
 daughter. The old man started as his eyes met hers ; and 
 after casting a bewildered look around, a painful smile passed 
 over his pale face, as he hid his flute hurriedly in the folds 
 of his cloak. The girl was tall, and, in spite of her worn and 
 faded apparel, singularly graceful. Her lips trembled and 
 her eyes filled with tears as she drew her father away from 
 the crowd of idlers that began to collect around the boys, who 
 " yah, yahed,"and rattled their " castanets," till Mrs. Delany 
 seemed to be getting quite faint from the excess of her delight. 
 They had not moved many steps from the crowd when Arthur 
 O'Connor stood by the young girl's side and pressed a piece of 
 silver into her hand. She blushed deeply ; and before she 
 could recover from her surprise, a second piece was placed in 
 the same hand, and, on looking round, the fairest face and
 
 418 KNOCKNAGOV: 
 
 the heavenliest blue eyes, she thought, she had ever beheld, 
 met her gaze. For a moment all three seemed spell-bound. 
 The musician's daughter looked from one to the other of her 
 benefactors, while they looked at each other. Arthur O'Con- 
 nor thought, too, that the young girl who, like himself, had 
 run after the poor flute-player, was the loveliest creature he 
 had ever seen. She was the first to recover presence of mind, 
 and turning quickly round hurried past the grinning vocalists, 
 who were becoming alarmingly black in the face from the 
 vigour of their exertions, and entered a house within a few 
 doors of Mrs. Delany's. The musician's daughter gazed 
 after her with eyes brimful of admiration and gratitude ; but 
 observing that her father had walked on without appearing 
 to miss her from his side, she thanked the student with a 
 smile, and hastened after him. 
 
 Edmund Kiely was a spectator of all this ; but he saw 
 nothing distinctly but the musician's dark-eyed daughter. 
 He watched her till she was out of sight, and then seizing 
 his hat started off in pursuit. 
 
 Half-an-hour after Edmund Kiely found himself looking 
 down a steep, almost perpendicular wall of rock, into a little 
 cove, where the white surf was swaying backward and for- 
 ward over the round pebbles with a sharp crashing noise that 
 pierced through the deep rolling of the waves like the rattle 
 of musketry amid the roar of cannon upon the battlefield. 
 To his surprise the old man and his daughter hurried on, and 
 on, keeping close to the shore for more than a mile. He 
 suddenly lost sight of them at this point, and on coming up 
 to the place, he looked over the cliff with a curiosity not 
 unmingled with alarm, for the thought occurred to him that 
 they might have missed their footing and been precipitated 
 into the seething Avaters below. His heart beat quick as he 
 looked in vain for some trace of them ; and a cry almost 
 escaped from him, on seeing some dark object rising and 
 falling with the waves some fifty yards or so from the shore. 
 He soon, however, saw that the dark object was a mass of 
 seaweed, and his eyes wandered again in every direction in 
 search of the old musician and his daughter. 
 
 " Surely," he thought, "it was just here I saw them last; 
 and where can they have gone ? So old a man would 
 scarcely have ventured down that narrow pathway, where a
 
 OR, THE HOMES OP TIPPERARY. 419 
 
 goat might run the risk of breaking its neck. By Jove !" 
 he exclaimed with a start, " there she is on the top of that 
 black cliff, with the waves tumbling and twisting around its 
 base. What a corsair's bride she would make !" 
 
 After standing upon the rock for a minute or two, she 
 waited till the receding wave allowed her to leap upon the 
 strand, and in another moment Edmund watched her climb- 
 ing, or rather bounding, up the steep pathway, with a step as 
 light as the wild goat's. The path led up close to the rock 
 behind which he was standing, and as she came nearer, her 
 silvery tones fell upon his ear. 
 
 " And that 's the place where you first saw my dear 
 mother?" said she, stopping a little below where he- stood. 
 
 " Yes," returned the old man, who sat upon a ledge of the 
 cliff, concealed from Edmund's view. " When consciousness 
 returned, she and the good old priest were standing over me 
 by the side of that rock." 
 
 " And they took you to the same house where we are stay- 
 ing. I 'm so glad you have brought me to see the place !" 
 
 " But I fear I have acted imprudently. It is strange I 
 have got no reply to my letter before now. I very much 
 fear some accident of which I have not heard must have 
 occurred to the friend to whom I have written; for he never 
 failed me before." 
 
 " Oh, I am sure you will have a letter to-morrow ; and 
 this money the beautiful girl and the young abb6 have so 
 kindly given to me will be quite enough for us until then. 
 I only wish I could keep it as a souvenir of them. He is so 
 very handsome ! and she so exquisitely lovely ! Did you 
 notice them?" 
 
 11 No, I noticed nothing," he replied. "My debut as an 
 itinerant musician has not been encouraging." 
 
 "I asked the name of those ladies for whom you first 
 played," returned his daughter. " I thought it very unkind 
 of them to close their window as they did, and they such 
 stylish people. I was told their name is Sotnerfield." 
 
 " Somerfield," repeated the old man, musingly. " I am 
 acquainted with that name." 
 
 11 The Somerfields of Woodlands," she added. 
 "The same," returned her father. "It is a strange 
 coincidence."
 
 420 KNOCKNAGOW : 
 
 " How is that?" she asked. 
 
 " I '11 tell you another time," he answered. " Let us go 
 now. The fisherman promised to inquire for a letter in 
 Waterford, and I am not without hopes that he may have 
 one for us when he comes back. I scarcely expected your 
 uncle would write, but it will surprise me much if the friend 
 to whom I have written do not send the small sum I asked 
 of him. I am determined to put my case in the hands of a 
 lawyer at last, and see whether I cannot compel my unkind 
 brother to do me justice. It is a duty I owe to you, my 
 child." 
 
 "My dear father," she returned, "don't be so anxious 
 about me. Thanks to the care you have bestowed on my 
 education, I feel I can earn my bread respectably whenever 
 it is necessary." 
 
 " I trust it will not come to that," replied the old man. 
 " You do not know how bitter a thing it is to be dependent 
 upon strangers. But see, those heavy clouds are about to 
 burst, and we must hasten back, or we shall get well drenched 
 before we can reach the cottage." 
 
 They retraced their steps for some distance along the path 
 over the cliffs, and Edmund, climbing to the top of the rock 
 against which he had been leaning, saw them turn to the left 
 up a steep narrow road, and enter a small thatched cottage a 
 couple of hundred yards from the shore. 
 
 If we ventured to turn Mr. Edmund Kiely's thoughts, as 
 he stood with folded arms upon that rock high above the 
 surging sea, into plain prose, we fear some at least of our 
 readers would not readily set him down for the sensible 
 fellow he really was. He was startled from his reverie, 
 however, by a vivid flash of lightning, followed quickly by a 
 terrific thunder-clap that seemed to shake the rocks around 
 him. Then, as the old musician had foretold, down came the 
 rain in a hissing torrent; and Mr. Edmund Kiely leaped from 
 his elevated position, and pulling the collar of his zephyr up 
 over his ears, made straight for the fisherman's cottage, with 
 the fleetness of an arrow ; persuading himself that his only 
 earthly object was to escape getting wet to the skin. 
 Raising the latch, he flung the door open, and standing 
 inside the threshold, shook the rain from his hat and coat 
 without even looking about to see who or what the inmates
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 421 
 
 of the house might be. It was quite plain the young gentle- 
 man only sought shelter from the thunder-shower! The 
 woman of the house, however, placed a chair in front of the 
 fire, and invited him to sit down; and then he saw an old 
 man with white hair sitting by the fire, and a young girl 
 with dark hair at a table near the small window, writing or 
 making a sketch upon the blank leaf of a book. 
 
 " I have just run in to escape from the shower," Edmund 
 remarked. " It has come down very suddenly, but I do not 
 think it will last long." 
 
 The door was again opened before the old man could make 
 any reply, and the fisherman entered with the water rnnning 
 down from his " sou'-wester," and over his oil-cloth jacket, as 
 if he had just emerged from the waves. Thrusting his hand 
 inside his waistcoat, he produced a letter, and presented it 
 without speaking to the old musician, who snatched it 
 nervously from his hand, and retired into an inner room, 
 followed by the young girl. 
 
 "Who is that old gentleman?" Edmund asked. 
 " I couldn't tell you, sir," the fisherman answered. " He 
 says he lodged here the year the French vessel was lost in 
 the bay. That was in my father's time, and I was in New- 
 foundland myself. So I have no recollection of him. There 
 wasn't near so many houses in Trarnore then, and people 
 used to come and lodge here in the summer. But, though 
 poor he is, he 's a gentleman. I 'd take my oath uv that any 
 day." 
 
 "Ay, an' his daughter is a born lady," added his wife. 
 " An' they 're welcome to stop for a month if they like before 
 I 'd ax 'em for a penny. 'Twould rise the cockles uv your 
 heart to hear her singin' the ' Coulin,' an' her father playin' 
 id on the flute. I thought I was in heaven listenin' to 'em 
 last night." 
 
 The old man or his daughter did not return to the kitchen, 
 and the rain having ceased quite suddenly, Edmund stood 
 up to leave, resolving that he would find some pretext for 
 returning to the cottage next day. Seeing that the young 
 girl had left her book, with the pencil in it, on the table, 
 curiosity impelled him to take it up and look at it. It was 
 a well-worn copy of Moore's Melodies. Glancing at the blank 
 leaf between the "Irish" and "National Melodies," his face
 
 422 KNOCKNAGOW : 
 
 betokened the utmost astonishment; for on the blank leaf 
 he beheld Arthur O'Connor's handsome profile done to 
 the life. The sensations created by this discovery were not 
 altogether of the pleasurable sort; and he remembered with 
 some satisfaction that she spoke of Arthur a little while 
 before as " the young abbe." There was also an unfinished 
 female head, the contour of which reminded him of some 
 one, though just then he could not say of whom; but he had 
 no doubt it was meant for " the beautiful girl" mentioned in 
 connection with " the young abbe." 
 
 "'Tis most extraordinary," thought Edmund. "Arthur 
 and I will most certainly be at logger-heads some day." 
 
 He wrote with the pencil on the leaf " Don't be offended. 
 I am a friend of the young abbe." And slipping a pound- 
 note between the leaves, he replaced the book on the table. 
 
 "It is quite fine now," he remarked. "There is the 
 moon rising out of the bay. I shall have quite a pleasant 
 walk back." And bidding the fisherman and his wife 
 " Good evening," he proceeded on his way back to the town 
 by the " Doneraile Walk." Minnie Delany was among the 
 moonlight promenaders on the walk for one of the advan- 
 tages of this pleasant seaside resort is that five minutes after 
 the heaviest fall of rain, the daintiest feet can venture out 
 without fear of wet or mud but alas ! Mr. Edmund Kiely 
 deliberately turned from the smooth gravelled walk, and, 
 descending to the brink of the steep shore, stood there for a 
 good hour and more, watching the shimmering of the moon- 
 lit bay. 
 
 Edmund Kiely did not sleep as soundly as was his wont 
 that night, and in the morning he was pacing up and down 
 by the storm-wall long before there were any fair nymphs to 
 "speculate" upon among the breakers. He saw Mat Dono- 
 van at some distance purchasing cockles from a barefooted 
 woman on her way from the Black Strand; and it occurred 
 to him that Mat would be able to learn something about 
 the old musician and his daughter for him. But Mat, with 
 his purchase tied up in his red cotton pocket-handkerchief, 
 was gone before he could come near enough to speak to him, 
 and he put it off till he should fall in with him in the course 
 of the day. But during the morning and afternoon he looker! 
 about in vain for a sight of Mat Donovan. In the evening
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 42$ 
 
 he recognised Bessy. Morris and her grandfather among the 
 rocks at the Boat-cove, and leaving Father Carroll and Arthur 
 O'Connor to comment upon Tom Steele's remarkable speech 
 at the last " usual weekly meeting" of the " Loyal National 
 Kepeal Association," made his way over the slippery sea- 
 weed, and, after congratulating the old weaver on his good 
 looks, inquired of Bessy whether she had seen Mat Donovan, 
 during the day. 
 
 " I saw him buying cockles on the strand early in the 
 morning," he added, "but I have not seen him since." 
 
 " He went home to-day, sir," Bessy answered, looking very 
 innocent and unconscious. 
 
 And the fact was, at that identical moment, Willie Kear- 
 ney and Tommy Lahy, sitting by the side of a hay-cock in 
 the kiln-field, were grinding those same cockles one against 
 another and greedily devouring them; while Ellie was rolling 
 the most beautiful " pair" of jackstones (consisting of five) 
 ever seen, between her hands; and Jack Delany's twins 
 were making desperate efforts to choke themselves with two 
 monstrous lobster-claws cockles and jackstones and lobster- 
 claws being presents from Mat the Thrasher, who was just 
 then expatiating upon the virtues of a peculiar kind of sand, 
 a small bag of which he was the happy possessor of, for 
 sharpening a scythe, and holding forth in his own expressive 
 and felicitous manner upon the wonders of the mighty deep, 
 to the amazement and delight of Tom Maher and Barney 
 Brodherick. And at that moment, too, Kit Cummins left 
 off abusing her next-door neighbour, and pushing her dis- 
 hevelled hair under her cap of dubious hue, stood outside 
 her own door, and addressing all Knocknagow, gave it as her 
 private opinion that Mrs. Kearney looked younger and rosier 
 than her own daughters "afther the wather" an opinion 
 which no one in Knocknagow ventured to contradict, unless 
 a suppressed " gir-r-r-r-out, you bla'guard," from the next- 
 door neighbour, might be taken as an expression of dissent. 
 
 "It seems Mrs. Kearney is gone home," said Edmund, 
 after returning to his companions. " I 'in sorry I did not 
 see them." 
 
 " They were wondering why you did not make your appear- 
 ance anywhere last evening," returned Father CarrolL " I 
 wanted to persuade Arthur to spend the evening with them, as
 
 424 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 to ^simiA iitsaco y:~ *o ~:n &[> :', : *) fr.-.'T''' 
 
 you could not be found, but he would not. And, by the way, 
 I see Sir Thomas Butler's death announced in this paper." 
 
 "What has that to do with my refusal 1 ?" Arthur asked. 
 
 "He was Maurice Kearney's landlord," returned Father 
 Carroll. " It may be a matter of some consequence to them." 
 
 Edmund, seeing the fisherman, in whose house he took 
 shelter from the rain the evening before, coming up from 
 the cove with a boat-hook on his shoulder, hastened to meet 
 liim. The man immediately presented him with a letter. 
 
 "Are they gone?" Edmund asked, after glancing at its 
 contents. 
 
 "They went early this morning, sir," replied the fisher- 
 man. 
 
 "Where?" Edmund asked eagerly. 
 
 " The Lord knows," returned the fisherman. " An* the 
 Lord bless 'em wherever they go; for they behaved well to 
 us, any way. There was some great news in that letter I 
 brought from Waterford yesterday, but when my wife made 
 the same remark they said nothin'." 
 
 The pound-note was enclosed in the letter which Edmund 
 now held in his hand. But there was no signature, no clue 
 by which he could hope to trace them; only the words: 
 " Many, many thanks but we do not now require it. May 
 God bless you for your kindness. We shall never forget it." 
 
 "And so ends my dream !" thought Edmund. " But 
 something tells me I shall meet her again. She thinks 
 Arthur is already a priest; it may be better for his peace of 
 mind not to be told of that sketch. It was a wonderfully 
 true likeness. I wonder has she made a sketch of me ? Did 
 you remark that girl with the old flute-player yesterday?" 
 he asked aloud as he came up with Arthur, who seemed to 
 have his own fancies at the moment. 
 
 " She was very beautiful," he replied absently. 
 
 " Beauty ' like the night'," rejoined Edmund. 
 
 "No," said Arthur, looking surprised. "She w-is singu- 
 larly fair; and her eyes were blue." 
 
 " There must have been something the matter with your 
 eyes," returned Edmund. " I never saw such a pair of black 
 eyes in all my life." 
 
 "Oh, you mean the girl that seemed to be his daughter?" 
 
 "Of course I do. Did you ever see such eyes?"
 
 OR, THE HOMES OP TIPPERARY. 425 
 
 " "Well, yes. They reminded me of my cousin Annie, of 
 whom we were talking the other evening." 
 
 " Then, by all means keep out of their way if you would 
 not endanger your vocation," said Edmund, laughing. 
 
 Arthur O'Connor looked grave, and made no reply. He 
 knew he had no vocation for the church. But he thought 
 of his mother, and resolved to strive and pray for it. 
 
 " This place is infernally dull, after all," yawned Edmund 
 Kiely. " I 'm tired of it already." 
 
 One gloomy day in the following winter, Arthur was 
 
 " pounding " for the examinations, in his room in 
 
 College, when Father Carroll was announced. 
 
 " Come over to the Ursuline Convent with me," said he 
 after shaking hands with the student. " I 'm going to see 
 Sister Clare." 
 
 Sister Clare received her reverend brother and his friend 
 with bright smiles of welcome, and after innumerable in- 
 quiries about friends at home and abroad, she exclaimed in 
 reply to a question of Father Carroll's " Oh, I '11 bring her 
 down to you," and left the room. 
 
 Arthur was so occupied examining a painting of the Virgin, 
 copied, Sister Clare had just told him, by one of the nuns 
 from an original of one of the old masters which a gentleman 
 in the neighbourhood had lent to them, that he was .not 
 aware of Sister Clare's return to the room till he heard 
 Father Carroll say 
 
 " She is keeping up the beauty, I see." 
 
 " Oh, she '11 be quite spoiled," returned the nun. " Every 
 one talks of her beauty." 
 
 Arthur turned round ; and if the picture he had been 
 examining had moved its lips or its eyes, his look could 
 scarcely have expressed greater astonishment. Yet there 
 was nothing in the least miraculous to excite his wonder. 
 
 " Don't you know Arthur O'Connor?" Father Carroll asked. 
 
 " No," was the low, hesitating reply. 
 
 "What is it all about? "exclaimed Father Carroll. "Ye 
 both look as if ye had seen a ghost. This is my cousin, Miss 
 Kearney; so don't be afraid." 
 
 "I saw Miss Kearney once before," returned Arthur; 
 " but I did not know who she was." 
 
 " I remember," said Mary, with a smile and a blush. 
 
 2B
 
 426 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 " Where was it?" Father Carroll asked. 
 
 " In Tramore," Mary answered. 
 
 "Would you like to hear her play?" said Sister Clare. 
 
 " Do give us a tune, Mary?" said Father Carroll. " Though- 
 I don't know 1 11 care much for your music after Flaherty. 
 He was at Major French's a few weeks ago, and did me the- 
 honour of coming over for an hour or two occasionally but 
 it was in compliment to your mother and her uncle Dan, 
 who, next to Sir Garrett Butler, he says, was the best friend 
 ever he had." 
 
 Mary went to the piano, and after a little hesitation anc! 
 embarrassment commenced an Irish melody, and played it 
 with such feeling that Father Carroll exclaimed " You 
 really play very well, Mary. And one would think you- 
 wanted to rival Flaherty. That is his favourite tune ; and' 
 you play it in his manner. Did you ever hear him?" 
 
 " No, I never heard Mr. Flaherty play, though I often? 
 wished to hear him," Mary replied. 
 
 " She ought to play that air well," Sister Clare observed, 
 " for she is continually practising it. Edmund Kiely was- 
 here lately, and he would not let her play anything but the 
 1 Coulin,' the ' Coulin,' over and over. 
 
 " Ha I is that the way the wind blows ?" said Father 
 Carroll. 
 
 Mary bent her head and laughed, but made no reply. 
 
 After this Arthur O'Connor and Mary Kearney became 
 great friends. He spent a week at Christmas at Ballinaclash ; 
 and two weeks in the summer besides meeting her at the 
 seaside. Oh, those seaside musings and communings ! But 
 then Arthur's mother openly accused Mary of trying to lure 
 her son from the high and holy path he had entered upon ;. 
 an accusation which so pained and shocked the gentle girl 
 that she insisted upon breaking off all further intercourse 
 with him. Her brother Hugh approved of her resolution, 
 and even Arthur himself admitted that she was right. He- 
 pursued his studies industriously, and was among the students- 
 of College chosen to be sent to Maynooth at the exami- 
 nations which took place a week or two before Sir Garrett 
 Butler's nephew did Maurice Kearney the honour of becom- 
 ing his guest. Arthur, however, preferred the Irish College- 
 at Paris to Maynooth, and was on his way to spend a day or
 
 OR, THE HOMES OP TIPPERARY. 
 
 t\vo with Father CaiToll before leaving Ireland, when he 
 chanced to sec Barney Brodherick and his black donkey in 
 the main street of Kilthubber. There was some delay about 
 the car he had ordered; and, as he would have to pass by 
 the cottage on his way to Father Carroll's, the wish to see 
 Mary Kearney once more, and bid her good-bye, became 
 so strong, that he wrote a hasty line, asking her to be at the 
 little window in the ivied gable to shake hands with him. 
 If she had no objection, he said, he would like to see her 
 father and mother, and all of them, before he left. But, if 
 she feared whispering tongues might be busy if he called in 
 the usual way, he would be satisfied with a good-bye front 
 the garden. He gave the note to Barney, who thrust it into 
 his hat, and, as a matter of course, forgot to deliver it till 
 Mary's question, the evening after, reminded him of it, when 
 she was wondering whose could be those mysterious footprints 
 in the snow from under her window to the stile behind the 
 laurels. 
 
 "And now he is gone !" said Mary, after reading the note. 
 Yes, he was gone ; and in by no means a happy frame of 
 mind. 
 
 And now the reader knows more of the tracks in the snow 
 than Mr. Henry Lowe ; to whom we will return, just to see 
 him safe out of Tipperary ; that is, so far as his bones are 
 concerned. But we do not by any means vouch for th 
 wholeness of the young gentleman's heart. 
 
 CHAPTER LII. 
 
 THE BULL-BAIT. THE CARRICK-MAN AND HIS DOG " TRUEBOY." 
 LORY PUNISHES BERESFORD PENDER, AND RIDES HOME BEHIND 
 MR. BOB LLOYD, ON THE GREY HUNTER. MISS LLOYD INVOLUN- 
 TARILY SITS DOWN. 
 
 MR. HENRY LOWE is pacing slowly and thoughtfully up and 
 down the box-bordered walk in the little garden at the -end 
 of the cottage. He stops occasionally to gaze upon the blue 
 mountains; and once or twice he stood upon the stile behind 
 the laurels, and looked along the road towards the hamlet
 
 428 KNOCKNAQOW ; 
 
 But, whether gazing at the mountain, or looking along the 
 road, or pacing the box-bordered walk, Mr. Henry Lowe's 
 mind's eye is ever turned to the little window in the ivied 
 gable. As the day of his departure drew nearer and nearer, 
 he had been watching for an opportunity to speak to Mary 
 Kearney alone. But, whether it happened by accident or 
 design, he never could find the opportunity he sought. She 
 was always accompanied by Grace or Ellie; and once or 
 twice, when he met her by herself, she found some excuse 
 for going away before he could screw his courage to the 
 sticking point. There was nothing to hinder him from say- 
 ing at once and in plain words that he wished to have a 
 minute's private conversation with her; but he couldn't 
 make up his mind to take what he considered so decided a 
 step. He wished to feel his way a little, and would prefer 
 a casual meeting. But the fates seemed to be against him. 
 He had observed that Mary was in the habit of walking alone 
 in the garden about this hour every day; but until this 
 morning the doctor or Hugh was always with him at the 
 time, and he could find no excuse for leaving them. 
 
 " Now," he thought looking at his watch and finding that 
 it was past the hour when she was accustomed to take her 
 walk " now if she does not come out as usual, I must con- 
 clude she is purposely avoiding me." The thought at first 
 gave him a twinge of pain; but on reflection he said to him- 
 self that, if she were indifferent about him, she would not 
 keep out of his way at all. He found consolation in this 
 last-mentioned reflection, and continued his walk and his 
 reverie. He thought that, if he were a man of property, he 
 would, beyond all doubt, marry the beautiful daughter of his 
 uncle's principal tenant, or that if he had not given up his 
 intention of becoming a clergyman and if Miss Kearney's 
 religion were not an awkward stumbling-block in the way 
 what a happy quiet life he could live with her in some snug 
 parsonage upon as many hundred pounds a year as he could 
 get ! But as both the property and the parsonage were out 
 of the question, he could see nothing better, that was at all 
 practicable under present circumstances, than a very senti- 
 mental love affair, involving voluminous correspondence, with 
 a dim vista of something turning up in the distant future, 
 that might prove a substitute for the property which he
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 429 
 
 had not, or the parsonage which it was now too late to think 
 of. His reveries were interrupted by the opening of the 
 garden gate, and Mr. Lowe looked up quickly ; but it was 
 not Mary, but her young brother, Willie, bearing the accom- 
 plished jay in its wicker cage in his arms, followed by Ellie 
 with her goldfinch. The day was sufficiently soft and sunny 
 to suggest to Ellie that both the goldfinch and the jay would 
 like a little fresh air and sunshine. Grace was just then 
 practising a new song, and Ellie knew it would be useless 
 asking her to trouble herself even about her own jay " My 
 dear ! " and Willie's services were engaged. He laid the 
 wicker cage on a rustic seat near the laurels, while Ellie 
 climbed upon the back of the seat to hang her little green 
 cage upon a nail which she had driven into the trunk of an 
 ash tree, sufficiently high, as she thought, to save her bird 
 from the old grey cat, who sometimes came prowling about 
 that way. Tommy Lahy had offered to catch the old grey 
 cat and rub his nose against the wires till it bled freely, by 
 way of warning; but this Ellie positively objected to, as 
 there was no overt act to prove that the old grey cat enter- 
 tained any felonious intentions whatever against her gold- 
 finch. 
 
 At first Mr. Lowe felt annoyed when he saw they intended 
 making an indefinite stay in the garden; but then it occurred 
 to him their presence would not interfere with his conversation 
 with their sister, but, on the contrary, would make her feel 
 more at ease. So he looked at his watch again, and took 
 another turn up and down the walk. And now those tanta- 
 lising tracks in the snow came into his head for the thou- 
 sandth time. What could they mean ? The idea that there 
 was a " lord of the valley," who came with " false vows," as 
 Grace suggested, was, he thought, utterly preposterous. Yet 
 it was not quite so clear that there might not be some one 
 who was not a lord of a valley and whose vows were not false 
 vows. He could not, however, look upon any of the youg 
 men whom from time to time he had seen trying to make 
 themselves agreeable and to all of whom she was equally 
 gracious as likely to prove a very dangerous rival. Not 
 one ; not even the stylish young man in top-boots, with the 
 horse-shoe pin in his scarf, who so astonished him by touch- 
 ing his hat and addressing him as "your honour." It scarcely
 
 430 KXOCKNAGOW; 
 
 amounted to coxcombry in Mr. Lowe to feel pretty well satis- 
 fied that he himself held a high place in Miss Kearney's 
 esteem, and that in fact if any one held a higher, it was her 
 brother Hugh. He wondered at her taste in regard to Hugh ; 
 but of course he was not going to be jealous of her brother. 
 Yet a brother may sometimes prove a more formidable rival 
 than lovers dream of; particularly when the world in general 
 is so stupid as not to recognise his super-excellent qualities 
 which happened to be the case in this instance. She was 
 angry with her lady acquaintances that they did not fall 
 down and worship him. And it must be admitted she was 
 sometimes angry with Hugh for not being as enthusiastic 
 as he ought to be about one or two dear friends of hers, 
 who, she thought, had the good taste to appreciate him. 
 There was one in particular with whom she was sure he 
 ought to have fallen in love. On one occasion this young 
 lady, when presenting Mary with a bunch of flowers, ran to 
 the end of the lawn for a little sprig of hawthorn and secured 
 it in the nosegay ; a rather odd proceeding, seeing that both 
 sides of the road nearly all the way from the residence of 
 the young lady to Ballinaclash were white with hawthorn 
 blossoms. But the mystery was cleared up in the most satis- 
 factory manner when she whispered into Mary's ear that the 
 hawthorn was for Hugh; for all the world except Hugh 
 himself knew that hawthorn blossom was " emblematic of 
 hope." Hugh, however, took the blossom with a smile; and 
 Mary said gravely, " She was in earnest." To which Hugh 
 just as gravely replied, " Of course." Whereupon Mary 
 became indignant, and told him she did not know " what to 
 make of him," and that no one could know " what was in his 
 mind;" and that she did not see why people should be 
 14 bothering their heads about him," with more to the same 
 effect. 
 
 Nevertheless Mr. Lowe was not far wrong in suspecting 
 that Miss Kearney made her eldest brother the standard by 
 which she measured other men. 
 
 He was glancing again at the window when his olfactory 
 nerves detected the odour of the fragrant weed, and on look- 
 ing towards the gate he saw the doctor leisurely approaching 
 with his hands in his pockets. 
 
 "What a fine day it is for this season!" the doctor ob-
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 431 
 
 served, waving away a little blue cloud that almost stood 
 still before his face, and then stopping to admire his hand, 
 which was sufficiently white and slender. " By Jove, there 
 is quite a glow in the air." 
 
 Mr. Lowe replied with a sigh ; for he saw all hope of the 
 looked-for interview was gone for that day at least. And, 
 what was particularly irritating, Mary made her appearance 
 at the same moment, and with that smile of hers, which 
 more than anything else about her tended to turn his head, 
 said 
 
 " What a lovely day this is, Mr. Lowe ! I wish you could 
 see the country about here in the summer. Eu the moun- 
 tains at least are beautiful at all seasons." 
 
 " Very," he replied, somewhat sulkily. 
 
 "I hope you enjoyed the evening at Woodlands?" she 
 asked. 
 
 " Well, not much." 
 
 " Because you had not the ladies, I suppose." 
 
 " Xo, not exactly that. But the conversation was not 
 interesting. It was all about landlords and tenants, and 
 leases and ejectments, and that sort of thing. The party 
 seemed got up specially to discuss such matters. I expected 
 something rollicking, but it was nothing of the kind." 
 
 " Had you Mr. Lloyd there?" 
 
 " No, but his name was introduced several times. He was 
 strongly condemned for the way he manages his property. 
 He gives leases, and has no objection to small farms ; and is, 
 it would appear, in bad odour on that account. It seems 
 they all feel bound to abide by a resolution adopted at some 
 meeting of landlords a long time ago not to renew leases 
 when they expire. Mr. Somerfield thinks the more inde- 
 pendent the tenantry become, the harder it will be to manage 
 them. He says Mr. Lloyd's tenants don't care a rush for 
 him, as they have all long leases at a low rent." 
 
 " Oh, if all landlords were like Mr. Somerfield," returned 
 Mary, " Ireland would soon be a desert. There is not even 
 one house now left on his whole property." 
 
 " Yes," her brother observed, " and you can count the 
 number of houses he has levelled if you have any curiosity 
 about it; for he has left a gable of each standing as a 
 monument of all the good he has done. But of course you
 
 432 KNOCKNAQOW ; 
 
 know I allude to Sam; for the old fellow had nothing to do 
 with it. On the contrary, I'm told it grieved him to see his 
 old tenants hunted away. Hugh tells me, too, it was a dead 
 loss to him, and that they are head and ears in debt, stocking 
 the land was so expensive." 
 
 " I 'm heartily sick of the whole subject since last night," 
 returned Mr. Lowe. " I think much of what they said was 
 meant specially for me. But the more I hear about the 
 relations between landlord and tenant, the more I am 
 bewildered." 
 
 Mr. Lowe did feel bewildered at the moment; for Mary's 
 blue eyes would bewilder a sage, as she watched her young 
 sister chasing the old grey cat, who had come slyly prowling 
 about her goldfinch. 
 
 " There 's something up," the doctor exclaimed, on observ- 
 ing Phil Lahy and half-a-dozen others crossing the lawn by 
 the short-cut from Knocknagow to the cross of Rosdrum. 
 
 " Perhaps they are going to a funeral," said Mary. " They 
 always go to funerals in that direction by the short-cut. 
 
 "Judging from their looks and the hurry they are in," 
 returned the doctor, "it must be something more exciting 
 than a funeral." 
 
 He stood upon the rustic seat in order to have a better 
 view, and saw a man with a dog at his heels, accompanied 
 by two boys who were making desperate efforts to take suffi- 
 ciently long strides to keep up with him, but were obliged 
 to get into a sling trot every now and then, so rapid was the 
 pace at which he swept along, with his hat so far back on his 
 poll that it seemed as nearly at a right angle as if it were 
 hanging against a wall. The boys managed to get a little in 
 advance of him occasionally, and looked up in his face, evi- 
 dently reverencing him as an oracle, and wishing to observe 
 the expression of his countenance, which was very red and 
 excited, while he uttered his words of wisdom, all the time 
 keeping his eyes steadily fixed on the hill over Rosdrum, 
 straight before him. 
 
 " He is a stranger to me," said the doctor. " And these 
 two young scamps with him do not belong to this neighbour- 
 hood either, I think." 
 
 " I never saw any of them before," returned Mary. "And 
 there is Barney off after them," she added, " leaving the ass
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 433 
 
 in the middle of the lawn to go wherever he pleases. I 
 
 wonder " Here Mary uttered a cry of terror, and grasped 
 
 Mr. Lowe by the arm; which so astonished the young gentle- 
 man that the agreeable sensations the proceeding was calcu- 
 lated to awaken were quite lost. The cause of her alarm 
 was nothing more nor less than Wat Murphy's bull-dog, who 
 stood wagging his tail, and holding up his muzzled snout as 
 he looked into her face, evidently doing his best to be as 
 amiable and fascinating as possible, but, like some others of 
 her admirers, with only indifferent success. 
 
 "Morrow, Wat," said Maurice Kearney, who, stick in hand, 
 was standing near the half-dozen small cocks into which the 
 fallen remnant of the hay-rick had been hastily converted in 
 order to save it from the weather. 
 
 " Five pounds," was the butcher's reply to the saluta- 
 tion. 
 
 " I won't give it to you to-day," returned Maurice Kearney 
 brusquely. 
 
 " To buy the bull," Wat added ; and then whistled to his 
 dog. 
 
 Maurice Kearney rubbed his poll contemplatively for a 
 moment, and then walked leisurely into the house to procure 
 the money. 
 
 " Richard, Richard !" exclaimed Mrs. Kearney, hurrying 
 into the garden in a state of distraction. " There is the ass 
 running off, and he '11 be sure to run down into that pit, and 
 all the things will be in pieces the wine and all. Oh, 
 what 'a to become of me with that fellow ? I suppose that 
 man with the dog must be a ballad-singer, and there he 's off 
 after him." 
 
 The doctor jumped from the rustic seat over the hedge, 
 and set off across the lawn at the top of his speed in pursuit. 
 Coming up with the runaway donkey before he reached the 
 pit, the doctor seized the little blue cart behind, and com- 
 menced pulling it back with all his might. But Bobby 
 trotted on, quite regardless of his efforts. The doctor palled 
 and pulled till the struggle became quite exciting. But, 
 just as he reached the brink of the pit, and as Mrs. Kearney 
 raised her hands in despair, Bobby, without giving the 
 slightest notice of his intention, stood stock still, and the 
 doctor sat down much in the same manner as he had done
 
 434 KNOCKKAGOW ; 
 
 upon the ice on Bob Lloyd's pond, with his legs stretched out 
 under the donkey-cart, his nose touching the tail-board, and 
 his heels almost in contact with the donkey's. After reflect- 
 ing for a moment, he found it was necessary to lie upon his 
 back and turn himself over before he could get up; a 
 manoeuvre which he executed with great precipitation ; for it 
 occurred to him that Bobby might take a fancy to set back, 
 and trample upon him. 
 
 "Come on, sir," said the doctor, catching the donkey's 
 winkers, and pulling him on. 
 
 But Bobby never stirred a foot. 
 
 He called him " poor fellow," and patted him on the neck, 
 and, putting his closed hand to his mouth, blew an imaginary 
 horn, as Barney was wont to do when he would encourage 
 Bobby to put forth all his speed. 
 
 But Bobby refused to budge. 
 
 Losing all patience, Richard looked round for a stick 
 wherewith to punish the aggravating little brute, when 
 another expedient occurred to him. Seizing the reins, he 
 got up and sat upon the front of the cart with a foot on each 
 shaft. Scarcely had he fixed himself comfortably in this 
 position when Bobby bounded forward at a gallop, flinging 
 the doctor on his back in the cart with his legs in the air. 
 Baskets, and parcels, and bottles began bumping and tum- 
 bling about his head in a most bewildering manner; for Bobby 
 had taken a sweep round to a part of the field where there 
 were a number of open drains, and, after clearing them all in 
 excellent style, ran straight for the hall door, where he again 
 stopped short, looking as meek as a lamb. 
 
 "0 Richard," cried his mother, "are you killed?" 
 
 The doctor tumbled himself out of the cart, and looked 
 wildly about him. 
 
 "Are you killed, Richard?" Mrs. Kearney asked again. 
 
 The doctor stared at his mother with a look of the most 
 profound astonishment; and then stared at Bobby; and then 
 at the hall door, and the windows, aud up at the chimneys, 
 and all around him. Then he fixed his eyes on the ground, 
 and seemed plunged in some mental effort that taxed his 
 powers of thought to the utmost. It was evident that the 
 little misadventure had proved confusing in a very high 
 degree to his faculties which was not at all surprising, as
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERAUY. 435 
 
 the clearing of the last drain had brought a bottle of port 
 wine out of the hamper straight upon his forehead and 
 that, on the whole, he was not quite sure of his whereabouts 
 or how he happened to get there. 
 
 " Are you hurt, Kichard?" his mother asked again, laying 
 her hand upon his arm. 
 
 "Blazes! "muttered the doctor, clapping his hand against 
 his forehead. 
 
 What blazes had to do with the matter, or whether he 
 thought " blazes" a rational and suitable reply to his mother's 
 anxious and oft-repeated inquiry, is more than we can ven- 
 ture to say. But "blazes" was the only word uttered by 
 the doctor up to this stage of the proceeding. 
 
 Mr. Lowe took the doctor's hat from among the straw in 
 the donkey-cart and presented it to the owner, who accepted 
 it in silence, and honoured Mr. Lowe with a stare of surprise, 
 as if he had not the least idea Avho that gentleman was. 
 
 " Morrow, Dick," said Mr. Bob Lloyd, who had turned the 
 corner of the house, mounted on his grey horse, unobserved 
 except by Grace, who was sitting at the drawingroom win- 
 dow, and whom he had already honoured with a few admiring 
 glances. 
 
 " Good morrow," returned the doctor, who seemed to be 
 slowly recovering his senses. 
 
 " Are you coming to the bull-bait?" Mr. Lloyd asked. 
 "What do you say 1 ?" said the doctor turning to Mr. Lowe. 
 " Well, I 'd like to see what it is like," he replied. 
 " So would I," returned the doctor, somewhat sulkily. 
 " But unfortunately the horses are all ploughing to-day, and 
 I don't see how we can manage." 
 
 " 'Tis only a pleasant walk by the short-cut," rejoined Bob 
 Lloyd. 
 
 " Are you going the short-cut 1" Mr. Lowe asked. 
 " Ay, faith," replied Mr. Lloyd, smiling at Grace in the 
 window. " But, Dick, what the devil fancy did you take to 
 lying on your back in the cart with your legs stuck out ? I 
 thought you were a plough with a breeches on it.** 
 
 " Come and let us get ready," said the doctor, darting an 
 angry glance at Grace, whose ringing laugh called his attention 
 to her. 
 
 " Positively, Grace," said Mary, half-an-hour after the gen-
 
 436 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 tlcmen had left, " you have made a conquest of Mr. Lloyd. 
 He never took his eyes off you all the time." 
 
 "Yes, I remarked him," returned Grace, with her wise 
 look. " He is much more intelligent-looking than I thought. 
 And that idea of comparing Richard's legs to a plough was 
 really good." 
 
 " And then he is a man of property," returned Mary, with 
 a smile. 
 
 " That fact is by no means to be lost sight of," rejoined 
 Grace, " whatever you innocently romantic people may say. 
 But surely," she added Avith a look of surprise, " those are 
 Lory's legs careering at such a tremendous rate across that 
 field; but what, in the name of wonder, is that on his 
 head?" 
 
 "It is a straw hat," replied Mary, seeing the article in 
 question blown from Lory's head as he was about jumping 
 from the top of the " new ditch." 
 
 " Yes, I see how it is," Grace observed. " Rose has locked 
 up his cap to keep him from going to the bull-bait; and 
 Lory has taken Joe Russel's huge straw hat, and broken 
 loose from his captor. That boy's energy is wonderful; aud 
 I have no doubt he will yet distinguish himself in some way. 
 But Rose does rule him with a rod of iron. And yet the 
 trouble she takes brushing his hair, in the vain hope of keep- 
 ing it from sticking out like the quills of a porcupine, cannot 
 be too much admired. But I decidedly disapprove of the big 
 bow-knot into which she insists on tying his cravat. 
 
 " There is the hat off again," said Mary. 
 
 " By the way," rejoined Grace, " did I tell you of the little 
 drama I had the pleasure of witnessing the other day when 
 I drove to town with Rose, on account of that same hat?" 
 
 " No, you did not tell me." 
 
 " Well, Joe Russel was our coachman, and the big straw- 
 hat, however becoming on the driver of a cart or dray, was 
 not in keeping with the phaeton. But, however, while Rose 
 was in at Quinlan's getting some note-paper, a youth on the 
 pavement asked Joe what would he take ' for the fur of his 
 hat.' 'Will you hould the reins for wan minute, Miss?' 
 says Joe. Of course I could not refuse, particularly as the 
 request was made in a tone of the blandest politeness. Well, 
 Joe got down, and, walking over to the inquisitive youth,
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 437 
 
 commenced pummelling him in the most awf al manner. He 
 struck back vigorously, however, and there was a tremendous 
 fight, till Mat Donovan happened to be passing and put them 
 asunder. Joe came back and resumed the reins, evidently 
 quite satisfied in his mind, notwithstanding that his left eye 
 was shut up. I saw the inquisitive youth after at the pump 
 trying to stop his nose from bleeding; and he certainly looked 
 as if he had made up his mind not to trouble himself again 
 about the value of the fur of Joe Kussel's straw hat." 
 
 On went Lory " as the crow flies," clearing everything in 
 his way till he came to Mr. Beresford Fender's gate at the 
 three poplars, which was secured by a broken gig wheel that 
 leant against it. 
 
 " Go back out of that," shouted Mr. Fender from the big 
 window that so astonished Barney Brodherick the day of his 
 visit to that interesting concern. " Don't dare to climb over 
 that gate." 
 
 " I passed through a good many places in my time," 
 returned Lory, as he deliberately climbed to the top of the 
 gate, " and this is the first time I was ever told to go back." 
 " You may pass through farmers' places," rejoined Mr. 
 Beresford Fender in his big voice, " but this is a gentleman's 
 demesne." 
 
 " A gentleman's fiddle-stick," replied Lory, pulling Joe 
 Eussel's straw-hat tightly over his ears having first hit upon 
 the ingenious contrivance of bending the leaf back in front 
 into the inside to keep the hat from flying off, thereby giving 
 it the appearance of a bonnet put on the wrong way, to which 
 we have before likened it. 
 
 " I '11 summon you before the bench," roared Beresford. 
 " Summon your grandmother," retorted Lory, jumping off 
 the gate and resuming his race. 
 
 This was quite a random shot of Lory's, but it put Mr. 
 Fender into a fury; for the venerable lady alluded to had 
 really been brought before " the bench" for making free with 
 certain articles of wearing apparel, drying on a hedge, which 
 did not belong to her. This was a mere tradition, however, 
 only remembered by Poll the housekeeper and a few others; 
 but it had been thrown in Beresford's face once or twice, and 
 he now swore he would " make Hanly pay for his insolence." 
 Lory dashed on, however, caring little for Mr. Beresford
 
 438 KNOCKS AGOW ; 
 
 Fender's threatened vengeance, till lie came to the narrow 
 boreen leading to Ned Brophy's house. 
 
 " Morrow, Ned," cried Lory, seeing him fencing a gap at 
 some distance. But, to his astonishment, instead of return- 
 ing his salutation in his usual friendly way, Ned flung the 
 spade out of his hand, and ran as if it were for his life, never 
 once glancing behind him. 
 
 " He thinks I 'm a process-server," said Lory to himself. 
 " Or," he added, with his sepulchral laugh, pulling off his hat 
 and holding it at arms' length before him, " maybe 'tis Joe 
 Russel's hat that frightened him." He walked through the 
 yard, intending to follow Ned into the house, and assure him 
 that he had nothing to fear, when he encountered Mrs. Ned 
 at the door. 
 
 " I want to ask Ned to show me where the bull-bait is," 
 said Lory, with another laugh at what he supposed Ned's- 
 mistake as to his identity, or his intentions. 
 
 " Ned knows nothin' about id," returned Mrs. Ned, stand- 
 ing in the middle of the doorway, and with a look that made 
 Lory think she, too, must have formed some erroneous idea 
 about him. " They 're over beyand the sallies, I b'lieve," 
 Mrs. Ned added. 
 
 The fact was, that, since his marriage, Ned Brophy ran and 
 hid himself from every acquaintance who happened to come 
 near the house. For his wife declared that the business of 
 all visitors was solely and simply " to fill their craw," as she 
 expressed it. And Ned, seeing her "so bitter" on his friends, 
 felt so ashamed that he thought it best to shun them alto- 
 gether. He tried to console himself with the reflection that, 
 at least, he'd soon have an old saucepan half filled with 
 golden sovereigns, Mrs. Ned was such a " fine housekeeper." 
 But he sometimes thought, not of golden sovereigns, but of.' 
 Nancy Hogan's golden hair, and sighed. 
 
 Lory looked at Mrs. Ned Brophy with unfeigned surprise,, 
 and set off for the nearest house which happened to be- 
 old Paddy Laughlan's to seek the information he required. 
 
 Paddy Laughlan's blooming daughter not only told him 
 where the bull-bait was, but Avalked to the end of her father's 
 farm with him, in spite of his protestations that her doing 
 so was quite unnecessary, and that he could not allow her to- 
 go to so much trouble on his account.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 439 
 
 " You see that little boy on the tree," said Miss Laughlan. 
 "They are in the hollow just under him." But though 
 pointing with her hand to the boy on the tree, Miss Laughlan 
 kept her eyes fixed very earnestly upon a small farm-house 
 on her left. 
 
 " Thank you," said Lory, starting off again. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir," said Miss Laughlan. 
 
 Lory stopped. 
 
 But Miss Langhlan only blushed and hesitated. 
 
 " I thought you spoke to me," said he. And it occurred 
 to him at the moment that she was by far a handsomer girl 
 than he had thought there was such a light in her eyes ! 
 
 " If you 'd bring a message for me to that house to Tom 
 Cuddehy," said Miss Laughlan, "I'd be very thankful to- 
 you." 
 
 " Of course I will," replied Lory. " I know Tom Cud- 
 dehy well. He 's the best hurler in the county, except Mat 
 Donovan." 
 
 " Well, will you tell him I am waiting here, and that I 
 want to speak to him just for one minute," returned Miss 
 Laughlan, falteringly. And Lory fancied her eyes filled with 
 tears. 
 
 " Certainly I will," he replied. " Why not ?" 
 
 This was the "message" Lory took so long to deliver 
 when we left him in Tom Cuddehy's kitchen when, some 
 chapters back, we thought it necessary to interrupt the 
 regular course of this history, in order to guard against the- 
 possibility of disturbing the equanimity of our readers here- 
 after by anything that might bear even the faintest resemblance 
 to a surprise. 
 
 " Good morning," said Lory, " I 'm going to the bull-bait." 
 
 "I promised to go myself," returned Tom Cuddehy, "to 
 thry the little bitch, for I think she has the right dhrop in 
 her. Wait for a few minutes an' I'll be with you." 
 
 After exchanging a few words with his old sweetheart 
 through the hedge, he returned to Lory, who was rapidly 
 getting into the good graces of Venom, looking very solemn,, 
 and indisposed for conversation. 
 
 Miss Laughlan, it may be remarked, returned home, look- 
 ing very serious, too the young man from the mountain. 
 and his fine slate-house and jaunting-car notwithstanding
 
 440 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 and looking at one of her hands which was bleeding. For 
 during the few minutes' tete-a-tete with Tom Cuddehy, Miss 
 Laughlan made such violent attempts to break off a sprig of 
 blackthorn from the hedge, as if she mistook it for a bunch 
 of thyme or the sparemint under her window in the garden, 
 that when she looked at her hand she found several deep 
 scratches upon it. Ladies under such circumstances should 
 keep clear of thorn hedges. 
 
 Two or three dogs had been conquered and driven from 
 the lists by the bull, when Tom and Lory arrived ; and the 
 man with the hat back on his poll was leading his dog to the 
 encounter in a state of intense excitement, which was fully 
 shared by the two boys. 
 
 " Come, Trueboy !" said the man with the hat on his poll. 
 
 "Come, Trueboy !" shouted boy No. 1. 
 
 " Come, Trueboy," bawled boy No. 2. 
 
 And boys One and Two danced wildly about Trueboy, who 
 was a lank, long-legged animal, and seemed greatly at a loss 
 to guess what it was all about. 
 
 " Soho ! Trueboy," said his owner softly, patting him on 
 the head. 
 
 "Soho! Trueboy," repeated boy No. 1. 
 
 " Soho ! Trueboy," echoed boy No. 2. 
 
 And both boys patted Trueboy on the head. 
 
 But the cry, " Here is Tom Cuddehy," caused Trueboy's 
 proprietor to start and look round with an expression of 
 intense dismay and disappointment. He had been told that 
 Tom Cuddehy's bitch should be let at the bull before his dog, 
 and great was his anxiety lest the bull should be worn out 
 before Trueboy had an opportunity of exhibiting his prowess. 
 Great was his joy, then, when some one announced that Tom 
 Cuddehy would not put in an appearance at all ; and now 
 proportionally intense was his disappointment and anguish of 
 spirit when on looking round he beheld Tom Cuddehy and 
 his white bitch, Venom, on the bank above him, just at the 
 foot of the tree upon a branch of which Tommy Lahy was 
 swaying up and down with a gentle motion, and quietly 
 trying to extract a thorn from his big toe with a pin. 
 
 The bull was tied by a rope round his neck in the centre 
 of a large hollow or pit, which answered the purposes of an 
 amphitheatre veiy well; the crowd. Avhich was select, but not
 
 OR, THE HOMBS OP TIPPERARY. 441 
 
 numerous, standing round the sloping sides. He was not at 
 all a lordly bull to look at ; but a small, red, rough-coated, 
 hardy, sturdy, good-tempered animal in fact, what might 
 be called a peasant bull. He was very much at his ease, and 
 not at all excited, having made short work of his three or four 
 assailants as Wat Murphy prophesied he would ; for not 
 one of them, Wat averred, " knew that a bull had a nose on 
 his face," or, knowing it, had the slightest idea of what that 
 nose was intended for. 
 
 Trueboy's owner and master looked at Tom Cuddehy's 
 bitch, and was struck speechless with despair ; for Venom, 
 though not large, was broad in the chest, and had a lurking 
 devil in her eye, that made it plain to the most ignorant that 
 she was a tough customer. 
 
 Recovering himself, however, by an effort, he approached 
 Tom Cuddehy, and implored of him, as a "decent man" and 
 a man of spirit, to let his dog go in first, dwelling upon the 
 fact that he had walked fifteen miles that day, and would 
 have to walk the same distance back again ; that it was the 
 first time he had the honour and the pleasure of coming 
 amongst them, though he had long known them by reputation ; 
 that his, Tom Cuddehy's, name was a household word far 
 and near; that "Venom" was a beauty all out, and won his 
 heart the moment he set eyes on her; that she was " under- 
 shod" in a manner that would make a Turk warm to her; 
 and, above all, that he, the petitioner, was " a Carrick-man," 
 and 'twas an old and well-known saying that " wherever you 
 go, you'll meet a Carrick-raan ;" and that he, tlie Carrick-man, 
 might have it in his power to do as much for Tom Cuddehy 
 another time. 
 
 " Very well," says Tom Cuddehy, with an indifference that 
 astonished his friends ; " have at him." 
 
 "Sound man !" shouted the Carrick-man. 
 
 " Sound man !" exclaimed boy No. 1. 
 
 "Sound man!" repeated boy No. 2. And Trueboy was 
 again seized by all three and pulled into the ring. 
 
 " Good dog, Trueboy," says the Carrick-man. " Grapple 
 him." 
 
 " Good dog, Trueboy ; grapple him," muttered the two 
 boys under their teeth. 
 
 Thus encouraged, Trueboy leaped into the ring, and ran 
 
 2p
 
 442 KNOCKNAGOW; 
 
 all round the bull, who remained quite calm and still, pre- 
 tending not to see him. 
 
 " Grapple him, Trueboy !" cried the Carrick-man, dropping 
 upon one knee, as if he were going to take aim with a rifle 
 at the bull's eye. 
 
 " Grapple him, Trueboy !" repeated the two boys, dropping 
 upon their knees, too, like sharpshooters waiting the order to 
 fire. 
 
 There was a moment of breathless silence, and Trueboy 
 looked about him in all directions, evidently at a loss, and 
 having no idea of what he was expected to "grapple." 
 
 " Grapple him, Trueboy !" repeated the Carrick-man, 
 savagely. 
 
 Trueboy looked about him quite wildly now, but could not 
 make up his mind Avho or what the "him" was meant to 
 apply to ; till, glancing upwards, some object overhead caught 
 his attention, and Trueboy commenced barking furiously at it. 
 The eyes of the spectators were turned in the same direction, 
 and there was a loud roar of laughter when Tommy Lahy 
 was discovered in the tree, looking at first surprised and then 
 delighted at finding himself the object of their attention. 
 Tommy laughed down at the open mouths below him, and 
 for a moment the Carrick-man and his dog were forgotten. 
 
 But the Carrick-man rushed at Trueboy, and, seizing him 
 by the throat, knocked him down and stamped his foot upon 
 him. 
 
 Boy No. I then danced on Trueboy ; and boy No. 2 went 
 and did likewise. Then boy One struck boy Two with his 
 clenched fist in the right eye; and both boys were immediately 
 "in grips," and fought fiercely for five minutes to relieve 
 their feelings. 
 
 The Carrick-man pulled Trueboy into the ring again, and 
 hallooed him at the bull; but Trueboy again wheeled round 
 and barked furiously at Tommy Lahy in the tree. 
 
 " He don't undherstand," said the Carrick-man; "but wait 
 till I bring him close to his head, an' ye '11 see something." 
 
 He threw a leg over Trueboy, as if he were going to have 
 a ride, and seized him by the neck with both hands with a 
 view to wheeling him round, when the bull quietly advanced 
 to the end of his rope, and gave the Carrick-man a playful 
 touch of his horn under the coat-tails ; which so astonisheJ
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 443 
 
 the Carrick-man that he cleared Trueboy' s head at a bound 
 as if he were playing at frog-leaps with him, falling flat upon 
 li is face and hands some three yards beyond him. At this 
 Trueboy, as if conscious of his disgrace, rushed over his pros- 
 trate master and up the side of the pit, uttering a dismal howl, 
 and scampered off over ditches and hedges, as if a score of 
 old kettles were tied to his tail; and was never seen or heard 
 of afterwards save that a gaunt hound was sometimes 
 observed prowling among the rocks in the loneliest recesses 
 of the mountains, like the ghost of the last Irish wolf; and it 
 was conjectured by some that this unhappy auiinal was the 
 Carrick-man's dog, Trueboy. 
 
 The Carrick-man himself pulled his hat over his eyes, and 
 walked away without a word or a look to any one, followed 
 by the two boys wiping the bitter tears of vexation and dis- 
 appointment from their noses, and, it is to be feared, with 
 the seeds of scepticism and misanthropy sown in their young 
 bosoms. 
 
 Tom Cuddehy's "Venom" was next led into the arena. 
 We will spare the reader a detailed description of how she 
 acquitted herself. It was admitted on all hands that Venom 
 was "blood to the eyes;" but still she never once " took a 
 right hoult." And there was something so vicious and 
 viperish and spitfiry in her mode of attack, that when, at 
 last, she was carried away maimed and bleeding, no one was 
 sorry for her. 
 
 " Well, now," says Wat Murphy, "are ye all satisfied? Or 
 is there any wan else that wants to thry his dog] If there is, 
 say the word; for I'm in no hurry in life. Down, Danger!" 
 
 There WBS no one else to be accommodated; and Danger's 
 muzzle was taken off. 
 
 Danger walked slowly towards the bull, wagging his tail 
 and licking his lips, as if his intentions were quite amicable. 
 But the bull saw that he had a formidable foe before him 
 now, and with his head bent down and his eyes rolling- no 
 longer looking the mere plebeian animal he had seemed before, 
 but a real lordly bull prepared to receive him. 
 
 fiere again we shrink from attempting a minute description 
 of the exciting, but, we fear, revolting encounter between 
 "Danger" and the stout-hearted little bull. Enough to say 
 that, in spite of his gallant efforts to fling his fierce assailant
 
 444 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 from him, or pin him to the ground, he was pulled upon his 
 knees at last and held there as if his nose were in an iron vice. 
 Then he plunged forward once more, and tried to shake his 
 foe from him by dragging him along the ground. But all in 
 vain ; the dog clung to the poor brute's nose as if he grew 
 there. Then the wretched bull raised his head in the air, 
 and uttered a low plaintive moan as if his very heart were 
 broken. 
 
 For the first time every one present seemed struck with the 
 cruelty of the " sport" they had been watching so eagerly. 
 
 "D n it, Wat," said Mr. Lloyd, with tears in his eyes, 
 " loose him." 
 
 " Yes, Wat," added Phil Lahy, solemnly, "loosen his hoult." 
 
 Wat Murphy advanced, and, scientifically pressing his 
 thumb upon the dog's windpipe, waited quietly till want of 
 breath forced him to gasp, and then Wat snatched him 
 quickly up in his arms, and carried him off; the dog keeping 
 his eyes fixed sullenly upon the poor bull, who dropped 
 down, sobbing, upon the ground, his rough coat all wet and 
 dabbled with the sweat of his agony. 
 
 "I think we had better start for home," said the doctor. 
 
 "Yes, I think so," returned Mr. Lowe, who had kept 
 behind a clump of bushes, as if he felt rather ashamed of 
 being seen at such a place. 
 
 As they were turning away, a roaring, louder than any 
 bull's, startled them; and on looking up to the place whence 
 it proceeded, they beheld, to their amazement, Lory Hanly 
 "punishing" Mr. Beresford Fender most severely. Beresford 
 retreated backwards as Lory continued to " plant" the right 
 and left alternately upon his mouth and nose, until he got 
 his back to the tall ash tree, a bough of which Tommy Lahy 
 had converted into a reserved seat, from which he could 
 enjoy the spectacle in the pit below with ease and dignity. 
 This proved a most injudicious move on Mr. Fender's part, 
 for Lory struck higher, about the eyes and forehead, and at 
 every blow Tommy Lahy distinctly felt the shock, as Beres- 
 ford's poll came in contact with the tree. 
 
 " Oh! oh! oh-o-o-o!" roared Mr. Beresford Fender, working 
 his elbows up and down like wings, and lifting, now one leg, 
 now the other, as if he insanely hoped to defend his face with 
 his knees. At last a well-aimed blow so completely shut up
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERABY. 445 
 
 one of his visual organs, that Mr. Beresford Fender dropped 
 down upon his knees, his face buried in both hands, and 
 loudly proclaimed three several times, to all whom it might 
 concern, that his " eye was out." 
 
 At this stage Darby Euadh came to his master's assistance. 
 
 "Here, get up," said Darby Euadh, seizing him by the 
 collar. 
 
 Beresford did stand up, and clapping his hand over one 
 eye, and finding that, after all, he was able to see Darby 
 Euadh and several other objects, both near and in the dis- 
 tance, with the other, became re-assured, and muttered, " No 
 surrender ! " 
 
 To account for this little episode, it should be mentioned 
 that Mr. Fender, after Lory's impertinent allusion to " his 
 grandmother," mounted his horse and started in pursuit; and 
 Lory, finding himself suddenly collared and " arrested in the 
 queen's name," and seeing that his captor was Mr. Beresford 
 Fender, at once shook himself free, and brought the knuckles 
 of his right hand into contact with the bridge of Mr. Beres- 
 ford Fender's nose, which immediately produced the bellowing 
 that so surprised Mr. Lowe and the doctor. 
 
 Bob Lloyd walked deliberately up the side of the pit and 
 shook Lory vigorously by the hand. 
 
 " I think I gave him enough of it," Lory observed. 
 
 " Ay, faith," returned Mr. Lloyd. 
 
 " Nice work to see a gentleman encouraging the violation 
 of the law," muttered Mr. Beresford Fender. 
 
 " Hold your tongue, you whelp," retorted Bob Lloyd, " or 
 I '11 give you a greater cutting than ever your father gave a 
 hound." 
 
 "Bailiffs about your house!" he muttered again but so 
 as to be heard only by those who stood close to him in allu- 
 sion to Mr. Lloyd's occasional difficulties with his creditors, 
 when even Jer's ingenuity could not ward off an execution, 
 and Tom Eyan and most of the other tenants had their rents 
 paid in advance. 
 
 Here Tommy Lahy came sliding down the tree with con- 
 siderable rapidity of motion ; and, without in the least in- 
 tending it, came with a very violent bump straight upon Mr. 
 Beresford Fender's head. This mysterious assault brought 
 him down upon his marrow-bones again, and caused him to
 
 446 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 roar louder than ever. And, what added considerably to the 
 mirth of the spectators, Tommy Lahy seemed to have been 
 quite as frightened by the shock as Mr. Fender, and remained 
 clinging to the tree at the spot where his descent had been so 
 unexpectedly stopped short, staring over his shoulder, with 
 his eyes wide open, till his father advanced, and, gripping 
 him firmly by the corduroys, dragged him down by main force. 
 
 Mr. Bob Lloyd shook hands with Tommy Lahy also, and 
 gave him a sixpence to Tommy's utter amazement, for he 
 could not see what he had done to deserve it. 
 
 And then Mr. Lloyd insisted that Lory Hanly should 
 mount behind him on his grey hunter and ride home with 
 him an honour that not only made his peace with Rose for 
 having escaped to the bull-bait, contrary to her express in- 
 junctions, but so puffed up that young lady with consequence, 
 that Johnny Wilson, the bank-clerk, was received quite coldly 
 the next time he called, notwithstanding his new "Albert 
 chain" and silk umbrella. 
 
 And that same evening, when Kathleen was drawing the 
 pony's rein at Maurice Kearney's gate, Rose tossed her head 
 and said, " Don't mind," and they drove on without stopp- 
 ing. But all this did not prevent Lory from having his 
 revenge for being obliged to wear Joe Russel's hat at the 
 bull-bait ; and he deliberately made up his mind to sit, by 
 accident, the very first favourable opportunity, upon Rose's 
 new bonnet the one with the feathers and " make a pan- 
 cake of it." 
 
 Lory now found himself quite a popular character, and 
 was greeted with looks and words of admiration wherever he 
 went. Barney Brodherick, in particular, became his sworn 
 friend, and hugged himself in the hope of having a quiet 
 set-to with Mr. Lory some fine evening in the grove, while 
 Bobby was left to roam at will among Miss Hanly's flower- 
 beds. For Barney dearly loved the man or boy who would 
 fight him ; and his implacable enmity towards Father 
 M'Mahon's servant was solely owing to the fact that that 
 unaccommodating individual could never, for love or money, 
 be induced to knock him down. 
 
 Wat Murphy kept his purchase of the bull a secret from 
 his customers, and even satisfied some of them that the flesh 
 of that animal was by far the primest beef he had ever killed
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 447 
 
 in his life before. But Miss Lloyd found him out; and 
 arraying herself in her lavender silk dress, sallied forth to 
 denounce him for selling such meat " to the gentry," and 
 to proclaim his wickedness all over the town. Wat took her 
 abuse rather coolly, however, and even put some rude questions 
 to her on the subject of her complaint. 
 
 But her harangue threatening to be of longer duration than 
 he thought agreeable, Wat quietly opened the back door, and 
 the white bull-dog quietly walked in. And Miss Lloyd, see- 
 ing the white bull-dog looking up into her face, lost her 
 speech and her breath, and the use of her limbs, and dropped 
 down helplessly upon Wat Murphy's block, that happened to 
 be behind her, thereby ruining the lavender silk dress for 
 ever. When she had recovered somewhat, Wat Murphy 
 politely offered to wipe the grease and blood off the silk dress 
 with a coarse cloth, but Miss Lloyd declined his services. 
 
 " Let me scrape it wud the knife at any rate," said Wat 
 sorrowfully. 
 
 But Miss Lloyd gathered up her skirts and ran home, 
 creating great astonishment along the street men, women, 
 and children crowding to every door to look after her ; and 
 frightening her mother and sisters who at first thought she 
 was dangerously wounded almost out of their lives. 
 
 CHAPTER LIU. 
 
 THE HURLING IN THE KILN-FIELD. CAPTAIN FRENCH THROWS 
 
 THE SLEDGE AGAINST MAT THE THRASHER, BARNEY IN 
 TROUBLE. FATHER M'MAHON's " PROUD WALK." 
 
 " WHAT a pity it is," said Mrs. Kearney, " that Mr. Lowe is 
 not a Catholic. 'Pon my word he 's good enough to be one. 
 And 'tis often my uncle Dan said the same of his uncle." 
 
 Grace, who sat with Mr. Kearney on one side of the car, 
 laughed as she turned quickly round and looked at Mary 
 who was with her mother on the other side.
 
 448 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 They were returning from last Mass, and Mr. Lowe stood 
 outside the door to hand the ladies off the car. 
 
 " I wonder Kichard would be making such a fool of him- 
 self about that Kathleen Hanly," continued Mrs. Kearney ; 
 " walking by the side of their old phaeton all the way from 
 Kilthubber, instead of driving home with Hugh in the gig, 
 and leaving poor Mr. Lowe by himself all the morning." 
 
 "Where is Wattletoes?" Mr. Kearney called out as he got 
 off the car. 
 
 " This was his day to be at first Mass," Mrs. Kearney 
 observed, " and he ought to be at home an hour ago." 
 
 " He wasn't at first Mass, then," said the dairymaid, who 
 ran out on hearing her master's voice, and who had a grudge 
 against Barney for a reason of her own. " He spent his 
 mornin' at Kit Cummins's, card-playin' wud the lads." 
 
 Mrs. Kearney raised her hands in horror and amazement at 
 this damning proof of Barney's wickedness. Running after 
 ballad-singers, peep-shows, and Punches-and-Judys, were mere 
 venial offences compared with losing Mass on Sunday ; and 
 spending the time with " the lads" deepened the offence to 
 the darkest hue of guilt. A certain little club or fraternity, 
 of whom one AndyDooley (alias Andy Meeawe) was the leader 
 and oracle, who frequented Kit Cummins's, were universally 
 known as "the lads" or "the school;" and with them, wei 
 grieve to say, Barney was tempted to spend the morning, 
 sitting upon a skillet, and playing "scoobeen" upon the 
 bottom of Kit Cummins's wash-tub, which was turned upside 
 down for the purpose. Barney, however, was hurrying home 
 early enough to escape detection, counting his coppers on the 
 way, when, in an evil hour, he espied Brummagem (who, 
 owing to early impressions, could never be persuaded that 
 anything more was required to keep holy the Sabbath-day 
 than washing his face in the pool in the quarry, and drying 
 it with his cap) placing a small stone on the smooth part of 
 the road, and, after moving backwards half-a-dozen yards, 
 pitching a penny at it. Barney pitched a penny at the 
 "bob" too. It required a critical eye to judge which was 
 the better pitch ; but Brummagem, taking a bit of iron hoop 
 from his pocket, used it as a rule, making it plain that 
 his penny was the eighth of an inch nearer to the " bob." 
 This Barney admitted by a nod of assent in reply to a look
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 
 
 from Brummagem. The hopeful youth then laid a half- 
 penny on the bit of hoop and held it towards Barney, who 
 placed another halfpenny beside it ; and Brummagem, after 
 solemnly spitting upon them for good luck, whirled both half- 
 pence into the air with a peculiar movement of the wrist. 
 They came down " heads," and Brummagem pocketed them 
 in silence, and pitched again. So the pitching and tossing 
 went on with varying luck till Tom Maher announced to 
 Barney that the family were home from Mass " this hour," 
 and that the mistress had found out how Barney had been 
 engaged during the morning. 
 
 " Begob, I 'm done for now or ever, exclaimed Barney. 
 And he began to debate with himself whether it was to his 
 mother's cabin above Glounamuckadhee, or to his relations 
 near Ballydunmore, he had better fly to escape Mrs. Kearney's 
 wrath. 
 
 But the roll of the big drum reminded him of the great 
 hurling match that was to come off in the kiln-field that day, 
 and of the sledge-throwing between Mat Donovan and Captain 
 French, and of the "high-gates" and " hell-and-heaven ;" and, 
 above all, of Peg Brady, whom Barney pronounced to be 
 " tuppence a pound before any girl in the parish" and a kiss 
 from whom, he assured Tom Maher in confidence, was " eat- 
 ing and drinking ;" and Barney was a happy man once more ! 
 
 "Begob, Tom," he exclaimed, his eye glistening with 
 delight, " there '11 be no show but all the b'ys an' girls we '11 
 have in the kiln-field to-day. Look up thowar's Bohervogga. 
 The road is black wud 'em." 
 
 " 'Twill be a great gatherin'," returned Tom Maher. 
 
 "Do you think will Mat bate the captain?" Barney asked, 
 anxiously. "I'd rather we 'd lose the hurlin' than have Mat 
 bet at the sledge." 
 
 " There 's no danger, wud the help uv God," Tom replied, 
 " though Phil Lahy is unaisy. An' the captain is a powerful 
 man. I never see such a pair uv arms. An' Tom Doherty 
 tells me he never stopped practisin' for the last week. But, 
 never you fear, but Mat '11 open his eye for him. An' we : re 
 purty sure uv the hurlin', too, as we have Tom Doherty. I 
 never knew Tom to fail on a pint. He says he '11 depind upon 
 Miss Mary to get his pardon for him from Father Carroll, as- 
 he had to stale away at the first light, an' he's afeard Father
 
 450 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 Carroll couldn't find any wan to serve M ass. An' Miss Mary 
 promised, for she's as anxious about the hurlin' as any 
 MV us." 
 
 This was quite true; and when Tom Doherty told her how, 
 every evening, when he went to water Father Carroll's horse 
 to the weir, he was sure to see Captain French in the Priest's 
 Walk, with his coat off, throwing a sledge " for the bare life," 
 and that he'd give "a twenty-pound note" to beat Mat 
 Donovan, Mary became quite nervous lest the laurels were at 
 last about to be snatched from Mat Donovan's brows. 
 
 " What is it in that letter," Grace asked, " that brings that 
 happy look into your eyes ? This is the third time you have 
 read it within the past half-hour; and you always look so 
 glad." 
 
 Mr. Lowe had remarked, too, that he had never seen her 
 look so animated though it was the last day of his stay ! 
 
 " Read it yourself," said Mary, offering her the letter 
 which was from her sister Anne. 
 
 " I read it before, and couldn't see anything to account for 
 your delight. It scarcely can be this piece of news about 
 Arthur O'Connor." 
 
 But it was the piece of news about Arthur O'Connor. And 
 every time Mary read it she felt (or fancied she felt) a great 
 load taken off her heart, and said to herself that " now she 
 could write to him," and explain why she was not at the 
 window that snowy Christmas Eve when he waited so long 
 and so patiently for her. 
 
 " I 'm so glad," said Grace, " that Richard and Mr. Lowe 
 are to leave the same day I am going myself. It is quite a 
 coincidence." 
 
 " And why are you so glad 1" 
 
 " Oh, I have a plan." 
 
 "What is it T 
 
 "Well, I'll get papa to ask them to spend the evening 
 with us; and we'll have Minnie Delany and the 'Brehon' 
 and ' Shamrock ' and a few others, and I think it will be very 
 pleasant." 
 
 " I suppose Eva will take them by storm." 
 
 " Well, I rather think not. She requires time in spite of 
 her beauty and her golden ringlets. You are far more 
 .striking."
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERAUY. 451 
 
 "And does no thought of me enter into your plan ?" 
 
 "Didn't you say there was no use thinking you would 
 come ?" Grace asked in surprise. 
 
 " Yes; but does it not occur to you that I'll be very lonely 
 when you are all gone?" 
 
 Grace was silent for a minute, and then said 
 
 " Mary, I am the incarnation of selfishness. That is the 
 essential difference between you and me I think of myself 
 first, and you think of yourself last. You will be dreadfully 
 lonely without a soul with you. And now that I see it I 'd 
 gladly stay if I could. But why did it not occur to me before ? 
 Because I am selfish that 's the why." 
 
 " You are too severe upon yourself," returned Mary. 
 "But why do you say I'll be ' without a soul'? Do Hugh, 
 and my father and mother, and Ellie and Willie, count for 
 nothing? And that reminds me that I have left Ellie 
 altogether to her story-books and her birds for some time ; 
 and you know she is to be sent to school when Anne comes 
 home in summer." 
 
 " Oh, you '11 be all right when Anne comes home. She is 
 so blessed with animal spirits. I expect she '11 go wild after 
 the jail-like discipline of that convent. I 'm sure she '11 be 
 as great a flirt as Bessy Morris." 
 
 "Why do you suppose Bessy Morris is a flirt?" 
 
 " Well, that soldier's letter was pretty strong circumstan- 
 tial evidence ; and, besides, I heard them discussing her 
 character in the kitchen last night, when I was helping your 
 mamma with the pudding." 
 
 " What did they say of her ?" 
 
 "Barney said she'd court 'a haggart o' sparrows;' but 
 the general opinion was that she was ' a nice crack' what- 
 ever that means." 
 
 " A ' crack' is a person who dresses too stylishly. But 
 Bessy's taste is so exquisite, it is impossible to find fault 
 with her in that respect." 
 
 "Yes, that brown stuff dress is perfection," returned Grace. 
 " I must get one like it. And how Mat Donovan worships 
 her ! But I suppose she would not have him." 
 
 " Oh, Mat is what might be called a universal lover," said 
 Mary. " He has quite a number of sweethearts." 
 
 " Ah, but there 's something more than that in Bessy's case.
 
 452 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 But I can hardly reconcile myself to the idea of her becoming 
 the wife of a labourer. Yet the little house is very pretty. 
 The garden and the beehives would do very well. But 
 Bessy ought to have a nicely furnished little parlour, with 
 white curtains to the window, and some books, and a bird in 
 a cage to sing for her all day long." 
 
 " Like Norah Lahy's linnet," Mary added. 
 
 " No," rejoined Grace, " he is too grave and sober for 
 Bessy. Ellie's goldfinch would be more suitable, or a canary. 
 But Mat himself would be for a thrush that would awaken 
 the Seven Sleepers. Bessy, however, has, I think, more 
 ambitious views than to be the mistress of that little 
 house." 
 
 " I 'd be sorry to think you are not mistaken," returned 
 Mary, thoughtfully. " Mat is just the sort of man who would 
 feel such a disappointment deeply. I can't help laughing at 
 myself," she added, " I am so anxious about the hurling, and 
 this trial of strength with Captain French. I would not 
 wish for anything that Mat should be beaten. And yet of 
 what consequence is it 1" 
 
 " The reason is, you sympathize so strongly with those 
 around you," Grace observed. " I have often noticed it. 
 There, now, your eyes light up because that bevy of girls 
 crossing the lawn are showing their white teeth and very 
 white teeth they have, and very beautiful and luxuriant hair. 
 But why do they all prefer scrambling over the ditch to going 
 through the gate a few yards lower down ? Oh, yes ! Those 
 youths will pull them up, and I suppose they like that. 
 There goes the big drum and the fifes. And, my goodness ! 
 what a number of people ! 'Tis like a races." 
 
 " And is it not pleasant to see them all so happy?" said 
 Mary, with sparkling eyes. " But to my mind the prettiest 
 sight of all is that long line of children, joined hand in hand, 
 and winding round and round in that way." 
 
 " You might call them a wreath of rosebuds," returned 
 Grace ; " though that play they are at is known by the 
 unpoetical name of ' thread the needle.' You see the two 
 tallest hold up their joined hands like an arch, through 
 "which the whole line runs. The ' Brehon' told me there is a 
 most poetical description of the same game in an old Irish 
 manuscript, in which the king and queen are at the head of
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 453 
 
 the line of youths and maidens, who glide under their 
 majesties' arms to the music of the harp. But I hope it was 
 not called ' thread the needle' in those happy days. But 
 mind the wide circle of children of larger growth at the upper 
 end of the Held." 
 
 " That 's ' high-gates,'" said Mary. 
 
 " And behold Barney Brodherick in full chase after some 
 fair one of large dimensions, who, I fancy, is too fat to hold 
 out long," Grace continued. " Yes, there ; he has the prize 
 captured already." 
 
 " That is Bessy Morris's cousin, Peg Brady," said Mary, 
 laughing. " Barney is a great admirer of her." 
 
 " There go the next pair," continued Grace. " Ha ! she 
 won't be caught so easily. She 's as fleet as a deer." 
 
 " I think it is Nelly Donovan," said Mary. 
 
 " So it is," returned Grace. " There is something gazelle- 
 like about Nelly. I often think what a huntress she would 
 make. She is like one of Diana's nymphs. There, she has 
 distanced her pursuer, and is now walking at her leisure, till 
 he comes nearer. But he is trying to get her into the corner 
 and catch her as she doubles back. What a happy, light- 
 hearted girl Nelly is ! " 
 
 " And a good girl, too," returned Mary. " It is quite affect- 
 ing to see herself and poor Norah Lahy together ; one so 
 strong and healthy, and the other so weak and helpless. 
 They love each other like sisters. But surely that is Nancy 
 Hogan's golden hair ! I 'm so glad to see poor Nancy out 
 among them again." 
 
 " Yes ; and she is evidently not indifferent to the conver- 
 sation of her companion," Grace remarked. 
 
 "That is her old admirer, Tom Carey the carpenter," 
 returned Mary. " I am really very glad." 
 
 " I thought you 'd go in for dying of a broken heart in such 
 a case ? " said Grace. 
 
 " No, not when a man proves unworthy," Mary answered. 
 " And Ned Brophy acted very badly." 
 
 " I 'm trying to find out Bessy Morris among them," said 
 Grace; " but I don't think she is there. Perhaps she is too 
 grand ? But look, there is Mr. Lloyd riding backwards and 
 forwards over the new ditch ; and I suppose that is Captain 
 French with him."
 
 454 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 Here we are reminded that we owe an apology to the " new 
 ditch." "When we first had occasion to refer to this freak of 
 Maurice Kearney's, we stated that it never was and never 
 would be of the slightest earthly use. But, in justice to the 
 " new ditch," we feel bound to admit that it was the best, 
 and the " firmest," and in every way the most suitable ditch 
 in the neighbourhood for training a horse to " topping," and 
 was availed of for that purpose by professional and amateur 
 trainers for miles around. And few equestrians could, when 
 passing the way, resist the temptation of taking a few jumps 
 over the "new ditch;" so that a strip of the field at either 
 side of this admirable fence generally presented the appear- 
 ance of a race-course between the ropes after the last heat 
 for the " consolation stakes." Most humbly do we beg the 
 " new ditch's " pardon for asserting that it was of no earthly 
 use. 
 
 " I think we ought to go out, and get near them," said 
 Grace. " I see the hurlers falling into battle array. And 
 there are the Hanlys on the road above the grove, and 
 Richard holding the pony by the head, lest he should set off for 
 home backwards, as he sometimes does, by Avay of a practical 
 joke." 
 
 " I have no objection to a walk," returned Mary. " But 
 you never thought you were not near enough till you saw 
 Captain French and Mr. Lloyd." 
 
 " Well, I have some slight curiosity in that way," rejoined 
 Grace, putting on her bonnet. " I want to see what sort 
 of looking person he is." 
 
 " And to be seen," Mary added, laughing. 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " Well, come then. I see Hugh and Mr. Lowe are going, 
 and we may as well join them." 
 
 By the time they reached the phaeton the occupants of 
 which bowed condescendingly to them the high-gates and 
 other games were suspended, and the children and young 
 girls stood upon the fences round the field out of the way of 
 the hurlers. There was a hush, and an eager, anxious look 
 in every face, as Mat Donovan moved from the crowd towards 
 the middle of the field, followed by his twenty picked men. 
 He pulled the ball with some difficulty from his pocket, and, 
 throwing it with his hurly on the field, took off his coat
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERART. 455 
 
 slowly, and with a quiet smile. The others pulled off their 
 coats, too ; but some of them were quite pale, while their 
 teeth chattered with excitement. 
 
 "What's delayin' ye, boys?" Mat called out, seeing with 
 surprise that the hurlers at the other side were not taking 
 their places. 
 
 The party whom he addressed made no reply, but they 
 whispered among themselves, and one or two got iipon the 
 "new ditch" and looked towards the Three Poplars. 
 
 " Is there anything wrong, boys ?" said Mat, after leaving 
 his place at the head of his men, and mingling with the 
 crowd, from which "the farmers" had not yet separated. 
 
 " Tom is not here," was the reply, slowly and reluctantly 
 given. 
 
 " Tom Cuddehy not here !" exclaimed Mat Donovan, as if 
 a thunderbolt had fallen at his feet. " Where is he?" 
 
 " We don't know," Avas the reply. " We thought he 'd be- 
 here before us. But we 're afther sendin' for him." 
 
 " Here they are," cried the young men on the ditch ; and 
 three swift-footed youths were seen hurrying down the hill. 
 
 " Is he comin' V a dozen voices asked together. 
 
 " He 's not," the foremost of the three scouts replied, gasp- 
 ing for breath and dashing the perspiration from his face. 
 
 " Well, if I hadn't the sight uv my own eyes," Mat Dono- 
 van observed with the deepest sorrow, "I'd never b'lieveTom 
 was the man to do a mane act. Afther givin' me his hand 
 an' word on id ! " 
 
 " He couldn't help id," said one of the messengers. 
 
 "Maybe, 'tis to break a leg or an arm he did?" returned 
 Mat, somewhat anxiously. "For, if I'm not mistaken, 
 nothin' less 'd keep Tom from his post on such an occasion 
 as this." 
 
 " Well, no," the youth replied, with a grin. " Bub I don't 
 know but he might be afther injurin' wan uv his ribs." 
 
 "How so?" Mat asked. 
 
 " Begor, becase he 's afther gettin' a new wan," was the 
 reply. " Quid Paddy Laughlan's daughter is afther runnin* 
 away wud him." 
 
 " Well, I 'm not sorry to hear that," said Mat. " But 
 when I tould him the field was to be broke this week, ha 
 had a right to put id off for another time."
 
 456 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 " Mat," said Phil Lahy, " human nature is human nature. 
 Where is the man that hasn't his wakenesses ? So don't be 
 too hard on Tom. Make it your own case." 
 
 And Mat happening to look towards the little group on the 
 road for he had noticed with pleasure that Miss Kearney 
 had got upon the fence in her eagerness to see the match 
 begin his eye caught sight of a figure on the fence at the 
 other side of the road, dearer to him than all the world beside, 
 and he forgave Tom Cuddehy. 
 
 " Will ye hurl wudout him ?" he asked. 
 
 " We 'd rather not," was the reply. 
 
 " Well, I 'd rather not myse'f," returned Mat. " There 'd 
 be no satisfaction. I suppose we may as well put on our 
 coats." 
 
 " I think, Mat," Phil Lahy suggested, "you ought to make 
 a promiscuous match." 
 
 " Do you mane over and hether?" Mat asked. 
 
 " I do," replied Phil. " Make a match, you and Mister 
 Q'Donnell, wudout any regard to the two sides." 
 
 "Very well ; I'm satisfied," said Mat, whirling his hurly 
 up in the air, and calling out, " Right or left for first call." 
 
 " Left," cried Mr. O'DonnelL 
 
 " You lost," returned Mat, as the hurly fell upon the field 
 with the handle towards the right. He ran his eye along 
 the line of hurlers, and said quietly, "Come here, Jemmy 
 Hogan." 
 
 Jemmy Hogan's eye flashed with pride as he advanced and 
 stood beside Mat Donovan. 
 
 Captain French's servant pointed to him, and whispered 
 something into his master's ear that made his eye flash almost 
 as bright as Jemmy Hogan's. Captain French was a soldier, 
 and the son of a soldier, and, as one by one the hurlers stepped 
 forward as their names were called, and pulled off their coats, 
 he thought what a sin and a shame it was that such splendid 
 " material" should be going to waste in that way. 
 
 " There is Bessy Morris and Judy Brophy," said Nelly 
 Donovan. " I wonder why don't they come into the 
 field?" 
 
 " She tould me she wouldn't come at all," returned Peg 
 Brady, with something like a scowl. " But I suppose Judy 
 Brophy called in for her, and she came wud her."
 
 OR, THE HOMES U*' TliTKUAKV. 457 
 
 "I'll go call 'em. over," said Nelly, starting off at the top 
 f her speed. Now, Billy Heffernan happened to be stand- 
 ing all alone not far from the corner of the grove near which 
 the ladies had taken their places, and whether it was that 
 Nelly looked at him instead of looking before her, or what- 
 ever else might be the cause of her carelessness, her foot was 
 caught in a bramble, and she was flung forward upon her 
 face and hands with such violence that both Grace and Mary 
 uttered an exclamation and looked frightened. 
 
 " Nelly, did you fall ?" said Billy Heffernan. " Come 
 here till I take you up." 
 
 " Well, Billy Heffernan is a provokingly ungallant young 
 man," Grace exclaimed with her ringing laugh. 
 
 Nelly Donovan, who was quickly on her feet again, laughed 
 too, and flinging back her dark hair and twisting it into a 
 knot behind, came towards them more slowly, and called to 
 her friends to come into the field. Judy Brophy, who was 
 radiant with smiles and well she might, for since Ned's 
 marriage she had had no less than three proposals came 
 down from the fence, and crossing the road at a run, climbed 
 over the other, and was immediately shaking hands vigorously 
 with Nelly Donovan. Bessy Morris seemed half afraid to 
 descend from the fence, which was unusually high, and 
 Kathleen Hanly's frown was even darker than Peg Brady's, 
 when she saw Hugh Kearney hand her down as carefully as 
 if Bessy Morris were a lady. 
 
 " Thank you, sir," said Bessy; and after returning Mary 1 ? 
 smile with a little bow, she got over the other fence without 
 Hugh's assistance, pretending not to notice that it was 
 proffered. 
 
 Captain French's servant called his attention to Bessy 
 Morris, and he immediately came towards her and commenced 
 talking to her. 
 
 Mary Kearney seemed surprised on observing this; and she 
 looked grave, if not pained, when she saw that Bessy's face 
 was crimson and her eyes cast down, while the captain's white 
 teeth gleamed unpleasantly, Mary thought through his 
 dark beard. 
 
 " He is a splendid-looking man," said Grace. 
 
 " But what can he be saying to Bessy Morris?" Mary asked. 
 
 "Oh, flattering her, of course," replied Grace. "And 
 
 2o
 
 458 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 really I never thought she was so very bashful. But she is 
 strikingly not handsome, but some way fascinating. If I 
 were Miss Isabella Lloyd I might be jealous." 
 
 Mat Donovan felt himself pulled by the sleeve, and, on 
 looking round, saw Peg Brady by his side. 
 
 "Well, Peg, what's the matter?" says Mat Dono van- 
 She pointed to the captain and Bessy Morris. 
 " Oh, ay, 'tis Bessy," he remarked. " I didn't know she 
 was here till I see her on the ditch a minute ago." 
 
 Peg Brady kept her eyes fixed upon his face, but she saw 
 nothing there but a smile of admiration and pleasure, as he 
 watched them. 
 
 " Bessy always had a great respect for you, Mat," says Peg 
 Brady. 
 
 " Well, I b'lieve she had," says Mat Donovan. 
 "As a friend," returned Peg Brady. 
 " As a friend," Mat Donovan repeated. " What else?" 
 " But she 's not the same since she was in Dublin," said 
 Peg Brady. " I must tell you somethin' wan uv these days. 
 Mind the captain, how pleasant he is." 
 
 Bessy Morris turned away to seek Judy Brophy who was 
 taken possession of by one of her new admirers, and seemed 
 quite intoxicated by his high-flown compliments when the 
 word " sojer" fell upon her ear, and on looking up she saw a 
 group of Peg Brady's special cronies regarding her with mean- 
 ing looks, and whispering among themselves, keeping their 
 eyes fixed upon her all the time. It was plain they knew her 
 secret; and wherever she turned she fancied she met looks of 
 suspicion and malice. This was mere fancy; but, perhaps, it 
 was conscience made a coward of her. She wished she had 
 remained at home, and a pang shot through her heart at the 
 thought of how people would talk of her. She brightened up 
 as she passed Mat Donovan, for the same honest smile as ever 
 met her scrutinising glance. She could almost have thrown 
 herself into his arms for shelter from the poisoned arrows 
 which she fancied were about being launched at her. 
 "Come, boys," said Mat, " up wud the ball." 
 The ball was thrown up, and there was some good play, 
 and running, with a friendly fall or two; but as it was only a 
 few goals " for fun," there was little or no excitement, and 
 the " high-gates," and " hell-and-heaven," and " thread-the-
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 459 
 
 needle" were resumed, the players merely running away like 
 a flock of frightened sheep whenever the ball came bounding 
 in among them. 
 
 " Mat," said Phil Lahy, when two or three goals had been 
 hurled, " I think you might send for the sledge." 
 
 " Well, sure I'm agreeable at any time," replied Mat, " but 
 'twouldn't do to send for id until the captain proposes id 
 6rst ; you know 'twas he sent the challenge." 
 
 " Well, Donovan," said Captain French, " are we going to 
 have the sledge 1 I can't stay much longer." 
 
 " Uv coorse, sir, as you came to have a throw we wouldn't 
 like to disappoint you," returned Mat. " 1 11 send down to 
 Jack Delany's for the sledge. Barney ! " he shouted, as Wat- 
 tletoes was passing hot-foot after a young girl, who was 
 evidently bent upon leading him a long chase. 
 
 " You lost, Mat," said Barney, as he stopped and wheeled 
 round, with a grin of intense enjoyment lighting up his face. 
 
 " How is that, Barney ?" Mat asked. 
 
 " Oh, if you wor wud me at the high-gates," returned 
 Barney, "you 'd get your belly-full uv kisses." 
 
 " All right, Barney," rejoined Mat. " But I want you to 
 run down to the forge for the sledge, as the captain 'd like to 
 have a throw before he goes." 
 
 " Begob, an' I will so," exclaimed Barney, becoming sud- 
 denly quite serious, on finding himself entrusted with so 
 important a commission. 
 
 " Take up that ball," said Phil Lahy, in a tone that quite 
 frightened Jackey Ryan; for it reminded him of the bishop's 
 " Come down out of that window," the day that he, Jackey, 
 and two other aspiring youths climbed to one of the high 
 windows in Kilthubber chapel, to hear his Grace's sermon 
 in comfort, and, as Jackey said, without having the life 
 " scroodged out of them. "An' Brummagem," added Phil, 
 " do you folly Wattletoes, for fear he might bring the wrong 
 wan." 
 
 " I think I '11 go down to the forge after 'em," said Billy 
 Heffernan, " as they '11 be apt to box about id, an' delay ye 
 too long." But Billy Heffernan's real motive was to tell 
 Norah Lahy that Tom Cuddehy had " disappointed," as it 
 occurred to him that Norah might think the Knocknagow 
 boys were beaten because there was no cheering.
 
 460 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 Barney soon appeared with the sledge upon his shoulder, 
 and Mat Donovan, after balancing it in his hand, laid it at 
 Captain French's feet. 
 
 The captain stripped with the look of a man sure to win, 
 and handed his coat and vest to his servant. A murmur, 
 partly of admiration and partly of anxiety for the result of the 
 contest, arose from the crowd of men, women, and children 
 around, as he bared his arms; for compared with them Mat 
 Donovan's appeared almost slight and attenuated. 
 
 " I never saw the like of him," some one was heard to 
 exclaim in a low, solemn tone, but which was distinctly audible 
 in the dead silence. 
 
 He took the heavy sledge, and placing his foot to the mark, 
 swung it backwards and forwards twice, and then wheeling 
 rapidly full round, brought his foot to the mark again, and, 
 flying from his arm as from a catapult, the sledge sailed 
 through the air, and fell at a distance that seemed to startle 
 many of the spectators. 
 
 It was then brought back and handed to Mat Donovan, 
 who took it with a quiet smile that somewhat re-assured his 
 friends. Mat threw the sledge some three feet beyond the 
 captain's mark, and many of those around drew a long breath 
 of relief ; but there was no applause. 
 
 But the captain's next throw was fully six feet beyond Mat 
 Donovan's ; and several of his father's tenants and retainers 
 cried, " More power, captain !" 
 
 Mat Donovan, however, cleared the best mark again by 
 three feet. 
 
 The captain now grasped the sledge, clenching his teeth, 
 and looking so fierce and tiger-like, his eyes flashing from 
 under his knitted brows, that the women at the front of the 
 crowd involuntarily pressed back appalled. With every 
 muscle strained to the utmost, he hurled the huge sledge 
 from him, falling forward upon his hands ; and as the iron 
 ploughed up the green sward far beyond Mat Donovan's 
 throw, the shout of the captain's partisans was drowned by 
 something like a cry of pain from the majority of the 
 spectators. 
 
 " Begor, captain," said Mat Donovan, surveying his ad- 
 versary with a look of thoroughly genuine admiration, "you 're 
 good !"
 
 OR, THB HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 461 
 
 Taking his place again at the stand, he laid down the sledge, 
 and, folding his arms, fell into deep thought. Many a tear- 
 dimmed eye was fixed upon him, for all imagined that he was 
 beaten. 
 
 " His heart '11 break," Bessy Morris heard a girl near her 
 murmur. 
 
 "The captain is a good fellow," thought Mat Donovan; "an' 
 I'd like to lave him the majority if I could do it honourable." 
 
 He looked on the anxious faces around him ; he looked at 
 Bessy Morris ; but still he was undecided. Some one struck 
 *.he big drum a single blow, as if by accident, and, turning 
 round quickly, the thatched roofs of the hamlet caught his eye. 
 And, strange to say, those old mud walls and thatched roofs 
 roused him as nothing else could. His breast heaved, as, with 
 glistening eyes, and that soft plaintive smile of his, he uttered 
 the words, " For the credit of the little village !" in a tone of 
 the deepest tenderness. Then, grasping the sledge in his right 
 hand, and drawing himself up to his full height, he measured 
 the captain's cast with his eye. The muscles of his arms 
 seemed to start out like cords of steel as he wheeled slowly 
 round and shot the ponderous hammer through the air. 
 
 His eyes dilated, as, with quivering nostrils, he watched 
 its flight, till it fell so far beyond the best mark that even 
 he himself started with astonishment. Then a shout of 
 exultation burst from the excited throng ; hands were con- 
 vulsively grasped, and hats sent flying into the air ; and in 
 their wild joy they crushed around him and tried to lift him 
 upon their shoulders. 
 
 " boys, boys," he remonstrated, " be 'asy. Sure 'tisn't 
 the first time ye see me throw a sledge. Don't do any- 
 thing that might offend the captain afther comin' here among 
 us to show ye a little diversion." 
 
 This remonstrance had the desired effect, and the people 
 drew back and broke up into groups to discuss the event 
 more calmly. But Mat's eye lighted up with pride when he 
 saw Miss Kearney upon the fence with her handkerchief 
 fluttering in the breeze above her head, and Hugh waving his 
 hat by her side. Even the ladies in the phaeton caught the 
 enthusiasm and displayed their handkerchiefs ; while Grace 
 ran to the doctor and got him to lift her up in his arms in 
 order that she might have a better view.
 
 462 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 " Donovan," said Captain French, " your match is not in 
 Europe. I was never beaten before." 
 
 " Well, it took a Tipperary-man to beat you, captain," 
 returned Mat Donovan. 
 
 " That 's some consolation," said the captain. " I 'm a 
 Tipperary-boy myself, and I 'm glad you reminded me of it." 
 
 " Mat," said Billy Heffernan, with the tears standing in 
 his eyes, "can you forgive me 1 ?" 
 
 " For what, Billy?" asked Mat, in surprise. 
 
 " For misdoubtin' you," replied Billy, gulping down his 
 emotion. 
 
 " How is that 1 ?" returned Mat. 
 
 " Whin I see you pausin' an' lookin' so quare," said Billy 
 Heffernan, turning away to dash the tears from his face, 
 " I said to Phil Lahy that Knocknagow was gone." 
 
 " Knocknagow is not gone, Billy," exclaimed Mat, shaking 
 him vigorously by the hand. " Knocknagow is not gone." 
 
 " Knocknagow is not gone," repeated a clear mellow voice 
 behind them; and on looking round they saw Father M'Mahon 
 close to them, mounted on his bay mare. 
 
 " Knocknagow is not gone," Father M'Mahon repeated, 
 while his eye wandered from one to another of the groups of 
 youths and maidens who had again returned to their sports 
 over the field. " But how long can it be said that Knockna- 
 gow is not gone 1" he added dreamily. 
 
 The good priest was just after kneeling by poor Mick 
 Brien, stretched upon his wisp of straw in the miserable 
 cabin ; and as he counted the houses that had been levelled 
 along the way, his heart sank within him, and he asked him- 
 self were the people he loved, and who loved him in their 
 heart of hearts, doomed indeed to destruction 1 ? 
 
 He rode back again, seeming to have forgotten the pur- 
 pose for which he had turned into the field. But seeing 
 Barney Brodherick making a short-cut to the forge, with the 
 sledge on his shoulder, Father M'Mahon called to him. 
 
 "Oh, bloodan'ouns !" muttered Barney, " I 'm goin' to get 
 id now for ever, for losin' Mass God help me." 
 
 " Barney," said the priest, " do you remember anything 
 about a gun of Mr. Kearney's you hid in a bush ?" 
 
 " Be cripes! your reverence," returned Barney with a start, 
 " id wint out uv my head till this blessed minute. The mas-
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 463 
 
 ther tould me to brin' id over to Mat to mend the stock that 
 Mr. Richard broke, an' the beagles chanced to be passin' hot 
 fut afther a hare, an' I thrust the gun into a brake uv briers 
 there above, an' cut afther the hunt. An' God help me ! I 
 never thought uv id, to carry id to Mat, but I'll go for 
 id now." 
 
 " 'Tis not where you put it," returned the priest. " 'Tis 
 in the square bog-hole in Billy Heffernan's turbary. I was 
 desired to tell you so, lest you should get blamed ; but say 
 nothing about my telling you." 
 
 " The square bog-hole," muttered Barney, as the priest rode 
 on. " Sure the divil a bottom the square bog-hole have. In 
 the name uv the Lord I '11 ax lave uv the masther to go see 
 my mother, an' keep out uv harm's way till Sathurday, at any 
 rate." And Barney, dropping the sledge from his shoulder 
 on the field where it remained till Tom Maher broke his 
 scythe against it the next summer hurried off to ask leave 
 to go to see his mother. 
 
 " I 'm comin' to ax you to give me lave to go home for a 
 couple uv days, sir," said Barney, with quite a broken-hearted 
 look. 
 
 "Home !" returned his master, "what business have you 
 home V 
 
 " My mother that 's ill-disposhed, sir," replied Barney 
 sorrowfully. 
 
 " More d n shame for her," said his master. 
 
 " Good luck to you, sir," exclaimed Barney, brightening up 
 with extraordinary suddenness, and setting off for the little 
 cabin above Glounamuckadhee, where he found his venerable 
 parent in excellent health and spirits. 
 
 " I wish we had some place for a dance," remarked Mat 
 Donovan, " to put the girls in good humour." 
 
 " I '11 give you my barn for a dance," said Tom Hogan 
 proudly; "the best barn in the parish." 
 
 " More power, Tom," exclaimed a dozen voices. " Up wud 
 the music." 
 
 Mat Donovan threw the strap of the big drum over his 
 head, and a succession of loud bangs reminded Mr. Lowe of 
 his fright on Christmas morning, when he thought a blunder- 
 buss had been discharged through his window. Billy Hef- 
 fernan and the other musicians produced their fifes, and a
 
 464 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 loud cheer greeted the announcement that they were to have 
 a dance in Tom Hogan's barn. 
 
 The sound of the drum seemed to rouse Father M'Mahon 
 from his gloomy reverie, as he rode on through the village. 
 "Uo; they are not gone yet," he thought, as he stopped 
 under the beech-tree looking up among the boughs, as if he 
 ' wanted Tommy Lahy to hold the bay mare, and thought the 
 top of the tree the most likely place to find him " let us 
 trust in God, and hope for the best." 
 
 Honor Lahy appeared at the door with a courtesy; and 
 verily that wholesome, honest, smiling face of hers seemed to 
 say, even more plainly than the big drum itself, that Knock- 
 nagow was safe and sound a little old or so ; but hale and 
 hearty and kindly, withal. 
 
 "Well, Mrs. Lahy, how is she?" 
 
 " Finely, your reverence," Honor replied. 
 
 Father M'Mahon cast his eyes up through the boughs 
 again. 
 
 " He 's gone wud the drum, sir," said Honor. 
 
 " Oh, yes, that's quite right. I '11 just step in to see 
 Norah," returned Father M'Mahon, alighting and hanging the 
 rein on an iron hook in the beech-tree. 
 
 And how Honor Lahy's face did light up as she courtesied 
 again ! And how poor Norah's eyes beamed with pleasure 
 and thankfulness ! After inquiring how she felt, and hoping 
 she would be better when the fine weather came, he was 
 going away, when a long roll of the drum softened by distance 
 made him pause. 
 
 " Do you feel sorry that you cannot join them?" he asked, 
 looking pityingly into the poor girl's pale face. 
 
 " Oh, no, sir," she replied and there was gladness in her 
 low, sweet tones. '"Tis just the same as if I was with 
 them." 
 
 "Ay, then," added her mother, "an' she makes me go out 
 to see which side uv the field the girls do be at, an' then she 
 thinks she do be wud 'em from that out." 
 
 "That's right, that's right," said Father M'Mahon, hurry- 
 ing out as if the bay mare were trying to break loose and run 
 away. And as he took the rein from the hook, Father 
 M'Mahon flourished his crimson silk pocket-handkerchief and 
 blew his nose loudly.
 
 OR, THE HOMKo OF TIPPERAKY. 465 
 
 Throwing the rein over his arm, and thrusting his thumbs 
 in his waistcoat, Father M'Mahon then walked down the hill, 
 with his head so high, and looking so awfully proud, that Jack 
 Delany's wife snatched up the twins from the middle of the 
 road, seizing one by the small of the back and the other by 
 the left arm which, strange to say, was not dislocated that 
 time and ran with them into the house, not even venturing 
 to stop to pick up the " rattler "and wooden "corncrake" 
 which Brummagem had bought for the twins at the fair after 
 winning one-and-fourpence at "trick-o'-the-loop;" Mrs. Delany 
 being fully persuaded that in his then mood Father M'Mahon 
 would think nothing of crushing the twins one under each 
 foot ; and then turn round and ask her how dared she bring 
 such nuisances into the world, two at a time ! 
 
 "God bless us!" exclaimed Jack Delany's wife as she 
 stooped to pick up the " rattler" and " corncrake," when the 
 priest had passed, " did any wan ever see a man wud such a 
 proud walk ?" 
 
 " Mother," said Norah Lahy, "I 'm as sure as I 'm alive that 
 I know two saints who are still walking the earth." 
 
 " Who are they?" her mother asked. 
 
 " Father M'Mahon and Miss Kearney," replied Norah. 
 
 "Why, then, I know a saint," thought the poor woman, 
 with a sorrowful shake of her head, "I know a saint, an' she's 
 not able to walk at all." And Honor Lahy turned away her 
 face and wept silently. 
 
 Great was Phil Lahy's astonishment when he heard that 
 Tom Hogan had given his barn for the dance even without 
 being asked. And, after pondering over the extraordinary 
 circumstance for a minute or two, Phil declared that, " after 
 that, we 'd get the Repeal of the Union." He could talk of 
 nothing, however, but Mat Donovan's triumph, which he 
 attributed in no small degree to certain " directions" which he 
 had given Mat ; and even when Judy Brophy's new admirer 
 beckoned him aside, and wanted to know " what part of a 
 woman was her contour," Phil answered shortly that he never 
 " studied them subjects much ;" so that the young man, who 
 thought he had hit upon a new compliment, went back to 
 Judy's side no wiser than he came, muttering, as he rubbed 
 his poll with a puzzled look, that he " didn't like to venture 
 the 'contour,' though he was nearly sure 'twas all right ;" and
 
 466 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 he had to go over the old compliments again ; to which Judy 
 Brophy listened with as much delight as if she had not heard 
 them all fifty times before. And now it is only fair to say that 
 there was not a warmer admirer that is, a warmer female 
 admirer of Uancy Hogan's beauty at the dance that night 
 than Judy Brophy; and in protesting against her brother's 
 bringing home a penniless bride, perhaps Judy Brophy did no 
 more than a good many tolerably amiable young women might 
 have done under similar circumstances. And, furthermore, 
 lire feel bound to admit, that were it not for those two 
 hundred sovereigns out of Larry Clancy's old saucepan, that 
 somewhat pedantic young man, who is so assiduous in his 
 attentions, would not be puzzling his brains about her 
 "contour," as he is at this moment. 
 
 " Bessy Morris's is the only sad face I can see," Grace 
 remarked to Mary, as the joyous crowd left the field. "I 
 wonder what can have happened to her." 
 
 Mary beckoned to Bessy as she was passing, and after saying 
 something about the alteration of a dress, asked carelessly 
 what was it Captain French had been saying to her. 
 
 " Well, he was humbugging me about the sergeant," 
 Bessy replied, with a look of pain. 
 
 " Oh, yes, yes," returned Mary, brightening up. " I 
 understand. Good evening. And tell Mat Donovan how 
 delighted I am at his victory." 
 
 Norah Lahy sat in her straw-chair looking into the bright 
 curf fire, and deriving as much pleasure from the dance in 
 Tom Hogan's barn as if her foot were the fleetest among them 
 all. But she hoped, when the dance was over, that Billy 
 Heffernan would come down and play "Auld Lang Syne" 
 for her or "something lively," if her mother put her veto 
 upon " grievous ould airs."
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERAKY. 467 
 
 CHAPTEE LIV. 
 
 BOB LLOYD IN DANGER. MAT DONOVAN'S OPINION OF "DE5AV- 
 ING" PEOPLE IN THE WAY OF COURTSHIP." 
 
 THE last straggler had left the field, and hurried on after the 
 fifes and drums. The Miss Hanlys had shaken hands with 
 Mr. Lowe and the doctor, and driven up the hill, disappear- 
 ing round the angle of the road like a vanishing rainbow, or 
 anything else very bright and beautiful, from the doctor's 
 gaze. Maurice Kearney was pointing out the wonderful 
 straightness of the new ditch to Mr. Bob Lloyd, and telling 
 him how Mat Donovan had marked out the line for it with 
 his plough. And Mr. Lloyd, stooping forward and shutting 
 one eye, had looked along the new ditch between the ears of 
 his grey hunter, and said, "Ay, faith." Mr. Lowe had 
 turned into the avenue gate to overtake Mary and Grace 
 when Grace, who looked round to see whether the pony would 
 take it into his head to play one of his practical jokes and 
 return to the gate backwards, uttered an exclamation and 
 stood still, with sparkling eyes and flushed cheek. Then 
 Grace ran forward a few yards and stopped again ; and then 
 retreated backwards, holding out her hand to feel for Mary, 
 and keeping her eyes fixed upon a carriage that had just 
 topped the hill and was coming slowly towards them. Having 
 found Mary without the help of her eyes, she grasped her by 
 the arm, holding on as if some unseen force were pulling her 
 away, and panting like a startled greyhound. For a minute 
 or so she seemed uncertain as to the occupants of the carriage; 
 but all doubt was soon removed, and, regardless of con- 
 sequences or appearances, Grace sprang forward and flew up 
 the hill as if she had wings. The old coachman, allowing 
 his solemn face to relax into a smile, reined in his horses, and 
 in another instant Grace was in the carriage. 
 
 " It is Dr. Kiely," exclaimed Mary. "It is her father."
 
 468 KNOCKNAGOW J 
 
 And Mary looked so excited, that a new idea got into Mr. 
 Lowe's head ; and when he saw a tall man of noble presence 
 alight from the carriage holding his little daughter by the 
 hand, Mr. Lowe felt sure that Dr. Kiely was the rivaThe had 
 most to dread. He remembered how Miss Kearney had de- 
 scribed him as the "finest man she ever saw;" and he could 
 see by her look that she almost worshipped him. 
 
 " Oh, he has Eva with him," she exclaimed again, and hur- 
 ried quickly back to the gate, as Eichard handed a graceful 
 girl with very long golden ringlets out of the carriage. 
 
 When the greetings and introductions were over and Dr. 
 Kiely did not fail to shake hands with Mr. Lloyd, whom he 
 had met before the party all walked through the lawn, the 
 carriage going round to the back entrance ; but Maurice 
 Kearney observed that Mr. Bob Lloyd remained outside the 
 gate, as motionless as any equestrian statue. 
 
 " Come, Mr. Lloyd, and have pot-luck with us," said 
 Maurice Kearney, going back and pulling the gate open. 
 
 Mr. Lloyd rode in like a man in a dream, till he came to 
 the hall-door. 
 
 " Take Mr. Lloyd's horse to the stable," said Mr. Kearney 
 to Tom Maher. " Come in, Mr. Lloyd." 
 
 Grace never let go her father's hand all this time; but she 
 glanced at Eva occasionally as if she feared some harm might 
 happen to her, and thought the "poor child" required looking 
 after. Mary was obliged to come down from her room to 
 remind her of the necessity of preparing for dinner, and 
 Grace returned with her; but instead of taking off her 
 bonnet, she sat on a chair near the window, looking quite 
 bewildered. 
 
 "What on earth nas come over you, Grace?" Mary 
 asked. " You have never once opened your lips since they 
 arrived." 
 
 To which Grace replied by rushing at her sister, and fling- 
 ing her arms round her neck. Eva stooped down and gently 
 submitted to a choking. 
 
 " You have lost your senses," said Mary, laughing. 
 
 " Here now, Mary," returned Grace, in a business-like 
 manner, " sit down and write a note which I will dictate." 
 
 "To whom?" Mary asked. 
 
 " To Castleview. Papa likes a dance, and I can't see that
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF T1PPERARY. 469 
 
 we can get on quite well by ourselves. So ask them to spend 
 the evening." 
 
 " Very well," returned Mary; " I suppose I 'm to include 
 Lory." 
 
 " Yes, of course." 
 
 "Who is Lory?" Eva inquired, as she tried to re-arrange 
 her curls. 
 
 " Oh, he 's one of my admirers," Grace replied. 
 
 " Shall I say, by way of inducement, that we have Mr. 
 Lloyd?" 
 
 " Well, I think not. It would look as if we regarded that 
 fact as a great matter. I '11 send Adonis with the note, and 
 he can just mention Mr. Lloyd incidentally. And, by-the- 
 by, don't be too sure of Mr. Lloyd. Here is his man Jer 
 in pursuit of him, and you know what Richard told us about 
 him." 
 
 Mr. Lloyd was soon seen, without his hat, in the garden. 
 
 "Well, Jer? "said he. 
 
 "Aren't we goin' to the County Carlow ?" returned Jer. 
 " Afther gettin' the new traces for the tandem an' all." 
 
 " Ay, faith," replied his master. " To-morrow." 
 
 "Well, sure you may as well come away home so," 
 rejoined Jer. 
 
 "I 'm staying for dinner with Mr. Kearney," returned his 
 master. 
 
 Jer looked at him in silence for a minute. " God help 
 you," he muttered, with a pitying shake of the head. " You 
 never had a stim uv sinse, since you wor the hoighth o' that." 
 And Jer held his hand two feet from the ground. 
 
 '' Xo danger, Jer," said Bob Lloyd, walking back to the 
 house with a good-humoured smile. 
 
 " No danger," Jer muttered to himself, as he glanced at 
 Miss Kearney in the window. " How mild an' innocent she 
 looks. An' she 's always quite an' studdy, an' stays at home, 
 an' keeps her mind to herse'f. But thim's the dangerous 
 wans," added Jer, with a look of deep wisdom, " an' 'tisn't 
 the little cockers that 's always runnin' about waggin' their 
 tails and givin' tongue from mornin' till night. But id can't 
 be helped, an' he can't say that he wasn't warned, at any 
 rate." And Jer returned to Mount Tempe full of sad fore- 
 bodings, and almost regretting his promise to Tom Otway
 
 470 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 to go down to the County Carlow to have a look at his 
 cousin. 
 
 The dinner was equal to anything that Mrs. Kearney had 
 ever seen even in " her own father's house." It imparted 
 an epicurean pout to Dr. Kiely's under lip, and threw a sort 
 of " dim religious light" over the spirits of the whole com- 
 pany, which checked everything approaching to levity till 
 the dishes were removed. Grace's laugh was hushed, and 
 even the brilliancy of her eyes toned down. In fact, her 
 face merely reflected her father's, and she even unconsciously 
 imitated his movements, until after a graceful flourish of the 
 hand she leant back in her chair and attempted to stick her 
 thumb in an imaginary waistcoat which reminded her that 
 she was not six feet high and the finest gentleman in all the 
 world. But then she was his daughter, and maintained her 
 dignified deportment accordingly. 
 
 Dr. Kiely had the gift of drawing people out ; and the 
 true politeness to exercise it impartially. Mr. Lowe ac- 
 quitted himself so entirely to his own satisfaction, that his 
 prejudice against his new acquaintance vanished Uke mist 
 before the sun. A question or two about his pf^essional 
 studies gave Richard an opportunity of airing a whole voca- 
 bulary of hard words, which quite frightened his mother 
 so stupendous, she thought, must be his learning. Even Mr. 
 Bob Lloyd talked so well that Grace was impressed with 
 quite a high opinion of his good sense; and Avondered 
 why he looked so seldom towards her side of the table. 
 Hugh alone was lyft in the background ; and she thought it 
 too bad that her papa should treat him as if he were a mere 
 boor. But she soon noticed that Hugh and her papa ex- 
 changed looks now and then, and seemed to understand each 
 other very well; which was quite a "mystery" to her, but 
 just then she could not turn her mind to unravelling it. 
 
 But Mr. Lloyd soon took to sighing so deeply, and with so 
 melancholy an expression of face, that Mrs. Kearney became 
 quite distressed 'twas so like her poor uncle Dan after the 
 marriage of his first love, for whose sake he remained all 
 his life a bachelor, and took to writing poetry and playing 
 the fiddle. Mr. Lloyd, she thought, must surely have been 
 crossed in love, and her heart melted in compassion for him. 
 She thanked goodness she had never made any one unhappy in
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF T1PPERARY. 471 
 
 that way. Though, to be sure, their neighbour, Mr. Sweeny, 
 who was " rolling in riches," fell in love with her when she 
 was only nineteen, and offered to marry her "without a 
 penny." And though her father thought it would be a most 
 fortunate match for her, and even her uncle Dan said she 
 ought not to be too hasty in refusing, and poor Mr. Sweeny 
 was "so fond of her;" still she couldn't bear the thought of 
 marrying him on account of his nose. Not that the nose, 
 though somewhat long, was by any means an ugly nose. 
 But it was a cold nose ! That's what did the mischief. Mr. 
 Sweeny arrived unexpectedly at Ballydunmore one winter's 
 night it was the night after Twelfth Night, for all the 
 world and the light happening to be blown out in the hall, 
 Mr. Sweeny, in an evil hour for himself, attempted to kiss 
 her, and the contact of his nose with her glowing cheek, 
 sent a cold shiver to her heart, and quenched the incipient 
 combustion that was beginning to take place there, from the 
 mingling of her own good nature with her uncle Dan's ap- 
 proval ; and which would inevitably have burst into a flame, 
 were it not for that unlucky icicle of a nose. It was all in 
 vain that she tried to reason with herself that the coldness 
 of the nose was merely accidental, and the result of the 
 cold rain and sleet, which the east wind had been blowing 
 straight in Mr. Sweeny's face since he had left his own house. 
 Unhappily reason is a mere bellows without a valve in such 
 cases. No matter how hard you work Avith it, it won't help 
 in the least to get up a blaze. And in spite of all she could 
 do, the rosy-cheeked Miss O'Carroll of Ballydunmore found 
 herself singing, involuntarily, twenty times a day 
 
 "You're too old and you 're too cold, 
 And I won't have }'ou, I won't have you," 
 
 greatly to her own distress. And after those little snatches 
 of melody she would accuse herself of "ingratitude," and the 
 valveless bellows would be brought into requisition, but to 
 very little purpose. Yet there was no knowing how it might 
 have ended, as Mrs. Kearney was wont to say with a sigh, if 
 young Maurice Kearney, of Ballinaclash, had not dropped in 
 with her Uncle Dan on their way to the fair of Limerick, and 
 stopped for the night. It was rumoured at the time but 
 there was no positive evidence of the fact that a similar
 
 472 KNOCKNAGOW; 
 
 proceeding to that of the night after Twelfth Night took 
 place on this occasion also; but with a precisely opposite 
 result. And the truth of this rumour was strongly confirmed 
 by Mrs. Kearney's avowal afterwards that Maurice's impu- 
 dence in those days " went beyond anything." 
 
 Mrs. Kearney thought of all this as she watched the 
 heaving of Bob Lloyd's chest, and his languishing looks across 
 the table across the table, of course, because his face hap- 
 pened to be turned in that direction, and not with any 
 reference either to the golden ringlets or the wavy tresses 
 of dark brown, with their accompaniments, that happened to 
 be straight before him. And as Mr. Lloyd continued to get 
 worse, Mrs. Kearney felt quite unhappy, and said to herself 
 that she did not " envy her, whoever she was," who could 
 cause such suffering as that, particularly in the case of such 
 a " fine, gentlemanly-looking man " as Mr. Lloyd. 
 
 Once in the drawing-room Grace emancipated herself from 
 the spell that so subdued her during dinner, and instead of 
 reflecting the mellow light of the star of her idolatry, 
 sparkled and scintillated with her own peculiar brightness. 
 Even Mr. Lloyd followed her movements with a plaintive 
 smile ; as a mourner over a grave might be startled into a 
 momentary forgetfulness of his sorrow by the flitting of a 
 humming bird, like a winged gem, anong the tombe. Mary 
 was far more animated than Mr. Lowe had ever seen her 
 before. But Eva was shy, and looked as if she would hide her- 
 self behind the golden ringlets which made Hugh whisper 
 in Grace's ear while he called her attention to her sister 
 
 " My Mary of the curling hair, 
 The laughing teeth, and bashful air." 
 
 Whereupon Grace started up from her seat with her hands 
 upon her knees, and then sat down again, as if she could 
 scarcely resist flying across the room and repeating the 
 strangling process over again. 
 
 The entrance of the Miss Hanlys in their new flounced 
 dresses created quite a sensation, and even Grace acknow- 
 ledged that Kathleen was gloriously handsome. In fact, the 
 little improvised party was as perfect in every detail as if 
 it had been planned and pondered over for weeks and months 
 before ; and even Dr. Kiely, who was somewhat fastidious,
 
 OR, THB HOMBS OF TTPPERARY. 473 
 
 was charmed. And when Miss Rose Hanly ran her fingers 
 over the keys of the piano, and the dancing commenced, it 
 would be difficult to say whether the actual performers or the 
 lookers-on were most delighted always excepting Mr. Lory 
 Hanly, whose ecstasy, in either capacity, like Maurice 
 Kearney's impudence when he went a-wooing to Ballydun- 
 more, " went beyond anything." 
 
 When, however, the " poetry of motion" was suspended, 
 and poetry proper, in the shape of Moore's Melodies, intro- 
 duced, Dr. Kiely began to resume his sway over the com- 
 pany, as he called Mr. Lowe's attention to the beauties of 
 each song, occasionally repeating a stanza in such a mellow 
 tone and measured cadence, that Mr. Lloyd called out at last, 
 " Give it all to us, doctor," to the great amusement of every 
 one, for these were the first words uttered by Mr. Lloyd since 
 he took to sighing at the dinner-table. And when Lory, 
 who was concealed behind the window curtains with only 
 one eye visible, which he kept steadily fixed upon Grace- 
 blurted out with that "terrible throat" of his, "You took 
 the words out of my mouth, Mr. Lloyd ; I was just going to 
 ask him myself" there was a burst of laughter that broke 
 the spell under which the doctor was fast bringing them like 
 some powerful necromancer. 
 
 Hugh thought how fortunate it was that Miss Lloyd was 
 not present, as the voice from behind the curtain would 
 inevitably have necessitated the burning of feathers under 
 her nose. 
 
 Grace suggested that Mr. Hanly himself ought to favour 
 them with a recitation ; and, with the agility of a harlequin, 
 Lory sprang from his hiding-place upon a chair for, as ha 
 afterwards confessed, he'd do anything she'd ask him. Mrs. 
 Kearney took advantage of the clap with which he was re- 
 ceived to bolt out of the room, with her two hands over her 
 ears, as if she were flying from a shower of brickbats. 
 
 Doctor Kiely complimented Lory upon his rendering of 
 " The Spanish Champion," and prophesied that Mr. Hanly 
 would one day be a great orator; by which compliment Grace 
 was as gratified as Lory himself. Indeed, she knew his ap- 
 preciation of herself was a proof th^t Lory had something in 
 him. 
 
 " Well, Grace," said her father, "are we to have any mow 
 
 2H
 
 474 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 songs? It would not be fair to trespass too much on Miss 
 Hanly, so I think you ought to sing that beautiful little song 
 of Edward Walsh's for us." 
 
 Grace searched for her own music book music and words 
 copied by herself, as she was wont to remark carelessly to her 
 new acquaintance and Mr. Lloyd was roused again when she 
 came to the words 
 
 " My girl has ringlets rich and rare, 
 By Nature's finger wove" 
 
 and evinced such admiration of her singing, that Grace 
 requested a song from Mr. Lloyd himself. And Mr. Lloyd 
 complied so readily and acquitted himself so well that the 
 ladies all exchanged looks of wonder. The song was " Norah 
 Creina," and Grace saw plainly enough that she was the lady 
 of "the beaming eye" and the " wit refined;" but which of 
 the other ladies was Mr. Lloyd's " gentle, artless Norah 
 Creina," was not so evident, as they all sat close together at 
 the opposite side of the room, and she could not be sure for 
 which of them the singer's melting glances were intended. 
 
 " That's an admirable song," said Dr. Kiely; "and I never 
 heard it better sung in my life. In fact, I think most of 
 Moore's songs are best sung by men. The ladies don't attend 
 sufficiently to the sentiment ; they think only of the music." 
 
 " That does not apply to Miss Grace's singing," Mr. Lowe 
 observed. 
 
 "Oh, you are thinking of the 'cold-hearted Saxon,'" said 
 Mary, laughing, "when she sang the 'Coulin' for you the 
 other evening." 
 
 " What about the 'cold-hearted Saxon?'" Dr. Kiely asked. 
 
 " Mr. Lowe heard Mr. Flaherty play the air at a wedding," 
 returned Mary, " and Grace sang Moore's words to it for him, 
 and he says the bitter hatred she threw into her look and 
 voice, as she fixed her eyes on himself at those words, quite 
 frightened him." 
 
 " Oh, 'twas dreadful ! " exclaimed Mr. Lowe. 
 
 Grace laughed, and ran off to Ellie and Willie, who had 
 induced Lory to join them at a game of forfeits in a corner 
 of the room. 
 
 Rose Hanly and Eva fell in too, and after a while Hugh 
 and Mr. Lloyd joined in the game ; and Mr. Lloyd " loved 
 his love Avith an A because she was an angel," but solemnly
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 475 
 
 declared he could find no reason for hating her with an A, or 
 nny other letter, and preferred forfeiting his buckhorn- 
 handled knife to attempting such an impossibility. But he 
 soon had the satisfaction of seeing Hugh "get down" as 
 well as himself ; and before long every one had to pay a 
 /orfeit except Grace, who volunteered to decree what the 
 owners of the "very fine things" and the " superfine things" 
 were " to do." The releasing of the forfeits created much 
 merriment; but while Lory was acquitting himself to ad- 
 miration in a hornpipe, Mr. Lloyd pushed his chair close to 
 Richard Kearney, who was making the most of the golden 
 hours that were flying on angel's wings over him and Kath- 
 leen, and whispered 
 
 "Dick, what the devil am I to do?" 
 
 " Why?" the doctor asked. 
 
 " I never made a rhyme in my life," replied Mr. Lloyd. 
 
 " Oh, any nonsense will do," returned the doctor, turning 
 Again to Kathleen. 
 
 " But, sense or nonsense," rejoined Bob Lloyd, " I can't 
 do it unless you get me out of it while they 're not minding 
 us. And I '11 do as much for you, Dick, another time." 
 
 "Well," said the doctor, rather crossly, "here is a rhyme 
 for you : 
 
 " The man that 's rich may ride in stages 
 
 Stages, wages, rages, cages wait, let me see." 
 
 Dr. Kiely had just been talking of one of his aristocratic 
 patients who had travelled by slow stages from Dublin in 
 order to be under his care ; and this suggested the line 
 which Dr. Richard Kearney repeated for his friend, Bob 
 Lloyd. But to complete the couplet was not so easy. 
 
 " Well, Dick ]" said Mr. Lloyd, holding his ear close to 
 liim. 
 
 "The man that's rich may ride in stages 
 
 " What 's to come after that ?" 
 
 " 'But the man that 'a poor' " 
 the doctor continued. 
 
 '"But the man that 'spoor'" 
 repeated Bob Lloyd. 
 
 "Must walk, by jacus" 
 added the doctor, impatiently.
 
 476 KNOCKNAGOW J 
 
 " Say it all together for me, Dick," said Mr. LloycL 
 
 " The man that 'a rich may ride in stages, 
 But the man that's poor must walk, by jacus.'" 
 
 Now have you it?" 
 
 *' "Wait a minute," returned Bob. " Is this it ? 
 
 " ' The man that 's rich may ride in stages, 
 
 But the man that 's poor must walk, by jacus.'" 
 
 " That 's it. Remember it now, and don't bother us any 
 more about it," rejoined the doctor, stroking his moustache 
 and throwing his arm on the back of Kathleen's chair. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Lloyd, now for your rhyme," said Grace, when 
 Lory had finished his hornpipe, and regained possession of 
 his necktie, which Rose snatched from him again, and, after 
 folding it carefully, chopped him under the chin, and tied 
 it on in that great bow-knot which Grace thought so ridi- 
 culous. 
 
 "Silence for Mr. Lloyd's impromptu," Dr. Kiely called 
 out; and all eyes were at once turned upon Mr. Lloyd, who 
 hemmed, and looked round upon his audience with a confi- 
 dent smile. 
 
 " Silence !" Dr. Kiely repeated. 
 
 " The man that 's rich " 
 
 Mr. Lloyd began in a steady sonorous voice, and suddenly 
 "becoming very serious 
 
 " The man that 's rich may ride in stages, 
 But the man that's poor by jacus, he must walk ! : ' 
 
 And Mr. Lloyd resumed his smiling look again, and gazed 
 round upon the company as if quite sure of their applause. 
 For a moment there was a dead silence, interrupted only by 
 one or two slight coughs. Pocket-handkerchiefs were in 
 requisition, and there was some biting of lips ; but Grace 
 could not stand it. She threw herself upon Hugh's shoulder, 
 and screamed with laughter, which exploded again and again, 
 whenever she ventured to glance at the poet, who continued 
 to look round upon the company with a beaming smile of 
 triumph. 
 
 " Will you decide a very important question, Dr. Kiely," 
 said Mary, " which these ladies have been debating for some- 
 time back?"
 
 OB, THE HOMES OF TIPrERARY. 477 
 
 "What is it? "he asked. 
 
 " They are talking about flirting," returned Mary. "Eva 
 says it is a shocking practice, that nothing could justify. It 
 is nothing less, in her opinion, than downright deceit. But 
 Rose says she likes it, and can see no harm in the world in 
 it. 'Tis quite fair, she thinks, to humbug the gentlemen, 
 and she has no objection to be humbugged in return. She 
 is just after saying that if Eva's notions were acted upon, 
 not a soul would she have to pay her a compliment from 
 one end of the year to another, but Mr. Johnny Wilson, who, 
 it appears, is always quite in earnest." 
 
 " A^ 7 'ell, and what is Miss Kathleen's opinion?"' 
 
 " Oh, she seems to think the gentlemen should be always 
 in earnest, but the ladies need not be so at all. And now I 
 vrant you to pronounce judgment on the case." 
 
 " Oh, it is too serious, too important a subject," returned 
 the doctor, "to decide upon without due deliberation. I 
 think " 
 
 " Poor old Mr. Somerfield is very bad," exclaimed Mrs. 
 Kearney, who had just entered the room. " They are after 
 sending for you, Mat Donovan says." 
 
 " Indeed ! Do they want me immediately ?" 
 
 " I don't know," replied Mrs. Kearney. I '11 call in Mat." 
 
 " Well, Mat, what is this about old Mr. Somerfield ?" the 
 doctor asked, when Mat was ushered in. 
 
 " I was standin' at Phil Morris's gate, sir," Mat returned, 
 " as I went home a piece uv the way wud a couple uv girls 
 from the dance a cousin of mine, an' another young 
 woman ; an' just as I was afther bidden' 'em good night at 
 ould Phil's gate, I hear a horse comin' powdherin' along the 
 road, an' when he come up I knew 'twas Rody the huntsman, 
 an' called to him, an' axed him where he was goin' at that 
 hour uv the night. 'The ould masther that's afther gettin' a 
 fit,' says he, ' an' I'm goin' for Docthor Kiely.' ' Begor thin,' 
 says I, ' you 're turnin' your back to him, for he : s over at 
 Misther Kearney's,' says I. 'Do you tell me so?' says Rody, 
 * I'll go back an' tell Mr. Sam.' So he wheeled round an' 
 galloped back again ; an' I said to myse'f I 'd step over the 
 short-cut an' tell you, fearin' that you might be in bed." 
 
 "Thank you, Mat; you have done quite right. I suppose 
 if I am required at once he will be here soon."
 
 478 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 "He often got that fit before," said Maurice Kearney. 
 " He '11 be out with the hounds to-morrow or after, as well as 
 ever. Sam. wouldn't be so easily frightened about him only 
 that his life is the only hold he has on the place. Do you 
 think Sir Garrett will leave it to him when the old fellow 
 drops?" 
 
 " I really don't know," replied Mr. Lowe, to whom the 
 question was addressed. 
 
 "Wait, Mat," said Dr. Kiely, who liked to draw Mat 
 Donovan out whenever the opportunity presented itself. 
 " I want to have your opinion upon a subject those ladies 
 are discussing." 
 
 " What 's that, sir ?" Mat asked, casting one of his " de- 
 ludering" looks across the room. 
 
 " Well, some of them say it is very wrong for young men 
 to be flattering and deceiving young women ; while Miss 
 Eose Hanly says it is rather pleasant and she sees no harm 
 in it." 
 
 "In the way of coortship, sir?" Mat inquired. 
 
 " Yes, in the way of courtship, "replied the doctor, laughing. 
 
 " Begor, sir," returned Mat, rubbing his chin contempla- 
 tively, "I b'lieve 'tis like puttin' the small whate in the 
 bags." 
 
 "How is that?" 
 
 " Somethin' that Father Hannigan said to a friend uv 
 mine, sir," Mat replied. " An' faith he'll have a harder dish 
 to wash now wud Father M'Mahon, for he 's af ther runnin' 
 away wud a wife, an' Father M'Mahon is mighty hard agin' 
 that soart uv work." 
 
 "I suppose 'tis Tom Cuddehy?" said Mr. Kearney. 
 
 " 'Tis, sir," replied Mat. " But there 's every excuse for 
 him, as she was an ould sweetheart, an' her match was made 
 wud a young buck from the mountains that she didn't care 
 a straw about, though he's milkin' twenty cows." 
 
 " But what did Father Hannigan say about putting small 
 wheat in the bags?" Dr. Kiely asked. 
 
 " 'Tis what every wan do, sir," replied Mat. " The small 
 whate that runs through the screen is put in the middle uv 
 the bag, a few fistfuls in each, an' all is passed off on the 
 merchant, accordin' to the sample. But the merchant knows 
 'tis there as well as the man that put id in id."
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 479 
 
 "Well," said the doctor, "what has that to do with de 
 ceiving young women ' by way of courtship'?" 
 
 " Well, you see, sir, Tom Cuddehy scrupled id wan time, 
 and tuck id into his head that it was a sin, an' tould id to 
 Father Hannigan when he went to confession. An' sure 
 Father Hannigan was in a hoult, an' didn't know what to 
 say, for he knew the whole world used to put the small 
 whate in the bags. But for all, he didn't like to say 'twas 
 right, for fear he might be encouragin' fraud, as he said. But, 
 on the other hand, if he said 'twas wrong, he should tell Tom 
 to make restitution for all the small whate he passed off on 
 the merchant all his life. So he was fairly puzzled. But, 
 af ther thinkin' for a start, he says to Tom : ' Well, Tom, 
 sure enough there's nothing like fair an' honest dealin',' says 
 he. ' An 'tis wrong to desave any man, Tom even a corn 
 merchant. But do your best, and they II be up to you,' says 
 Father Hannigan. An' begor, sir," added Mat, with another 
 glance across the room, " I 'm thinkin' 'tis the same way in 
 regard to desavin' the young women. Do your best, and 
 they '11 be up to you." 
 
 Dr. Kiely leant back in his chair, and laughed loud and 
 long. Every one else laughed, too, except Mr. Lloyd, who 
 looked quite lost in astonishment, and averred that " the 
 divil a better thing than that he ever heard in his life." 
 
 There was a single knock at the hall-door, and the old 
 huntsman's voice was heard asking for Dr. Kiely. And 
 in reply to the doctor the huntsman said, with the tears in 
 his eyes, that the old master was never so bad before, and 
 that Mr. Sam begged that Dr. Kiely would not "lose a 
 minute." 
 
 The gentlemen all came out to the hall to see the doctor 
 off, and, when the doctor was off, the gentlemen walked into 
 the parlour as if by preconcert, and each commenced brew- 
 ing a tumbler of whiskey punch in silence ; to which beve- 
 rage Mr. Lowe had become so reconciled by this time that 
 he never drank wine, except a little at dinner to please Mrs. 
 Kearney. 
 
 " Ah ! Dick !" Bob Lloyd exclaimed, in a heart-broken 
 tone. 
 
 " What's the matter?" the doctor asked, tasting his punch, 
 and adding another squeeze of lemon.
 
 480 KNOCKNAGOW J 
 
 " They're all fine girls," returned Mr. Lloyd. " Your sister 
 is more like a queen than a woman." 
 
 " More like a queen than a woman 1" the doctor repeated. 
 " Hugh, the decanter." 
 
 " Ay, faith," rejoined Mr. Lloyd. " And Kathleen is a 
 dazzler, and no mistake." 
 
 The doctor swallowed the glass of punch he had just 
 ladled out at a gulp, as if drinking the dazzler's health. 
 
 " But," continued Bob Lloyd with a shake of his head 
 that seemed to say that wonders would never cease ' ' but 
 the little one flogs all !" 
 
 " Faith, she does ! " Lory blurted out, holding his glass to 
 his lips untasted, as he stared at Mr. Lloyd, who was standing 
 with his elbow on the chimney-piece. 
 
 Hugh looked up, too, with surprise ; for Mr. Lloyd had all 
 the marks and tokens of a man desperately in love, and 
 Hugh could scarcely imagine how a mere child could be the 
 cause of so severe a fit for he as well as Lory thought the 
 "little one" that "flogged all," could be no other than Grace. 
 
 " What little one?" he asked. 
 
 Mr. Lloyd replied by putting the tip of his fore-finger to 
 his temple, and twisting it round, and round, and round, 
 letting the hand down lower and lower, till he could go no 
 further without stooping. 
 
 " Oh, I see," said the doctor. You have got entangled 
 in Eva's golden ringlets." 
 
 " There 's nothing I 'd rather look at than a nice head of 
 hair," returned Mr. Lloyd, with another deep sigh ; which 
 was echoed from the opposite side of the fire-place, where Mr. 
 Henry Lowe sat brooding over the thought that this was the 
 " last night," and wondering would they have another set of 
 quadrilles. The doctor, too, sighed heavily, and thought 
 what lovely arms Kathleen had for the "dazzler" had the 
 cruelty to come in ball costume. And Lory Hanly, as he 
 swallowed his punch, looked all round at the three sighing 
 swains, and said to himself that he " wouldn't let it go with 
 any of them." By which Lory meant that he was himself 
 as bad a case as the best of them. In fact, Hugh seemed 
 ihe only whole-hearted individual among them ; for which 
 we do not mean to insinuate for a moment that he was at all 
 to be envied.
 
 OK, THE HOMES OF TIPPERAUY. 481 
 
 Grace came in to ask the gentlemen to come to the drawing- 
 Tooni. They jumped to their feet with extraordinary alacrity; 
 but every one stopped to finish his punch, standing, except 
 Mr. Lowe, who left his tumbler more than half full on the 
 chimney-piece. (It was emptied by Kit Cummins, in the 
 kitchen, before it was entirely cold she having run up to 
 try whether Dr. Kiely could do anything for the " Bur- 
 gundy in her back ;" by which it is to be supposed Kit meant 
 lumbago. And Mat Donovan remarked that the doctor 
 would be wanted to cure every ailment ever known, "from 
 -a bone-lock to a galloping consumption," before he J d be let 
 sit down to his breakfast next morning.) 
 
 " Dick," said Bob Lloyd, as they were crossing the hall, 
 4 'stop a minute." 
 
 "What's the matter?" the doctor asked. 
 
 " I'm a gone coon," replied Mr. Lloyd. " Go ahead." And 
 lie waved his hand solemnly towards the drawingroom door. 
 
 "Why, aren't you coming in yourself?" said the doctor. 
 
 "Ay, faith," returned Mr. Lloyd. "Go ahead, Dick." 
 And they walked into the drawing-room, like a pair of inno- 
 cent lambs to the slaughter. 
 
 We could sit in a corner of that old room for another hour 
 or two, without feeling at all tired. But we must say good- 
 night and all the more reluctantly, because it may be many 
 a long day before we meet so many happy hearts under 
 Maurice Kearney's roof again. 
 
 CHAPTER LV. 
 
 BILLY HEFFBRNAN MAKES DR. KIELY A PRESENT, " AS A FRIEND 
 OF PHIL LAHY'S." 
 
 MAT DONOVAN was right. Maurice Kearney's kitchen next 
 morning seemed to have been turned into a hospital for in- 
 curables. But Dr. Kiely was an early riser, and had sent 
 away most of the patients, with prayers and blessings on 
 their lips, before the family had assembled in the breakfast- 
 room. One poor man was so ill, it was necessary to carry 
 him into the out-house where the workmen slept, and lay
 
 482 KNOCKS AGOMT J 
 
 him upon one of the beds. After examining him, the doctor 
 glanced round the apartment. There were several rude bed- 
 steads, and two or three wisps of straw upon the ground, with 
 something in the shape of bedclothes flung in a heap upon 
 them. A bit of broken looking-glass stuck to the wall at- 
 tracted his attention, and on going towards it he saw that 
 the wall above and below and on either side of it was plas- 
 tered with tallow, with bits of burnt wick stuck in it proof 
 positive that a candlestick was an unknown luxury to Mr. 
 Kearney's workmen once they retired to their dormitory. 
 
 " I wonder they don't burn down the house," muttered the 
 doctor. 
 
 As many pairs of brogues as ever were seen in a kish at a 
 fair, were scattered about in all directions, some new and 
 some old, some patched and some ripped and broken beyond 
 all hope of mending ; while not a few were grey or green 
 with the mould of time. More pairs of dirty stockings were 
 flung about, too, than would be agreeable either to the visual 
 or olfactory organs of most people. A few suits of clothes 
 hung from pegs over a corn bin at the farthest end of the 
 room the gilt buttons and drab silk ribbons at the knees of 
 Jim Dunn's Sunday breeches looking so intensely new and 
 brilliant, that people were tempted to come close to them 
 and feel them with their fingers, as something very rare and 
 curious. And the skin of the fat sheep the leg of which 
 Dr. Kiely praised so highly at dinner the day before 
 dangled from a beam over his head ; that being a safe and 
 convenient place to keep it from the dogs. All this and 
 more the doctor took in at a glance ; and feeling the air of 
 the place heavy and unwholesome, he pointed to the window, 
 which was at the back, opposite the door, and ordered Tom 
 Maher to open it. 
 
 Tom Maher looked very much surprised, and felt all round 
 the sash, thereby disturbing a whole legion of spiders 
 making them run wildly over the walls and the window and 
 carrying away divers layers of cobwebs upon his fingers. 
 
 " Begor, sir," said Tom Maher, as he tried to shake the 
 cobwebs from his hand, which they covered like an old glove, 
 " it don't open. I remember now wan uv the hinges w;is 
 broke, an' 'twas nailed up, as the horses was althered into 
 the new stable."
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERAUY. 483 
 
 "What has the new stable to do with this place?" the 
 doctor asked. 
 
 " Sure this was the ould stable, sir," Tom answered. 
 " An' when the new one was built we came to sleep here. 
 
 " Yes, I see," returned the doctor. " Horses, of course, 
 require to be better lodged than men ! Who sleeps on that 
 heap in the corner?" 
 
 " Wattletoes, sir." 
 
 " That 's Barney. Where is he ? I have not seen him." 
 
 " He went to see his mother yistherday, sir, and didn't 
 come back yet." 
 
 The doctor turned up the covering of one of the beds, 
 and stooping down seemed to smell the musty straw. He 
 shook his head, as he took a last survey of the "den," as 
 lie called it, and walked out, leaving Tom Maher to look 
 after the poor sick man. 
 
 Dr. Kiely strode into the parlour without even bowing to 
 the ladies, which greatly astonished Mary, for the doctor was 
 usually a model of politeness. 
 
 " I am really shocked," he exclaimed, turning to Maurice 
 Kearney, "to see the way you treat your workmen and ser- 
 vants. It is disgraceful. If I had the making of the laws 
 I 'd punish such conduct." 
 
 Maurice Kearney opened his eyes and rubbed his head as 
 if the doctor's words were utterly incomprehensible to him ; 
 while Mrs. Kearney looked the very picture of amazement 
 and consternation. Mary, too, seemed quite frightened, not 
 so much by the doctor's words as by his look and the tone of 
 his voice. 
 
 " My workmen never complained of their treatment," said 
 Maurice Kearney, when he had collected his wits. " They 
 are well fed, and I let them have their own way except in 
 the harvest, or when we are in a hurry to get down the seed. 
 And show me the man that pays better wages. You 're after 
 being told lies." 
 
 " 1 'm after being told nothing," returned the doctor. " I 
 allude to what I have seen with my own eyes. It is 
 shocking ! Seven or eight men huddled together in one of 
 your out-offices, lying upon rotten straw, and covered with 
 old blankets and quilts that I verily believe were never 
 washed. The place looks as if it were never swept. out r
 
 484 KNOCKNAGOW; 
 
 and not as much as a current of fresh air to carry away its 
 impurities. I wonder how you have escaped fever and 
 pestilence." 
 
 Mrs. Kearney crossed herself at the mention of the fever, 
 and muttered that 'twas " their own fault," as they could get 
 fresh straw if they liked. 
 
 " You astonish me," continued the doctor. " It should be 
 your business to see to it. It would be better if you turned 
 them into your barn to sleep upon the ground than leave 
 them in such a nasty den as that." 
 
 "Whatever you'd do for them," rejoined Mrs. Kearney, 
 " they wouldn't thank you." 
 
 " I don't think that is the fact," the doctor replied. " But 
 you should not look for thanks for simply doing your duty. 
 Have you never thought of this?" he asked, turning to Hugh. 
 
 " AVell, I have," he replied, " but I see so many things 
 that require amendment, I left this as I found it." 
 
 " Oh, yes; you would be a reformer on a great scale. But 
 it would be much better to attend to small things and be 
 practical. It must have a bad effect morally as well as phy- 
 sically. Let the poor people about you feel that you respect 
 them. They may have their faults; but Heaven knows the 
 wonder is that there is any good at all left in them." 
 
 "Well," said Mrs. Kearney, who began to show symptoms 
 of shedding tears, "I'll get the place cleaned out and white- 
 washed. And I '11 give them sheets and blankets, and make 
 one of the girls keep it in proper order for the poor men; for 
 what time have they to attend to it after their day's work ? 
 I 'm very much obliged to you, doctor, for calling our atten- 
 tion to it." 
 
 " I promised to see old Somerfield again on my way home," 
 said the doctor, somewhat mollified, as he glanced at his 
 watch. " So I think we had better walk down immediately 
 after breakfast, "he added, turning to Mary, "to see this poor 
 girl that you and Grace are so interested in." 
 
 " Oh, yes," said Grace, " we '11 all go. I 'd like to have one 
 more walk through Knocknagow, and see poor Norah Lahy 
 again." 
 
 They found Norah sitting in her straw chair as usual. 
 Dr. Kiely had seen her once before, and he remembered 
 how nervous and frightened she was when he placed the
 
 OR, THE HOMHS OF TIPPEUARY. 485 
 
 stethoscope to her chest. But now she was quite calm, and 
 looked at Mary and Grace with a smile while he was listen- 
 ing to her breathing. A deeper sadness fell upon her face 
 for a moment as she fixed her eyes upon Grace ; and Gra*ce 
 knew that Norah Lahy felt that she would never see her 
 again in this world. The doctor spoke kindly to her, and 
 said he would send her medicine by Mr. Kearney's man, 
 which he hoped would do her good, and desired her mother 
 to keep up her spirits and have everything about her as 
 cheerful as possible. Honor declared when he was gone that 
 he made her feel "twenty years younger;" and ^oruh 
 thought he "made her better," and said he was a good 
 man. 
 
 Then Phil broke in with a full and true account of the 
 doctor's speech at the great Repeal Meeting, and how he was 
 the finest looking man on the platform, dressed in the green- 
 and-gold uniform of the 'Eighty-two Club. All of which 
 Honor drank in with eager delight, feeling confident that the 
 man who made a speech at a Repeal meeting in a green-and- 
 gold uniform would surely cure her darling. 
 
 Billy Heffernan emerged from his antediluvian domicile, 
 and, accosting Dr. Kiely, ventured to present him with an 
 archaeological treasure, in the shape of a bronze bodkin found 
 in his own turbary. 
 
 " Will you sell it?" the doctor asked eagerly. " I '11 buy 
 it from you." 
 
 " I won't sell id, sir," he answered. " I don't want any- 
 thing for id." 
 
 "Why, what use can it be to you?" the doctor asked, 
 looking quite disappointed. " Perhaps it is worth more than 
 you think." 
 
 " I knew you wor always on the look-out for a thing uv 
 that soart, sir; an' I made up my mind to give id to yoir 
 fornothin'; as a friend of Phil Lahy's," added Billy after somfr 
 hesitation. 
 
 The doctor looked inquiringly at Mary; and, with her face 
 half turned away, lest Billy should suspect she was talking 
 about him, Mary explained the real state of the case. 
 
 " Ha," said the doctor ; and he seemed to fall into a. 
 reverie for a minute or two. " I accept your present," he 
 said at last. "I am very much obliged to you, and I'll
 
 486 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 always be glad to do whatever is in my power for you or 
 your friends." 
 
 " Thank'ee, sir," said Billy Heffernan. 
 
 " I never got a fee that gave me so mueh pleasure," said 
 the doctor, as they walked on after Mr. Lowe and Grace, who 
 were a little in advance of them. 
 
 " I never saw anything like his affection for Norah," re- 
 turned Mary. " It is wonderful." 
 
 "The Irish peasant is a being of sentiment," said the 
 doctor. "The millions of money they have sent from 
 America to their relations at home is a wonderful proof of 
 the strength of their domestic affections." 
 
 " Indeed, yes," returned Mary. " Mrs. Lahy is just after 
 telling me that her brother, who has often sent her money, 
 is now offering to bring out her son and provide for him. In 
 tact, I do not know a single family about here who have not 
 got money from America." 
 
 " I was sorry to see so many houses pulled down since I 
 was here last," the doctor remarked. " If it goes on, Ireland 
 is lost." 
 
 " There were only two houses pulled down here," said 
 Mary; "and the people gave up possession voluntarily." 
 
 " As for giving up possession, they do so because they sec 
 no hope before them. But I allude to a place a couple of 
 miles further on." 
 
 " Oh, that 's the place cleared by Sam Somerfield. He 
 has not a single tenant now nothing but sheep and cows." 
 
 "What a comfortable, substantial little farm-house that 
 isj" said the doctor, stopping to admire it. " What a pity 
 it is that the people have not security, to encourage them to 
 build such houses as that." 
 
 " Every one remarks Tom Hogan's place," returned Mary. 
 
 "And very little encouragement Tom Hogan got," said 
 Hugh, who had come to meet them. " His rent is up to two 
 pounds an acre now ; and if all I hear be true, he must quit.'' 
 
 " Does he owe much rent 1 ?" 
 
 "Not a shilling. But those three farms lower down 
 are about to be given up by the tenants, who say they may 
 as well go first as last. The three are to be joined into one, 
 and as Tom Hogan's runs between two of them, I fear he is 
 doomed."
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERART. 487 
 
 " Is it parb of Sir Garrett Butler's property?" 
 "It is. Notwithstanding all we heard of his kindness 
 of heart and his simplicity, things go on just in the old 
 way since he came in for the property. He leaves it all to 
 the agent; and, so long as he sends him whatever money 
 he requires, Sir Garrett seems not to care for his tenants 
 or trouble his head about them. We are very awkwardly 
 circumstanced ourselves. He refuses to renew my father's 
 lease upon some frivolous pretext or other. It is hard to 
 say how it may end. Conceal it as we will," Hugh added, 
 clenching his hand, " it is serfdom. It is rumoured now 
 that the greater part of the property must be sold to pay off 
 the old debts; and the uncertainty is horrible." 
 
 Mary looked frightened, and, on observing it, Hugh changed 
 the subject. " Is not that," he asked, " a model peasant's 
 cottage?" 
 
 " Oh, yes ; I know Mat Donovan's," replied Dr. Kiely. 
 " Here is Mat himself coming from the forge with his 
 plough-irons," said Mary. " You, too, Mr. Lowe," she added, 
 " are admiring Mat's house." 
 
 " Yes; Miss Grace is drawing a pretty picture of love in a 
 cottage for me. But why have not all the rest such neat 
 houses as this?" 
 
 " Ask Mat Donovan himself," said Hugh. 
 " He deserves great credit," Mr. Low^ remarked. 
 " I on'y kep' id as I found id, sir," said Mat. "'Twas my 
 grandfather done all. 
 
 " But why didn't your neighbours' grandfathers do the 
 same ?" 
 
 " Well, sir," replied Mat, " I b'lieve 'twas all owin' to the 
 freehould." 
 
 "How the freehold?" Dr. Kiely asked. 
 "Well, you see, sir," Mat commenced in his somewhat 
 roundabout way, and laying down his plough-irons, " he was 
 comin' home from the fair of Kilthubber 'twas the Michael- 
 mas fair, 'tis of'en I heard him tellin' the story whea I was 
 a little boy ridin' a young coult belongin' to Mr. Kearney's 
 father, an' happening to meet my grandmother on the road 
 at the Cross uv Dumnore, he axed her to get up behind him, 
 an' he'd give her a 1'ft home. She was a good-looking lump 
 uv a girl at the time, but nay grandfather oever had any
 
 488 KNOCKNAGOW 
 
 notion uv her, an* 'd as soon think uv fly in' as uv 
 married, he bein' a wild soart uv a young fellow wudou thouse 
 or home, or anything to throuble him. Anyway she tucked up 
 her cloak an' got up on the ditch, an' come uv a bounce on 
 the coult's back behind my grandfather; an' no sooner was she 
 settled on his back, than away wud the coult ! An' as he 
 had on'y a halther on him, the divil a stop my grandfather 
 could stop him; an' every wan thought the two uv'em would; 
 be kilt at the turn near the quarry, as the wall wasn't built 
 at that time. But, whin my grandfather see that pullin' 
 the ould halther was no use, he let him have his own way, 
 an', instead uv tryin' to stop him, laid into him wud a hazel 
 stick he happened to have in his hand. My grandfather was 
 always for a hazel stick, because, as he said, there was no 
 stick handier to knock a man down if occasion required id 
 wudout hurtin' him ; an', though he was as given for a fight 
 as any man, my grandfather was ever an' always for batin' a 
 man wudout hurtin' him, an' till the day uv his death no wan 
 ever see a bit uv lead melted into a stick uv his, or even a 
 ferl uv any account on id. Thim was quare times," added 
 Mat, shaking his head, " whin people 'd whale at wan another 
 wudout rhyme or reason at fair or market." 
 
 "Well, but what about the runaway horse? "Dr. Kiely 
 asked ; for Mat seemed lost in thought upon those extraor- 
 dinary times he had referred to. 
 
 "Begor, sir," he resumed, "the horse got enough uv id, 
 an' stopped uv his own accord at the back gate, an' my grand- 
 mother slipped down fair an' asy, an' went home. But my 
 poor grandfather was done for," added Mat, sadly. 
 
 "How?" the doctor asked. 
 
 " She took such a hoult uv him, air, when the horse made 
 off; he never had an' asy mind afther, till they wor married," 
 returned Mat solemnly. 
 
 "Take care, Mr. Lowe," said Dr. Kiely laughing, "how 
 you venture to take a Tipperary girl on horseback behind 
 you, lesfc she should take such a hoult of you as would rob 
 you of your peace of mind. But come to the freehold, Mat. 
 Did he get this house and garden with the wife?" 
 
 " Neither uv 'em had house or home, sir," returned Mat. 
 "An' there was a lough ur wather between the two roads 
 where you see the haggart there now. Sure you see the-
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF T1PPERARY. 489 
 
 quare shape uv id, wide in the middle, an' narrow at each 
 end. An' where the house an' yard is was a soart uv a 
 quarry. So my grandfather built a cabin on the dhry part, 
 an' in coorse uv time he made a couple uv dhrains, an' began 
 fillin' up the lough wud road stuff an' bog mowld, an' clay 
 from the quarry, an' planted quicks about id, till by degrees 
 he turned id into a little haggart, where he could have a few 
 hundred uv cabbage, an' a ridge or two uv preates. At last 
 the agent thought to put him under rent, but he refused ; 
 an' id came out that the two estates joined at the cross uv 
 the road there, an' no wan could tell which uv the landlords 
 the little spot belonged to. So my grandfather was let alone. 
 An' wan day a gentleman happened to tell him that he had 
 a freehould while grass grows or wather runs, in spite uv law 
 or landlord ; an' he got so proud an' had such courage that 
 he never stopped till he made the place what you see id. 
 An' that's how it was that the freehould made Mat Donovan's 
 house an' haggart what every one says it is, the purtiest 
 house an' haggart in the county Tipperary, for a poor 
 labourin' man's." 
 
 " It is a remarkable illustration," said the doctor, " of the 
 saying, ' Give a man a rock with security, and he '11 turn it 
 into a garden.' It is a striking argument in favour of a 
 Peasant Proprietary." 
 
 " I often thought so," said Hugh. 
 
 " I hope we may live to see the day, Mat," Dr. Kiely ob- 
 served, " when freeholds will be more numerous than they 
 are in Ireland." 
 
 " Sure you don't think the English Parliament would do 
 that for us, sir 1 ?" 
 
 " I 'd rather have it done by an Irish Parliament," replied 
 the doctor. " But it is getting late," he added, looking at his 
 watch, "and I must call at Woodlands." 
 
 The hour of parting came all too soon. Richard and Mr. 
 Lowe had driven off in the tax-cart. Dr. Kiely and Eva were 
 already seated in the carriage ; while Grace had run back to 
 comfort Ellie and Willie, who were sobbing violently upon 
 the stairs. Mrs. Kearney wiped the tears from her cheeks ; 
 and, though Mary smiled, it was plain that tears were 
 threatening to suffuse those mild blue eyes, as Grace kissed 
 Ellie, and told her somewhat reproachfully not to rry, for 
 
 2 i
 
 490 
 
 didn't she know they'd soon meet again at the convent. AndV 
 in the meantime, wasn't she leaving her the jay ? But the 
 allusion to the convent, however comforting to Ellie, had a 
 precisely contrary effect upon her brother, and changed his- 
 blubbering into a loud roar. 
 
 " Come, Grace," said her father, " we have no time to lose." 
 
 She had her foot upon the step, when she stopped, looking 
 quite sad, with her lips compressed, and her eyes bent on 
 the ground. They were all surprised ; and her father asked 
 what was the matter. But Grace made no reply. Turning 
 round she walked slowly to Hugh, who was standing with 
 folded arms beside the door, and held out her hand to him. 
 She had forgotten him. She had said good-bye, over and 
 over, to every one else, but never thought of Hugh. And 
 now he looked at her as if he did not know what she meant. 
 
 " Good-bye, Hugh," said she. 
 
 "Oh, good-bye," he replied with a start, taking her ex- 
 tended hand. And there was something in his tone that 
 made Mary look at him with surprise. She observed, however, 
 that he laughed as he led Grace back to the carriage, and 
 handed her in. 
 
 They are gone Grace, Eichard, Mr. Lowe, and all. And 
 Mary does feel lonely; and feels, too, that she must try hard 
 to keep up her spirits, or they will inevitably break down. 
 Well, that intelligence in her sister Anne's letter has re- 
 moved one indefinite uneasiness from her heart at all events. 
 The way is clear before her now, and not douded by hope 
 a hope from which she shrank as from a sin, and strove to- 
 banish from her heart ; but which would, nevertheless, re- 
 turn again and again to disturb and trouble her. Thank 
 God ! that is all over now. 
 
 " How I should like to be able to call such noble old trees 
 as those my own," Grace observed. 
 
 Eva admired the trees, too, and the undulating lawn, and 
 the woods around, but she could not see what good it would 
 do her to be able .to call them her own. 
 
 " It must be that Mr. Kearney was right last night when 
 he said the old gentleman would be out with his hounds 
 to-morrow or after. There is the horn sounding," said Mr. 
 Lowe. 
 
 "Yes, I can see the pack, and the huntsman mounted
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPER A RY. 491 
 
 before the door, from where I am," returned Richard Kearney, 
 who had walked on a little further than the rest. 
 
 They were in the avenue at "Woodlands, waiting for Dr. 
 Kiely, who had walked on to see his patient, leaving his car- 
 riage at a turn in the avenue not far from the house, though 
 not in view of it. Kichard and Mr. Lowe walked in from 
 the road, and were now chatting with the ladies in the 
 carriage. 
 
 " I wonder, if he be recovered, why papa is delaying so 
 long," said Grace. " Can you see papa coining, Richard ?" 
 
 " No, he's not coming," returned Richard. " There's some- 
 thing going on I can't make out. The doctor is standing 
 with several others near the hounds ; but I see no one 
 mounted but the huntsman." 
 
 " I'll walk down and see," said Mr. Lowe. " And perhaps 
 I ought to bid Mr. Somerfield good-bye after accepting of his 
 hospitality." 
 
 Dr. Kiely was astonished to find his patient in a chair 
 on the lawn, propped up with pillows. His son, a tall, 
 cadaverous-looking man with grizzled hair and beard, stood 
 on one side of the chair, and a saintly looking though some- 
 what spruce young clergyman at the other. Two graceful 
 young ladies stood a little apart, looking very sad and inter- 
 esting, but not altogether oblivious of the handsome young 
 clergyman's presence. 
 
 " Blow, Rody, blow," muttered the poor old invalid. And 
 the horn sounded, and the woods gave back the echo. 
 
 " sweet Woodlands, must I leave you ?" exclaimed the 
 old foxhunter in tones of the deepest grief. 
 
 "You're going to a better place," said the clergyman, im- 
 pressively. 
 
 "Yoix! Tallyho !" cried the invalid, faintly. "Blow, 
 Rody, blow." 
 
 " Don't ax me, sir," returned the huntsman, after putting 
 the horn to his lips and taking it away again; "my heart is 
 ready to 'burst.'" 
 
 "O sweet Woodlands, must I leave you?" his master ex- 
 claimed again. 
 
 ' My dear sir," the clergyman repeated, stooping over him 
 and placing his gloved hand gently upon his shoulder, " my 
 dear sir, you are going to a better place."
 
 492 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 The invalid turned round and looked earnestly into the 
 young clergyman's face, as if he had until then been uncon- 
 scious of his presence. 
 
 " You 're going to a better place ; trust me, you 're going 
 to a better place," the clergyman repeated fervently. 
 
 "Ah !" replied the old foxhunter, with a sorrowful shake 
 of his head, and looking earnestly into the parson's face 
 " ah ! by G , I doubt you !" 
 
 The parson's look of consternation brought a grim smile 
 into the hard features of Mr. Sam Somerfield, as he adjusted 
 his father's night-cap, which was displaced by the effort to 
 turn round to look at his spiritual director. 
 
 The dying foxhunter seemed to drop suddenly into a doze, 
 from which a low fretful whine from one of the hounds 
 caused him to awake with a start. " Poor Bluebell ; poor 
 Bluebell," he murmured. The hound named wagged her 
 tail, and coming close to him, looked wistfully into his face. 
 The whole pack followed Bluebell, waving their tails, and 
 with their trustful eyes appeared to claim recognition, too, from 
 their old master. But his head drooped, and he seemed falling 
 asleep again. He roused himself, however, and gazed once 
 more upon the fine landscape before him, and again called 
 upon the huntsman to sound the horn. The huntsman put 
 it to his lips, and his chest heaved as he laboured for breath ; 
 but no sound awoke the echoes again. 
 
 "God knows I can't, sir," he cried at last, bursting into tears. 
 The huntsman's emotion moved the two young ladies to 
 tears, and they came nearer to their grandfather's chair, and 
 looked anxiously into his face. Dr. Kiely laid his finger on 
 the old man's wrist, and turned to whisper something to his 
 son, who was still standing by the chair. But the doctor 
 drew back, as" if the eye of a murderer were upon him. Mr. 
 Sam Somerfield's face was ashy pale and his lips livid, while 
 a baleful light glared from under his shaggy brows, which 
 were dragged together in puckered folds. His daughters, 
 too, were terrified, and wondered what could have brought 
 that shocking expression into their father's face. But guided 
 by his eyes they turned round and saw that Mr. Lowe was 
 standing near them: then they understood that terrible look. 
 
 The young girls gazed upon the woods and groves and 
 undulating meadows, just as their grandfather had done.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPEHAKY. 493 
 
 And the expression in the bright eye of youth and in the 
 dimmed eye of age was the same. 
 
 "Ah," said the younger girl, as her sister's eyes met hers 
 " it is a sweet place." 
 
 Turn round, young ladies, and look through that arched 
 gateway to yon sloping hillside, speckled with white sheep, 
 upon which the sun shines so brightly. There were many 
 happy homes along that green slope not many years ago. 
 There is not one now. You remember the last of them 
 the old farm-house in the trees, with its cluster of corn- 
 stacks ; and the square orchard, that looked so pretty in 
 the spring-time; and the narrow boreen leading to the road 
 between tangled wild roses and woodbines? You remember 
 the children who peered shyly at you from under their brown 
 arms when you rode by upon your pretty ponies? You re- 
 member what a rage your papa was in when the man who 
 lived there refused to give up the old lease ; and how he 
 swore when the old lease had expired, and the "scoundrel" 
 that was the word refused to go until the sheriff and the 
 police and military drove him away ? 
 
 To be sure, his father, and grandfather, and great-grand- 
 father had lived there before him. He paid your papa fifty 
 gold guineas every year, and was willing to pay half as many 
 more if he were allowed to toil on there to the end of his 
 days ; though old people remembered when that productive 
 little farm was covered with furze and briers, with patches 
 of green rushes here and there in tin marshy places. Well, 
 he should go; and the children but what do you care for 
 such things ? We merely meant to remind you that, to that 
 poor man and his wife and children, their place, too, was "a 
 sweet place." 
 
 "I suppose," thought Mr. Sam Somerfield, "he came here 
 purposely to watch till the breath is out of him, in order 
 that I may be hunted without an hour's delay." Then fixing 
 his eyes upon the old man with a look in which pity and 
 hatred seemed blended, he continued, " What right had he 
 to take such a lease? He cared only for himself. Why 
 wasn't it my life he got it for ? He might have died, and 
 died an old man, twenty years ago. And I wish to heaven 
 he did die twenty years ago, before my heart was rooted in 
 it."
 
 494 KXOCKNAGQW; 
 
 An old blind hound, lying on a mat near the door, raised 
 his head, and uttered a long dismal howl The whole pack 
 took up the cry; and, as it passed like a wail of sorrow over 
 the hills, the old foxhunter fell back in his chair dead ! 
 
 The huntsman threw himself from his horse ; and, with 
 the help of two or three other servants, carried his old master 
 into the house. 
 
 "0 papa, poor grandpapa is gone!" the young girls ex- 
 claimed, flinging their arms round their father's neck. 
 
 He bent down as they clung to him, looking quite helpless 
 and stupefied. But, when he saw the horse from which the 
 huntsman had dismounted, walk to a square stone near the 
 end of the house, and stand quietly beside it, and thought 
 that "old Somerfield" would never mount his hunter from 
 that, stone again, the tears ran down his hard, yellow cheeks, 
 and fell upon his children's hair. 
 
 The doctor and Mr. Lowe walked back to the carriage in 
 silence, much affected by what they had seen. 
 
 " Do you think her handsome?" Richard asked. 
 
 " Not very," was Mr. Lowe's languid reply. " I could 
 never admire girls like her. The girl that called you to see 
 her father the other day is by far a prettier girl." 
 
 " Yes, Nancy Hogan is decidedly handsome. Yet Hugh 
 thinks Bessy quite captivating. Curious how tastes will 
 differ." 
 
 They had stopped to send Tom Maher into old Phil 
 Morris's for a light, and Bessy came to the door with her 
 sewing. 
 
 " Grace is wondering why we have stopped," said the doc- 
 tor. " She will break her neck trying to look round at us. 
 But I '11 blow a cloud," he added, as Tom Maher presented 
 him with a bit of burning stick, " that will enlighten her." 
 
 Grace had her head out of the carriage; but it was not of 
 them she was thinking at all. She caught the outline of a 
 man's figure on the hill above the fort, and guessed it was 
 Hugh, watching the carriage as long as they were within 
 view. 
 
 " Ah ! it came from his heart," said she with a sigh. 
 
 "What are you saying?" Eva asked. 
 
 " Nothing," was the careless reply. She was thinking of 
 Hugh' "Good-bye."
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 495 
 
 And Hugh did watch the carriage as long as it was in 
 sight ; but then he had come up the hill to look at the 
 hoggets. And as his eye rested upon the little house among 
 the old whitethorns, he wished he had another excuse to 
 follow the winding footpath, and have a chat with old Phil 
 Morris about the year of the Hill, and listen to his specula- 
 tions on the chances of having "anything droll" in the 
 country before he died. And as Hugh thought of the old 
 " croppy," he saw in fancy his bright little granddaughter, 
 as she flitted like a fire-fly about the house, when he used 
 to run in for shelter from the rain, some years before. 
 And as he went on admiring Bessy Morris retrospectively, he 
 happened to put his finger and thumb into his waistcoat 
 pocket, and feeling something soft and silky, took it out and 
 looked at it in great surprise. It was a long shining lock of 
 hair. After thinking for a moment, h& laughed ; but that 
 soft light which his sister Mary sometimes noticed came into 
 his dark eyes. And Mr. Hugh Kearney began now to call 
 up a vision in the future, as a moment before he had called 
 up one of the past. So long as he goes on looking " before 
 and after" in this fashion he is safe enough. But if one 
 day he should find " the fancy true," how will it be ? He 
 tore off the blank leaf of a letter, and after counting back- 
 wards on his fingers, "Monday, Sunday, Saturday," wrote 
 the day of the month and the year upon it. 
 
 "I wonder what sort she will be in a few years more?" he 
 thought, looking again at the shining tress which he had 
 playfully cut from Grace's head the morning of Ned Brophy's 
 wedding. Then, A la the Dean of St. Patrick's, he wrote the 
 words, "Only a girl's hair," and, folding it up carefully, 
 placed it in his pocket-book, and returned home without 
 thinking again of the old rebel and his fascinating grand- 
 daughter, who at that moment was just after being made 
 miserable by a good-natured friend, who had walked three 
 miles for the sole purpose of telling her that she was " in a 
 show" on account of the dragoon's visit. 
 
 Poor Mrs. Kearney was so nervous and depressed that day 
 that she left even the dinner to Mary's sole superintendence. 
 But Mrs. Kearney always wished to have a natural and 
 rational reason for her sighs and tears, whenever she felt 
 -disposed or constrained to indulge in them. And on this
 
 4% KNOOKNAGOW ; 
 
 
 occasion the cause of her trouble was her favourite son, who 
 was a "very soft boy," and, like her poor uncle Dan, re- 
 quired egg-flip very often to set him all right of a morning ; 
 and to think that he hadn't a soul to look after him in " that 
 Dublin," was enough to break her heart. Honest Maurice, 
 who, like the Vicar of Wakefield, found pleasure in happy 
 human faces, rushed in desperation into the pantry, and 
 cutting several substantial slices from the remains of that 
 glorious leg of mutton which Dr. Kiely praised so highly, 
 placed them in a small basket with as much bread as there 
 Avas room for, and walking off to the kiln-field, peremptorily 
 ordered Mat Donovan to let the horses rest, and " sit down 
 and eat that" deriving much comfort and peace of mind 
 from Mat's performance as he dutifully obeyed the injunc- 
 tion and set to work in a very business-like manner. 
 
 Mary took her sister's letter and read, for the twentieth 
 
 time: "Gretta H has just returned from Paris. Arthur 
 
 O'Connor is ordained. She saw him in his vestments, and 
 says he is the handsomest priest she ever saw." 
 
 "Thank goodness," thought Mary, "no tongue can ever 
 wound me again on that score." 
 
 "What is the matter with you, Mary?" Ellie asked. 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 " If you saw yourself ! I thought you were Aunt Hanna." 
 
 " Oh, my goodness," exclaimed Mary, in affected alarm. 
 " Am I a faded old maid already ?" 
 
 "Well, you had her look," returned Ellie. "And Aunt 
 Hanna was crossed in love?" 
 
 " And do you suppose that I, too, have been crossed in 
 love?" 
 
 " Well, I was thinking how Grace used Lo be at you about 
 Mr. Lowe." 
 
 " I am very sorry after Mr. Lowe," returned Mary. " Are 
 not you?" 
 
 "Not much. It is Grace I am sorry after." 
 
 " You '11 have Grace with you in the convent." 
 
 "But will I be let bring my goldfinch?" 
 
 " Oh, I fear that would not be allowed." 
 
 "Well, I'll give him back to Tommy Lahytokeep for mo 
 till I come home. I 'd be afraid you would not take care 
 of him."
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF T1PPKKARV. 497 
 
 ^ " Oh, yes, I '11 take care of him. And don't you know 
 Tommy will be soon going to America ? His uncle is very 
 rich, and his mother says Tommy will be a great man yet." 
 
 " Oh, I 'm sorry Tommy Lahy is going to America," said 
 Ellie. "And what will his poor mother and Norah do?" 
 
 " That 's true," returned Mary. " It will be a sore trial 
 to them; but it will be for his good, and they will make the 
 sacrifice." 
 
 But Mary could not help smiling, when she remembered 
 that the very climax of Honor Lahy's trouble seemed to 
 be the thought, that Tommy would surely take to climbing 
 to the top of " them masts," which, she understood, were 
 standing in the middle of the ship, and would of- course be 
 a perpetual temptation to him. "The best chance he'd 
 have," Honor added, " would be to stay at the top of it al- 
 ways, an' keep quite, an' not to be peltin' himself down, the 
 Lord save us! like a bag from the top loft of the mill, takin' 
 the sight uv your eyes from you, an' bringin' your heart into 
 your mouth." And as the comparatively re-assuring picture 
 presented itself of Tommy keeping quiet on the top of the 
 main-mast while crossing the Atlantic, Honor brightened up 
 and said "she'd trust all to the mercy of God." Mary 
 smiled as she thought of this. Then she began to think 
 of Norah ; and Ellie would look in her face in vain for the 
 slightest resemblance to Aunt Hannah, who was crossed in 
 love. 
 
 CHAPTER LVL 
 
 THE WHITE JACKET. 
 
 THE Sunday afternoons were growing longer and longer, and 
 Mat Donovan's visits to the little house under the hill wero 
 more frequent than they had been for a long time before. 
 He saw Hugh Kearney's fishing-rod, which he had repaired 
 for him in " first-rate style," on the wall with Phil Morris's 
 own old rod, which was never taken to pieces, and stretched 
 its tapering length nearly the whole cross of the kitchen, 
 with the wheel line wound up till the knot on the end
 
 498 KJJOCKXAGOW; 
 
 just touched the ring on the top of the rod. So that, while 
 Hugh Kearney was screwing his rod together and passing 
 the line through the rings, old Phil's flies would be dropping 
 as natural as life, on the currents and eddies of the little 
 stream, and a shout from him would sometimes call Hugh 
 a \vay to secure a good-sized trout with his landing-net. But 
 Hugh Kearney's rod and landing-net over the old weaver's 
 loom never gave Mat Donovan the slightest trouble. We 
 cannot say as much, however, concerning the horse which 
 ho now sees standing at Phil Morris's door. And when 
 the young man from the mountain came out of the 
 house and rode away, Mat Donovan felt a sinking of the 
 heart in spifce of all he could do. And when he walked in 
 with his "God save all here!" there was Bessy with that 
 killing white jacket, which he had not seen since the night 
 of Ned Brophy's wedding, sitting in her grandfather's arm- 
 chair, and looking very grand indeed, as she said without 
 rising, and almost without turning her head, " How are you 
 this evening?" The white jacket, as Peg Brady afterwards 
 told him, had been taken from the box where it had lain 
 for months, and hastily put on, when Bessy caught sight of 
 the young man from the mountain turning in at the gate ; 
 in proof of which Peg produced a little bunch of lavender 
 which fell from the folds of the white jacket on the floor. 
 
 " I think," says Peg Brady, with that sly look of hers, 
 " you may take off your jacket now." 
 
 Bessy reddened and bit her lips ; but said, carelessly, 
 " Well, I believe so," and walked into her room looking 
 handsomer than ever, Mat thought, when she came back in 
 her brown stuff dress. Then old Phil stumped in, and Bessy 
 took his fishing-rod and leaped upon a chair to hang it in its 
 usual place. And how graceful she looked with her arms 
 raised as far as they could reach, for the hooks upon which 
 the rod rested were up near the loft. Though the house 
 was a one-storey thatched house, there was a loft to it, upon 
 which, in days gone by, yarn, and pieces of flannel and frieze, 
 and blankets, to a fabulous amount, used; to be stowed away. 
 Then Bessy jumped clown again, and; looking into the angler's 
 Basket, said that Mat should bring the trout to Miss 
 Kearney. 
 
 " You have two good red trout there," said old Phil, " but
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPEKART. 499 
 
 the rest are no great things. The river is not what id used 
 to be, any more than the people. Everything is goin' to the 
 bad. Hugh lost the finest trout I see this many a day, the 
 last day he was over, an' all on account of not takin' his 
 time. You 'd think 'twas an elephant he had, he gave him 
 such a dhrag whin he had a right to give him line, an' 
 take him 'asy. There 's no fear at all uv Hugh, on'y that 
 when he don't be mindin' himself, an' is took sudden, he 'a 
 apt to pull too hard an' break his line. An' he depinds too 
 much on the fur flies. He thinks a hare's-ear-an'-yallow ud 
 kiU the divil." 
 
 Bessy laid the speckled trout into her own basket,' having 
 first put in some of the fresh green grass the old angler had 
 wrapped about them. 
 
 "I know," says she, "she'd like to send a couple of them 
 to Norah Lahy. And how is she getting on, Mat ?" 
 
 " I 'm afeard she 's stalin" away unknownst to the world," 
 Mat replied. " She was never so late in the year before 
 wudout sittin' outside the doore. An' though fine an' soft 
 this week was, she was not sthrong enough to venture out, 
 Honor tells me." 
 
 " Is id thrue for certain," old Phil Morris asked, " that 
 Tom Hogan is to be put out 1 ?" 
 
 " No mistake," Mat answered, " an' 'tis afther knockin' 
 the good out uv every tenant on the property. The rent is 
 riz again on every wan uv 'em except Misther Kearney, an* 
 his laise is not up yet. An' they all say, what chance have 
 they when Tom Hogan is served." 
 
 " Did them fellows near you pull down their own houses 
 for a pound a piece, as 'tis said they did ?" 
 
 " They did then exceptin' Billy Heffernan; an' he towld 
 Fender he wouldn't knock the cabin where his mother rocked 
 him in the cradle if a fifty pound note was laid in his hand. 
 Billy has great sperit though he hasn't much talk. They 
 say Tom Hogan would get a thrifle uv money, too, if he'd give 
 up; but I don't think he'd take Maurice Kearney's'farm this 
 minute for his own little spot ; for, as he says himself, his 
 heart is stuck in id. An' he's goin' an dhrainin' just as if he 
 was as firm as the Rock uv Cashel in id. They must bring 
 the sheriff any way. An' I won't plase 'em either to give up 
 my garden, till I must."
 
 500 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 " ' .4 * '" f-fP 
 
 "Are you going to be ejected?" Bessy asked, looking 
 alarmed. 
 
 " They can't touch the house an' haggart," returned Mat, 
 " id bein' a freehould. But they 're takin' the garden from 
 me to join id to the big farm that 's to be med out of Torn 
 Hogan's an' the other three. A man has no chance in Ire- 
 land, an' I suppose I must cross the salt wather myse'f as 
 well as another." 
 
 " What hurry are you in?" said Bessy, as he rose to go. 
 "Sit down an' tell us all the news." 
 
 " I was over lookin' at a horse uv Tom Cuddehy's that got 
 a hurt,"'he replied, "an' just walked in on my way back." 
 
 "And how is Mrs. Cuddehy going on?" 
 
 " Very well," Mat replied. "An' her father is givin" every 
 penny of her fortune to Tom, when he seen him act so rnatily, 
 an' get married, an' pay the priest, an' all, wudout sayin' a 
 word about money. An' ould Paddy is in wud 'em every 
 night in the year, they 're always so pleasant. An' so is Ned 
 Brophy. An', faith, Ned can go where he likes, the wife is 
 so well able to look to everything. An' so he walks over 
 to Tom's to have a talk wud the neighbours." 
 
 " Is there any truth in the report about Miss Kearney and 
 young Mr. Kiely ?" 
 
 " I don't say there is. The same talk was about her and 
 Mr. Lowe, an' there was nothin' in id. Mr. Edmund is a fine 
 pleasant young fellow, an' a right good boy," added Mat, em- 
 phatically. " I don't know a smarter fellow, to take him at 
 general exercise. The masther made me put two big rocks 
 in the kirn-field to mark the throw again Captain French, 
 an' Edmund has the pueata stalks all thrampled thryin' to put 
 the sledge up to the captain's mark. An' faith he 's not far 
 at all from id. But as for Miss Mary, I don't say they have 
 any notion uv wan another. An' so far as goin' on goes, I'd 
 say 'tis Miss Anne an' himse'f that 's pullin' the coard." 
 
 "And how is Nancy Hogan?" Bessy asked. 
 
 " I never see her in betther spirits," he answered, readily. 
 " On'y for frettin' afther Jimmy an' the way her father is 
 she'd be as pleasant as ever she was. I b'lieve her ould sweet- 
 heart Tom Gary is afther her again." 
 
 "He 's a mane dog," Phil Morris exclaimed, " afther her 
 father telliu' him a tradesman was no match for his daughter.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OP TIPPERART. 501 
 
 Bad luck to his impudence, the beggar ! the crawler, as Phil 
 Lahy called him. I'm a tradesman, though 'tis little I do 
 at my trade now, an' sorry I'm for id. An' I suppose I could 
 call myself a farmer because I have a spot uv land. But I 
 call myself a tradesman, because I 'm proud uv my trade. I 
 gave her father," turning to his granddaughter, " three hun- 
 dred pounds that I made at my trade. An' if Tom Gary 
 wants a wife let him come for her, an' he '11 get her before a 
 farmer any day." 
 
 "An' would you give her to a labourin' man?" inquired 
 Peg Brady, who was sitting on the settle, smelling the bunch 
 of lavender that fell from the folds of the white jacket. 
 
 " No, I wouldn't," replied the old weaver, turning sharply 
 round, and scowling at her. " What business would a 
 labourin' man have wud her?" 
 
 Peg Brady bent her head and laughed. 
 
 "You ought not to be so hard against Tom Hogan for 
 his prejudices," Bessy remarked, " for you have your pre- 
 judices too. 
 
 " But a tradesman is as good as any man," returned old 
 Phil. 
 
 " And why should not a labouring man be as good, if he 
 is equally honest and intelligent?" Bessy asked. 
 
 " Faith," said Mat Donovan good-humouredly, " 'tis like 
 the 'Town in danger' in the spellin' book. There's nothin' 
 like leather wud the whole uv 'em." 
 
 " I '11 go home the short cut, an' give those to Miss Mary," 
 said Mat Donovan, when he and Bessy Morris had reached 
 the gate without exchanging a word. 
 
 " Tell her I '11 call for the basket myself," said Bessy. 
 
 Mat looked up at the old whitethorns, which were now all 
 in their glory, filling the air with perfume, and, after another 
 interval of silence, held out his hand with a smile. 
 
 " Good evenin'," said he. " Why don't you ever take a 
 walk down to see ray mother ? They all say 'tis too proud 
 you 're afther gettin'." 
 
 " Mat," returned Bessy, holding his hand, and fixing that 
 sad, inquiring look upon him, " are you really thinking of 
 America?" 
 
 " Well, I am," he replied. " There's many raisons for id. 
 But I have nothin' decided on yet*:' .:^MJI
 
 502 KXOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 "You won't go without telling me at all events?" 
 
 " Well, if I go at all, I b'lieve I '11 slip away wudout takin' 
 my lave uv any one. 'Twould break my heart." 
 
 " If you do go, you won't forget to write to me, if you hear 
 anything about my father?" 
 
 " Begor, Bessy," he replied, " I 'd walk from wan end uv 
 America to the other if I thought I could find your father 
 for you." 
 
 " Good evening," said she, with her eyes still fixed upon 
 his face. 
 
 He opened the gate, and, bending down her head, with a 
 smile and a slight blush, she passed in, and returned to the 
 house without looking back. 
 
 Peg Brady was strolling along the road with her hands 
 clasped behind her back, looking up at the clouds. 
 
 "Are you coniin' down?" Mat asked. 
 
 " No," she replied. " I on'y took a walk out thinkin' I 
 might meet some uv the girls goin' the short cut to the 
 dance." 
 
 " Peg," said Mat, after a pause, " is there anything the 
 matter wud Bessy ? She looks paler and thinner than ever 
 I see' her lookin' before." 
 
 " Maybe she has raison," returned Peg. 
 
 "Raison!" he repeated. "For God's sake, what do yoi> 
 mane?" 
 
 " Oyeh ! You needn't be so frightened. Maybe she '& 
 thinkin' uv changin' her condition." 
 
 " Oh, is that all ?" he asked, with a sigh of relief. 
 
 "Did you hear her bachelor is after comin' in for a. 
 legacy?" 
 
 " Sure I did," he replied. " He tould me himse'f. He 's- 
 no man to be goin' n as he is, when he knows she don't like 
 him." 
 
 "Don^t be too sure uv that," returned Peg Brady. " He '& 
 not a sojer now; he's out uv the army altogether. An' ax 
 Kit Cummins about the fistful uv goold he pulled out uv his 
 pocket t'other evenin'. Faith Kit has fine times while he 's 
 lodgin' wad her. The pan is never off uv the fire, an' he 
 sends for a dozen uv porther together." 
 
 14 He 's a fool," returned Mat. 
 
 " You don't know what id is to be fond uv a girl," said Peg.
 
 OB, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 505 
 
 " Well, maybe not," rejoined Mat, " but I 'J tear the heart 
 out uv my body before I 'd fret the girl I 'd be fond uv, an' 
 makin' her the talk uv the counthry, as he 's doin'." 
 
 Peg Brady laughed, and, wheeling round, continued her 
 stroll back again towards the house. 
 
 " Give my love to Barney," she called out. 
 
 " All right," returned Mat, as he jumped over the fence to- 
 make a short cut to Maurice Kearney's. He started on 
 seeing a man sitting, or rather lying, behind the fence. It 
 was the dragoon. However, he walked on without pretend- 
 ing to see him; but his face flushed crimson, and, clenching 
 his hand, he muttered : 
 
 " The divil a thing I 'd rather be doin' than whalin' the 
 mane dog. When he knows she hates tl sight uv him, 
 what right have he to be persecutin' her this way?" 
 
 When he reached the hill from which Hugh Kearney 
 watched Dr. Kiely's carriage as it disappeared in the dis- 
 tance, Mat Donovan turned round to take another look at 
 the " little house under the hill," and started on seeing the 
 dragoon in conversation with a woman near the gate. 
 
 "Oh!" he exclaimed, after looking at them for some 
 time, "she has a light-coloured gownd on her. 'Tis Peg 
 Brady." 
 
 CHAPTER LVII. 
 
 A GREAT EVBSfT. TOMMY LAHY ! S ACCOMPLISHMENTS. ARTHUR 
 
 A GREAT event has happened in Knocknagow this still 
 summer day. Nearly all the men, and most of the women, 
 are out in the meadows mowing and "saving" the hay; or 
 cutting and "footing" turf in the bog. There is a drowsy 
 silence over the hamlet, only broken by the ring of the 
 blacksmith's anvil, or the occasional shrill crowing of a cock, 
 filling tho heart with an oppressive sense of loneliness, if 
 not with forebodings of evil Mrs. Donovan is sitting at the 
 foot of the cherry tree watching her bees. She has had no
 
 504 KNOCKNAGOW ; Sl'.\ 
 
 less than four swarms within the past week, every one of 
 them so considerate and accommodating as to lodge within 
 the bounds of the clipped hedge, not following the example 
 of the earliest swarm this year, which swept away like a 
 cloud over Tom Hogan's farm, never stopping till they 
 passed Attorney Hanly's grove, and to the great delight of 
 Miss Rose who, in common with all the world, looked upon 
 such a visit as a sign of good luck precipitated themselves 
 into a rose-bush under the drawing-room window. And 
 when Nelly Donovan came up out of breath, making a 
 frightful clatter, by means of an old kettle and a poker 
 for Nelly was keen of eye and swift of foot, and never lost 
 sight of the truants till they dipped beyond the fir grove 
 Rose ran out to show her where they were all in a lump in 
 the middle of the rose-tree. Joe Russel was despatched for 
 the new hive, which Mrs. Donovan had already smeared 
 with honey on the inside, and fixed peeled sally switches 
 across it to keep the new combs from falling down ; while 
 Lowry brought a sieve from the barn to place under the hive 
 when the bees were shaken into it, and Rose produced a 
 white table-cloth to wrap around it; and Nelly Donovan 
 went home rejoicing with the swarm, which her mother had 
 given up for lost. 
 
 And now Mrs. Donovan sits under the cherry-tree, watch- 
 ing her fifth swarm, hanging like a great sheep's grey stock- 
 ing from the branch of a currant-bush ; though when they broke 
 away from the parent hive, they whirled round and round in 
 the wildest commotion, as if henceforth bent upon leading a 
 life of lawlessness and anarchy, but suddenly changed their 
 minds and dropped into the currant-bush, clustering about 
 their lawful queen, and showing every symptom of spending 
 their days in harmony and industry within the four hedges 
 of Mat Donovan's little garden of course taking frequent 
 excursions to the purple-heather on the bog, and to Maurice 
 Kearney's clover-field, and to the yellow " bouchelauns" that 
 flourished so abundantly upon Mr. Beresford Fender's farm, 
 and even raised their heads at the very threshold of cow- 
 house and barn, to the great delight of old Phil Morris, 
 who chuckled over this pleasant prospect when he paid his 
 periodical visits to the three poplar trees on the hill. 
 
 Some children have what they call a "cobby" under the
 
 OR, THE BOMBS OF TIPPERARY. 
 
 hedge at the road-side. But the place being quite dry, and the 
 grass green and fresh, and no mud within reach, a little girl 
 has been dispatched for a saucepan of water to manufacture 
 dirt without which enjoyment is out of the question. The 
 pool outside Kit Cuinmins's door is so dried up, that the pig 
 by the hardest rooting and rubbing and crushing, has only 
 been able to bear away a single patch of an inky composi- 
 tion about a foot in diameter upon a prominent part of Iu3 
 person ; so the saucepan had to be filled from Kit's wash- 
 tub, the contents of which were the most suitable for the 
 purpose intended, next to the pool outside .the door. And 
 the little girl, coming back with her saucepan full, announced 
 to her companions the event which we have referred to 
 at the beginning of this chapter. Nelly Donovan heard 
 the child's words, and flinging down the bee-hive which 
 she was making ready for the reception of the swarm in 
 the currant-bush, ran out upon the road, and turning 
 the corner of the clipped hedge, looked down the hill. 
 And then Nelly Donovan flung up her arms as high as 
 she possibly could, and clapped her hands above her head. 
 Her mother rose from her seat under the cherry-tree and 
 went out upon the road, too, and, looking down the hill, 
 raised her hands, but not in a wild way like Nelly, while a 
 smile lighted up her sad face. Kit Cummins stopped short 
 in the very middle of an oration, which she was delivering 
 for behoof of her next-door neighbour to whom she could 
 address herself at any moment through the thin partition, 
 without interrupting her ordinary avocations. The next- 
 door neighbour, not possessing the gift of eloquence, usually 
 contented herself, when the orator paused for breath, with a 
 " Gir-r-r-out, you bla'guard ! " in a key more or less shrill ac- 
 cording to the sharpness of the attack, and rising to a shriek 
 after a home-thrust more stinging than usual. On the pre 
 sent occasion, she was in the act of drawing a long breath 
 preparatory to throwing an extra amount of defiance into 
 the exaspiratory response, when she raised her head and 
 looked about her in complete and utter bewilderment. Kit 
 Cummins had stopped short in the very middle of a scorch- 
 ing sentence, having reference to the next-door neighbour's 
 grandmother, and there was a dead silence ! 
 
 " Is she afther dhroppin' in a fit?" thought the next-door 
 neighbour. 2
 
 KNOCKNAGOW j 
 
 She ran to the door; and there was Kit Cummins looking 
 down the hill, her face radiant with pleasure. The next- 
 door neighbour advanced a step or two into the road, and 
 immediately seemed to catch the radiant look from Kit, who 
 turned round and began talking to her in the most affec- 
 tionate manner imaginable; and both returned to their 
 respective domiciles like turtles. The anvil was silent for a 
 moment, and Brummagem's begrimed face was seen at the 
 forge door, shining with delight and surprise. In fact, there 
 was at least one smiling face at every door of the hamlet 
 that had not a padlock upon it, betokening that the inmates- 
 were all in the meadows or at the bog. 
 
 Norah Lahy was out ! That 's what the little girl an- 
 nounced to her companions under the hedge. 
 
 And Nelly Donovan ran out upon the road and clapped her 
 hands; and her mother followed her; and Kit Cummins and 
 her neighbour forgot the fierce war they were waging, and 
 exchanged friendly words of mutual joy and thankfulness; 
 and Brummagem grinned; and every face from the cross to- 
 Mat Donovan's was lighted up with gladness ; and Norah, 
 sitting in her straw chair under the beech tree, saw it all, 
 and, bending down her head, wept tears happy tears of 
 gratitude. 
 
 God bless them, every one ! Whatever be their faults,. 
 the want of loving hearts is not one of them. 
 
 And the news has somehow reached Maurice Kearney's- 
 meadow on the side of the hill ; for the sweep of the scythes- 
 has suddenly ceased, and the row of mowers, with Mat 
 Donovan at their head, have turned quickly round, like so 
 many tall pikemen at drill, and looked down towards the 
 beech-tree. And three girls who were turning the hay threw 
 down their forks, and ran headlong to the double-ditch, and 
 standing on the top of it, waved their straw bonnets in the 
 air. Then there was a shrill shout of laughter from the 
 girls, and a deep roar from the mowers. For Barney 
 Brodherick was plain to be seen, on his way from Kilthub- 
 ber, standing with a foot on each shaft of his blue cart, and 
 keeping Bobby at full gallop there being no occasion* 
 whatever for hurry to-day. And on coming to the beech- 
 tree, Barney uttered that sound with his lips, which, when 
 addressed to a donkey, signifies " stand," so loudly and so-
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 507 
 
 suddenly, that Bobby stopped up as if he had come in con- 
 tact with a stone wall; and Barney executed an involuntary 
 somersault out over Bobby's ears. 
 
 _ " Thanum-own-dioul, Norah !" exclaimed Barney, gathering 
 himself up, as if his ordinary and usual mode of alighting 
 was upon the crown of his head, " is id there you are !" 
 
 "Yes, Barney," she replied with a smile; "I felt so much 
 better to-day I thought I might venture to sit outside for a 
 while, 'tis so fine." 
 
 "Begob, I thought I'd never see you there agin, Norah," 
 returned Barney. " When May-day, an' all the fine weather 
 passed over, an' I never see you out, I gev you up. Would 
 you like pig-nuts, Norah?" 
 
 " I don't think I could eat them, Barney." 
 
 Barney scratched his head, quite puzzled to think what he 
 could present her with, or do for her, as a proof of his 
 regard. " Begob," he exclaimed at last, " if Tommy was at 
 home I'd show him a thrish's nest an' five young ones in 
 id." 
 
 "Ah, poor Tom," said Norah and her eyes glistened as 
 she looked up at the beech-tree, " I wonder where is he now, 
 or what is he doing." 
 
 Her mother, who had just come out, with the book Norah 
 had been reading, glanced up through the branches, too, and 
 then, sitting down on the bench at the foot of the tree, buried 
 her face in her apron, and burst into tears. 
 
 " Och! where is he now," she cried, "an' what is he doin'? 
 Where is his rosy cheeks, an' his curly head, an' his laughiu' 
 blue eyes? I'm afeard I used to scowld him too much, 
 Norah, on account uv the climbin'. But, sure, 'twas for his 
 good I was; for, the Lord be tune us an' all harm, 'tis of en 
 an'of'en I thought I'd find him in a pancake on this flag I'm 
 sittin' on. But what's breakin' my heart is the way I used 
 to shut my fist an' hit him on the bare skull, when I 'd be 
 rightly vexed. I don't mind the wollopin's at all, Norah ; 
 'tis the knuckles rappin' on his curly head that 's killin' me. 
 Oh, if I had him now, 'tis I 'd be glad to see a piece of his 
 breeches flyin' on the top uv every three in the parish ; an' 
 'tis I that wouldn't scowld him, or wollup him, or put dead 
 bells in his ears wud a clout, as I know I of en done. An' 
 above all, Norah, T 'd novor knock cracks out uv his curly
 
 008 KNOCKNAGOW j 
 
 head wud my knuckles ; for nothin' ever med him roar but 
 that. An' where is he now ? An' what is he doin' ? Oh, 
 Norah, avoorneen, whatever made me lay a hand on him? 
 For 'twas he was the good warrant to have an' eye to the 
 shop, or run uv a message, an' to mind his book an' his cate- 
 chism. An' 'twould do any wan's heart good to hear him 
 whistlin'. Billy Heffernan never played a tune that he 
 couldn't whistle afther him. An' I see him wud my own 
 eyes bringin' the birds down out uv the sky." 
 
 This recital of Tommy's accomplishments made Norah 
 smile through her tears, and she said cheerfully 
 
 "Well, mother, sure we ought to be glad that he is 
 landed safe, and that Uncle Larry is so good to him." 
 
 "That's thrue, alanna," returned Honor, rising from her 
 seat, and drying her eyes with her check apron. "Tis 
 thankful we ought to be to have such fine prospects before 
 him. Is that the right book I 'm afther bringin' you ? Or 
 maybe 'tis the wan wud the goold letters on the cover you 
 want ?" 
 
 "No, mother, this is the right one." 
 
 "Begob, I must hurry an' tell Miss Mary you're out, 
 Norah," exclaimed Barney. " An' 'tis she '11 be ready to lep 
 out uv her skin." 
 
 "Thank you, Barney," said Norah. "And tell her I 
 won't be sure I 'm out at all, or that the sun is shining on 
 me, till I see her." 
 
 "Come, Bobby," shouted Barney, "don't let the ^'rass 
 grow ondher your feetj" and he ran on by the donkey's 
 side, blowing an imaginary horn, and in as great a state of 
 excitement as if he had descried a ballad-singer or a Puiich- 
 and-Judy in the distance. 
 
 But surely Billy Heffernan must have taken leave of his 
 senses ! At least his mule must think so. For while she 
 was jogging on quietly, with a great pile of bog-stuiu|>s 
 heaped upon her car, her master rushed at her, and jerked tho 
 rein, and told her to " come on out of that," just as if she 
 had been setting back into Flanagan's Hole, instead of jog- 
 ging on at a steady pace by the beech-tree opposite Phil 
 Lahy's door. And Billy kept hold of the winkers, and pulled 
 Kit on till he came to his own door, never giving a second 
 look towards the beech-tree, and making believe that he
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPP^RARl'. 509 
 
 had not looked towards it at all. Then taking the key from 
 the hole under the thatch, he let himself in, and sitting on 
 the antediluvian block by the fireless hearth, buried his face 
 in his hands. 
 
 "Glory be to God!" he exclaimed, with a deep sigh, "I 
 thought I'd never see her there again. My heart leaped up 
 into my mouth when I see her sittin' in the ould place, an' 
 her hair hangin' down over the book she was readin'. I don't 
 know how I can make up my mind to talk to her at all. But 
 I'll purtind to no thin', just as if I thought she was out every 
 day. But who are those coming down the road! "he con- 
 tinued, on reaching the door. "Begor, ay; 'tis Miss Mary, 
 an' Miss Anne, an' Miss Ellie, an' Mister Hugh. Ay, faith, 
 an' that's Father Carroll an' Misther Edmund Kiely wud 'em. 
 I have no business down now, as they'll be sure to stop and 
 talk to her. So I may as well haul in the stumps." 
 
 Xot only were they sure to stop and talk to her, but they 
 had come out for no other purpose. For when Barney an- 
 nounced that Xorah was sitting under the beech-tree, and 
 that she couldn't be sure the sun was shining on her till Miss 
 Mary saw her, Mary started up quite in a flurry, and would 
 hardly wait for Anne and Ellie, who were tying on their 
 bonnets as fast as ever they could. They met Hugh and 
 Edmund and Father Carroll coming from the meadow 
 where Edmund had jumped over a pitchfork laid on the 
 shoulders of Tom Maher and Jim Dunn and, as they all 
 felt an interest in Norah Lahy, they turned back with Mary 
 when she told them where she was going. 
 
 And when Norah looked up from her book and met Mary's 
 mild glance, what a picture it was ! Poor Norah had a 
 hard struggle to keep back the tears; and Mary, in order to 
 give her time to recover herself, took up Norah's book and 
 handed it to Edmund with a smile. Edmund smiled and 
 nodded his head after looking at the title-page; and then 
 Mary handed the book to Hugh. And Hugh looked and 
 looked at Norah Lahy's book, while a smile lighted up that 
 "strong "face of his, and the soft light came into his dark 
 eyca. Norah's name was written in the book, and under 
 it " From her friend, Grace Kiely." 
 
 Ellie stole into the house for a quiet talk with the old 
 linnet. She wanted to know did the old linnet remember
 
 510 KXOCKNAGOWj 
 
 Tommy, and whispered the question softly through the 
 wires of his cage. And the old linnet held his head know- 
 ingly on one side, and muttered something down his throat, 
 which Ellie interpreted into "To be sure I do. Do you think 
 I could forget poor Tommy?" And then Ellie fixed a bit of 
 sugar between the wires, and turned round to jump down 
 from the chair upon which she was standing, when she saw 
 Honor Lahy's face all aglow with pleasure and affection 
 notwithstanding the tears in her eyes looking up at her. 
 And before Ellie could jump down, she was caught round 
 the waist and folded in Honor Lahy's arms. 
 
 "My own darlin' child," exclaimed Honor, "that poor 
 Tommy would lay down his life for. For 'twas of'en he 
 said there wasn't wan uv 'em like Miss Ellie." 
 
 " The poor fellow !" returned Ellie when she was set free, 
 " he was so generous and good." 
 
 " His uncle," returned Honor, " sent him to a great school, 
 and he says if he has sinse he has fine prospects before him." 
 
 "He will have sense," rejoined Ellie seriously; "for I 
 don't think he ever did anything wrong, except pulling the 
 tails out of the robins." 
 
 "Yes, Miss," returned Honor, "an' Father M'Mahon 
 couldn't get him down in the General Catechism, though 
 'the best method 'was the first question he axed him. But 
 if he was at him for a month he couldn't get Tommy down, 
 from 'who made the world 1 ?' to 'so be it.' Then he tackled 
 at him wud the 'Christian Doctrine,' but Tommy was able 
 for him at that too. An' thin Father M'Mahon said he was 
 the best boy in his parish. That was the day they wor 
 gettin' their tickets for Confirmation; an' what do you think 
 but I went into the chapel afeard uv my life that Tommy 
 might be cast. An' more fool I was, for he was the best uv 
 the whole uv 'em. Jacky Ryan passed, though he gev a 
 wrong answer. ' "What is Matrimony?" says Father M'Mahon. 
 An' as bould as you plase, Jacky makes answer, 'A place or 
 state of punishment where some sowls suffer for a time be- 
 fore they can go to heaven.' Faith I thought 'twas the right 
 answer, he spoke up so independent, till I see the school- 
 master thryin' to keep from laughin'. 'What is Matrimony?' 
 says Father M'Mahon agin, very slow an' solemn. 'A place 
 or state of punishment where some sowls suffer for a time
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 511 
 
 ^before they can go to heaven,' says Jacky again. 'Give 
 Jacky Ryan his ticket,' says Father Hannigan. An' whin 
 Father M'Mahon held up his hand to stop the schoolmaster 
 that was writin' the tickets, Father Hannigan said the boy 
 was right, that he see no difference between Matrimony and 
 Purgatory, and 'tis many a sinsible man would agree wud him. 
 :So Jacky Ryan got his ticket. I 'm afeard," added Honor, 
 -with a sigh, " the same Jacky will come to no good. He 
 put a red poker on Kit Cummins's cat's nose for comin' about 
 his maggidy. An' whin Frisky jumped over the half-door 
 wud an ould gallon tied to his tail t'other evenin', I said it 
 was Jacky Ryan's work though indeed I can't say I 'm sure 
 uvid." 
 
 Mrs. Lahy was interrupted by Mary, who came in in search 
 of Ellie. 
 
 " My goodness, Ellie," she said, " I thought you were 
 lost. They are all half-ways home, arid I have come back to 
 look for you." 
 
 Father Carroll was alone when she came up with him, 
 Hugh having gone to the forge to see about the pointing of 
 some pitchforks for the haymaking, and Edmund and Anne 
 being wholly occupied with what Mat Donovan called " going 
 on." 
 
 "This is a letter I got this morning from Arthur O'Con- 
 nor," said Father Carroll. " I had some conversation with 
 his mother about him; but she is very unreasonable." 
 
 " Why does he not come home?" Mary asked. 
 
 "Why should he?" returned Father Carroll, looking afc 
 her in surprise. 
 
 " Is it not for this diocese he is ordained?" 
 
 " Ordained ? He 's not ordained at all, nor can he be for 
 some time." 
 
 " Why, Anne mentioned to me in one of her letters that 
 he was," said Mary. "One of her school-fellows saw him in 
 Paris." 
 
 " Oh, 'tis a mistake," Father Carroll replied. 
 
 Mary called to her sister and asked her for an explana- 
 tion. But Anne could only repeat what her friend had said 
 to her. 
 
 " The students wear vestments and assist at some cere- 
 monies before they are ordained," said Father Carroll. "That's
 
 512 KXOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 how the mistake arose. His health has broken down, and 
 though he says now he has his mind made up to be a priest, 
 it is still doubtful, I think, whether he ever will be one." 
 
 " Oh, I am so sorry," Mary exclaimed, with something like 
 a wail of pain. "But hadn't he his mind always made up to 
 be a priest?" 
 
 " Well, no," he replied. " He always had doubts and 
 scruples about his vocation. His ideas of the mission of a 
 priest are very high, and he feared his motives were not the 
 true ones. But why do you appear so distressed? He is not 
 the first ecclesiastical student who has changed his mind; 
 and surely you don't think there would be anything wrong 
 in it?" 
 
 " Oh, but don't you know what they said?" And she put 
 her arm in his, as if asking for his support. 
 
 "Yes that it was your doing," he replied with a smile. 
 "Well, you may set your mind at rest on that point, for he 
 often discussed the subject with me before he ever saw you. 
 And 'tis only since he went to Paris that he even thought it 
 at all likely that he could ever be a priest. He says now 
 his scruples are nearly all removed. But I fear his health 
 must have broken down. I am very anxious about him." 
 
 It was a relief to her to think that she was not, even 
 innocently, the cause of turning any one from what she 
 deemed so high and holy a mission. But then came the 
 thought that Arthur O'Connor was not a priest, and never 
 might be a priest at all ; and Father Carroll felt her arm 
 trembling within his. And as he glanced at her face, which 
 was deathly pale, and saw the quick heaving of her bosom, 
 he -was convinced that the happiness of Mary Kearney's 
 life perhaps her very life depended upon either of two 
 contingencies that Arthur O'Connor should become a priest, 
 or her husband. And as her arm pressed more and more 
 heavily upon his, Father Carroll resolved that he would be 
 her friend, though he did not betray, even by a look that 
 he noticed her agitation. 
 
 " Anne is a great flirt," said he, nodding towards that lively 
 young lady, who was keeping up the "going on" at a tre- 
 mendous rate. 
 
 " Oh, she's awful," returned Mary. 
 
 " You are not bad yourself, either."
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPBRABT. 513 
 
 " I was obliged to try. People were setting me down as 
 stupid. And you know 'tis as good to be out of the world 
 as out of the fashion." She spoke quite cheerfully; but 
 immediately fell into a reverie again. 
 
 "But has your heart never been really touched?" 
 
 She bent her head, and a carnation flush suffused her pale 
 cheek. "Well, I think not," she answered hesitatingly. 
 "Though Grace," she added more cheerfully, "was always 
 insisting that I was in a sad way about the gentleman we 
 had here at Christmas." 
 
 "I'd rather expect it was Edmund she would be throwing 
 at you; and you had him at the same time, I believe." 
 
 " Oh, no; Mr. Lowe was gone before Edmund came. And, 
 strange to say, Grace scarcely ever talked about Edmund in 
 that way. I suspect she wanted him to be an admirer of 
 mine, and found he was thinking of somebody else." 
 
 " Well, I know when I asked him to come here with me 
 he jumped eagerly at the offer. So take care that you do 
 not get inside Miss Delany." 
 
 "Is there anything serious in that?" 
 
 "Well, she is a great prize in every way, but I doubt 
 whether Edmund is very anxious to win her." 
 
 "I saw her once or*twice, and thought her quite fasci- 
 nating; though I ought to be very prejudiced against her." 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 " Well," replied Mary, laughing, " she described me as a 
 plain country-girl, very shabbily dressed." 
 
 " Oh, she was only jealous. She thought you had designs 
 on Edmund." 
 
 "That's the gentleman," said Mary, after returning Mr. 
 Bob Lloyd's salute, as he rode past them, " who proposed for 
 Eva. Every one was astonished when she refused such a 
 grand offer ; and no one so much as his own family. They 
 insisted at first that all sorts of traps were set for him by us; 
 but, strange to say, they were quite indignant when he was 
 rejected. It was a real case of love at first sight, for he only 
 saw her the evening she and the doctor came for Grace. 
 Grace likes him," she added, " and says that a young poet 
 has turned Eva's head. But I am almost sure Eva will be a 
 nun. She is too good and gentle for the rough world." 
 
 " I saw Grace last week," said Father Carroll, " and wa
 
 514 ENOCKNAGOW; 
 
 surprised to see her so changed. She was a little woman 
 when I saw her before ;, but now she is quite girlish. She 
 blushed and seemed quite timid and confused, when I re- 
 minded her of some of her sayings." 
 
 " So Hugh told me," said Mary. " He saw her when he 
 "went with Ellie to the convent. But he says she is not so 
 pretty as she was. Ah, Grace is very good," Mary added, 
 with a sigh. "She kept us all alive; and she did not forget 
 to send the book to poor Norah Lahy, though at first she 
 -could scarcely bear to think of her. Grace is very sensitive. 
 She feels either joy or grief intensely; but she can conquer 
 her feelings from a sense of duty." 
 
 " She will never be happy unless she has a mission," said 
 Anne, who had waited for them at the gate. 
 
 " Every one can have that," returned Mary. " But who 
 is that talking to my father?" 
 
 "It is that old Mr. Fender, the agent," her sister answered. 
 
 Mary looked grave. She feared that old Isaac's visits, 
 ^vhich were unusually frequent now, boded no good. She 
 had questioned Hugh about them, but he evaded the subject. 
 It was plain to her, however, that some heavy trouble was 
 weighing upon Hugh's mind; and at times she even feared 
 his health was giving way, he looked so weary and worn. 
 In one sense thes) apprehensions did her good, for they kept 
 her from dwelling upon her own unhappiness. But when 
 she felt her heart sinking at the thought that a great 
 calamity was hanging over them, she would remember Norah 
 Lahy, and be strong. 
 
 GH AFTER LVIIL 
 
 FATHER CARROLL'S HOARDINGS. 
 
 '"You look dreadfully cut up," said Father Carroll, as he 
 looked into Arthur O'Connor's pallid face. " Have you read 
 too hard? Or is there anything on your mind?" 
 
 " Dr. Kiely asked me the same questions," Arthur re- 
 plied.
 
 On, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 51,5 
 
 " And what does he say about your health f 
 
 " Well, he says 'tis not gone too far ; but that I must 
 take care of myaelf." 
 
 His face, always pale, was now fearfully emaciated, and 
 of a wax-like whiteness that contrasted painfully with his 
 long black hair and dark grey eyes. But the fretted look 
 the "oldness" which Grace had remarked was gone; and a 
 bright happy look had taken its place. The mental struggle 
 that had so long racked him was at an end. He -^yas 
 resolved to become a priest; but the doctors had insisted 
 upon his suspending his studies, and returning for some time 
 to his native air. His mother was filled with remorse when 
 she saw him so changed, and now ran into the other extreme, 
 and declared that he should never return to college again. 
 But Arthur smiled a sweeter smile, she thought, than she 
 had seen upon his lips for years and said he would be all 
 right in a few weeks. He had brought a letter from the 
 president of the college to an eminent ecclesiastic in Dublin, 
 by whose counsel he was to be guided. He delivered the 
 letter, and, after a long conversation, this eminent divine said 
 his case was a peculiar one, and that he would give him his 
 opinion by letter in a few days. The letter had not yet 
 come, and Father Carroll awaited its arrival more impatiently 
 than the student himself. 
 
 " Let us have a stroll to the Priest's Walk," said Arthur. 
 " I feel quite strong this evening." 
 
 "Are you not afraid of the opera-glass and the ladies?" 
 Father Carroll asked. 
 
 " Oh, I don't mind it," replied Arthur smiling. " I can 
 stand any amount of 'the light that lies in woman's eyes' 
 without wincing now." 
 
 They passed over the weir, through which the clear water 
 leaped, with almost the swiftness of light; having suddenly 
 changed its gently gliding motion into a bound, as if it 
 feared the slanting walls of moss-covered stones would close 
 together like a gate, and bar its way to the ocean. They 
 passed through the meadow by the river-side and into the 
 Priest's Walk. The rooks were cawing in the tall trees 
 over their heads, and a rabbit popped now and then from 
 their path into the cover at either side. It was a lonely, 
 dreamy sort cf place, calculated to fill the mind with
 
 516 KN'OCKNAGOW; 
 
 romantic or religious musings. And the robust, sun-ruddied 
 priest, and the pale, sickly student paced up and down for 
 fully a quarter of an hour without exchanging a word. 
 
 " A call," said Father Carroll. " Here is Tom Doherty." 
 
 But, to his great relief, Tom Doherty only handed a letter 
 to Arthur, and walked back to the weir, without speaking. 
 
 "No bad news, I hope?" said the priest, on remarking the 
 troubled look the old fretted look come into the student's 
 face. 
 
 " It is from Dr. ," he replied, handing him the letter. 
 
 " I agree with him," said Father Carroll, after reading it. 
 
 "But I told him my scruples were all gone," said Arthur. 
 
 " No matter; as he says you were driven by the force of 
 circumstances to it. You were always hoping for some means 
 of escape. If, at any time in your life, you felt a real desire 
 to be a priest, independently of circumstances, it would be 
 different. But you never did. So, in God's name, give it 
 up, and think of something else." 
 
 "But what can I think of now 1 ?" 
 
 " Well, the medical profession is the best for you. It is 
 a noble profession, and will, at worst, secure you an humble 
 competence. But I warn yoJ,"he added, laughing, "you 
 will have to work hard for your bread. And, perhaps, so 
 much the better." 
 
 " Indolence and pride were always my besetting sins," the 
 student replied. " I never could work without an immediate 
 motive." 
 
 " And surely the motive is not wanting now ?" 
 
 "That's true," he answered, with a weary sigh. " I owe 
 it to my mother and family." 
 
 Father Carroll thought of Mary Kearney's pale face and 
 trembling hand, and was on the point of asking whether it 
 ever occurred to him that there might be even a stronger 
 motive for exertion than that he had just mentioned; but 
 any reference to the subject yet awhile might, he thought, 
 be premature, and he was silent. 
 
 They continued to walk up and down in silence, while the 
 rooks crowded thicker and thicker in the trees, and the white 
 tails of the rabbits twinkled more frequently among the 
 withered grass, as the sun shot his last red rays through the 
 wood.
 
 OR, THE HOMKS OF TIPPERARY. 517 
 
 There was such a rush and scamper among the rabbits 
 a little in front of them that both looked up in surprise. 
 Two beautiful girls wearing broad straw hats turned into 
 the walk from a footpath through the wood, and as they 
 bowed to Father Carroll, and then glanced at his companion, 
 the laughing light in their " eyes of most unholy blue," 
 changed suddenly to an expression of mingled surprise and 
 sorrow. They had often inquired of Father Carroll for the 
 student whom they called St. Kevin, he took so much pains 
 to avoid them in his walks. It is possible they had come 
 through the wood for the sole purpose of seeing him; but 
 the alteration in him filled them with pity and sympathy. 
 
 " Those are Major French's daughters," Father Carroll 
 observed when they had passed. " It is their pictures Sir 
 Garrett Butler painted when they were children, as Mrs. 
 Hayes told you." 
 
 " I remember," returned Arthur, coldly. " But I thought 
 they might be the steward's or gamekeeper's daughters," 
 
 " Do you still hold to your old prejudice against farmer's 
 daughters'!" Father Carroll asked, laughing. 
 
 " Well, not exactly," Arthur answered. " At least I be- 
 lieve there are some exceptions to the rule." A slight flush 
 suffused his pale face as he spoke, and his friend was about 
 rallying him upon it, but again checked himself. 
 
 As they repassed the weir, the trout were leaping at the 
 flies, and they loitered for a few minutes to watch them. 
 
 " What an evening this would be for Edmund Kiely," 
 Arthur observed. " He is a genuine disciple of Isaac 
 Walton." 
 
 " Or Hugh Kearney," returned Father Carroll. " I havo 
 been trying to induce him to spend some days with me, but 
 it is impossible to pull him away from home. He is like his 
 sister Mary in that respect." 
 
 "Does not she go much from home?" 
 
 " Scarcely ever. I sometimes wish I had a big parish and 
 a big house, and I'd insist upon her spending some time with 
 me occasionally." 
 
 " The woman that can be happy in her own home is the 
 best woman," said Arthur. 
 
 "That is quite true. But it might be carried too far. 
 I'm inclined to think a -discontented spirit may keep young
 
 518 KNOCKNAGOW; 
 
 people too much at home, as well as drive them too much 
 from it. But I 'm far from suspecting that to be the case 
 with Mary Kearney. She so loves every one and everything 
 about her, I am sure she is really happy at home. But 
 don't you wonder that so remarkably beantiful and superior 
 a girl is not snatched at as a prize 1 She would adorn any 
 station." 
 
 " How do you account for it?" Arthur asked. 
 
 " Well, men generally require some encouragement before 
 they will run the risk of being refused ; and Mary does not 
 give the encouragement. And she really has declined two 
 very good offers. I think she is likely to become a nun." 
 
 " I 'm told her sister intends going into a convent, too." 
 
 " Yes ; she always intended it ; though she seems fitter 
 for the world than Mary. Do you think is Edmund Kiely 
 engaged in any way ? It has even occurred to me that he is 
 actually married, but wants to keep it private." 
 
 " No, he is not," Arthur replied. " But he has some 
 romantic business on hands that I can't make out." 
 
 " Come the grass is quite wet, and it would not do for 
 you to remain out under the dew." 
 
 During the evening they discussed Arthur's plans for the 
 future ; and, before retiring to his room, he all but had his 
 mind made up to take his friend's advice, and commence the 
 study of medicine at once. 
 
 " But there is another difficulty in the way," he said, 
 " which it is unpleasant to reflect upon." 
 
 " What is that?" Father Carroll asked. 
 
 "Money," returned Arthur. "After the sacrifices my 
 mother has made on my account, I don't know how I can 
 encroach farther upon her narrow means ; particularly as I 
 have disappointed her hopes. And you know what import- 
 ance she attaches to keeping up appearances." 
 
 "Well, I have not overlooked that," rejoined Father Carroll. 
 " But I think we -can manage." He stood up, and, open- 
 ing the mahogany desk with the brass handles, took a small 
 drawer from the inside, and emptied its contents upon the 
 table. There were a few sovereigns and half-sovereigns, and 
 several rolls of bank-notes, some worn and faded, and some 
 white and crisp, appearing at first sight to represent quite a 
 formidable sum, but being all one-pound and thirty-shilling
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 
 
 notes, Father Carroll found to his disappointment that his 
 hoardings scarcely amounted to one hundred pounds. He 
 had not given himself a holiday since his short visit to 
 Tramore with Arthur and Edmund Kiely, and had taken to 
 hoarding with two objects in view the furnishing and fitt- 
 ing-up of his cottage, and a visit to Rome. Rolling all the- 
 notes into one bundle, he tossed them across the table. 
 
 "It is only ninety-three pounds," said he; " but it will do- 
 lor awhile. And before that is spent, Fortune may prove 
 more liberal of her favours." 
 
 Arthur O'Connor stared in amazement at his friend. He 
 knew Father Carroll was a good fellow, in the best sense of 
 the word. But so great a sacrifice as he knew this must be he 
 was unprepared for. Arthur O'Connor was particularly sen- 
 sitive on the score of pecuniary obligations, and his whole 
 nature revolted against the acceptance of the money. He 
 never could bear to be in debt. Even in his boyhood he- 
 could not take money from the kind old priest with whom he 
 used to spend a few weeks of his vacation in that old cot- 
 tage. He was deeply moved by his friend's generosity. But 
 he glared at the bundle of notes upon the table before him, 
 almost with a feeling of loathing. 
 
 Father Carroll, guessing his thoughts which it was easy 
 enough to do said, " It is your duty to take it." 
 
 " But I may never be able to repay you," returned Arthur,, 
 almost angrily. 
 
 " You will And your desire to get out of debt will be an 
 additional incentive to exertion. Don't think so much about 
 it. You must sometimes do violence to yourself if you mean 
 to get on. I believe over-sensitiveness of that sort has pre- 
 vented much good from being done in the world has been 
 the one fatal obstacle to many a useful and brilliant career." 
 
 There was a silence of some minutes ; and the student, 
 resting his elbows upon the table, clasped his slender hands- 
 over his pale forehead. 
 
 " Don't think I am merely acting upon impulse," said 
 Father Carroll; on the contrary, if I did not do what I 
 have done, I might regret it all the days of my life." 
 
 He took one of the candles and went to bed. The second 
 was burning low in the socket when the student raised his- 
 head. He took the bundle of notes arid put them in his-
 
 520 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 pocket. But he said nothing about the matter that night, 
 or next day, or for years after. Neither shall we. 
 
 CHAPTER LIX. 
 
 ANOTHER EVENTFUL DAY. "MAGNIFICENT TIPPBRARY." 
 
 ANOTHER eventful day for Knocknagow. But there are no 
 smiling faces, and no clapping of hands except in grief 
 this time. The sheriff is out. Darby Ruadh is at the head 
 of the bailiffs, crying down tears as he hands out articles of 
 furniture to his assistants, telling them to " take 'em 'asy " 
 and not break them ; and actually obliged to turn away his 
 head and have recourse to a dirty cotton pocket-handker- 
 chief, which he carries in his hat, when he comes to a cradle 
 with an infant in it, or a sick woman too weak to rise from 
 her bed. Honest Darby's grief is only second to that of his 
 master, who declares over and over that it is " a very pain- 
 ful duty. A very painful duty. A very painful duty. But 
 what can I do? What can I do? What, what can I do?" 
 old Isaac asks. And many of the poor victims believe him. 
 Mat Donovan was almost the only person who uttered an 
 angry word. Mat Donovan's grandfather, as we have seen, 
 pitched his tent on a heap of stones and pool of water cut 
 off by the road from two adjoining estates belonging to 
 different landlords. And here now is Mat Donovan's house, 
 and the little garden with its clipped hedge, a warning to 
 Irish landlords to look sharp to heaps of stones and pools of 
 water, lest by any chance Irish peasants should convert 
 them into houses and gardens, and then have the hardihood 
 to call them their own. 
 
 But Mat Donovan's little field which supplied him with 
 potatoes and oats, and for which he paid a high rent, was 
 not a "freehold," and the sheriff has just handed Mr. Isaac 
 Fender a twig from the fence and a bit of stubble from the 
 ground; and old Isaac declares how sorry he is to be obliged 
 to deprive Mat Donovan of his " little garden." At which 
 Mat loses all patienfce, aud denounces the agent as a robber
 
 OR, THE HO-MES OF TIPPERAHY. 521 
 
 and a hypocrite, and gives it as his opinion that 'twas all 
 old Isaac's own doing, and not the landlord's. An unlucky 
 speech for Mat Donovan, as hereinafter shall appear. 
 
 And now they come to Tom Hogan's. A large force of police 
 range themselves in front of the house. The door is open, 
 and Darby Ruadh enters, looking flurried and excited, as if he 
 expected to be knocked down at any moment. He has 
 never forgotten the lesson he received from Bessy Morris's 
 father, and has ever since been very gentle in his way of 
 doing business, particularly where women and children are 
 concerned. Xancy Hogan is looking very pale, but so 
 beautiful that ior a moment Darby forgets everything else 
 in his admiration of her. Her mother is sitting upon a 
 stool, quite calm. The house is soon cleared, and mother 
 and daughter walk out quietly. Darby is obliged to have 
 recourse to the cotton pocket-handkerchief, he is so much 
 affected. He thought he would have been obliged to use vio- 
 lence, and is quite moved to find Mrs. Hogan so reasonable 
 and considerate. And now Tom Hogan himself walks into the 
 yard, and- won't see the police drawn up along the barn 
 that barn that is as good as Attorney Hanly's and better 
 than Maurice Kearney's nor the party of soldiers on the 
 road. Nancy covers her golden hair with her cloak ami 
 shades her face from their gaze. 
 
 " God save you, Darby," Tom Hogan says quietly, as h-i 
 walks towards the door. 
 
 Darby places his hand against Tom Hogan's breast, and 
 Jteeps him back. 
 
 "I was fencin' that gap Attorney Hanly's cows broko 
 through," Tom Hogan observes, "an' I'm goin' to niy 
 dinner." 
 
 Darby Ruadh pushes him out upon the road. The sherilt 
 and sub-inspector exchange looks and shake their heads. 
 Poor Tom Hogan has that imbecile smile upon his face 
 which is sometimes seen on the face of a helpless drunkard.. 
 
 " Good luck to you, Darby/' he says, " an' let me in ; [ 
 must finish that job to-day, as I '11 begin the ploughin' to- 
 morrow. There 'a nothin' like early ploughin'." 
 
 Some of those around looked surprised ; but Darby Ruadh 
 and Wat Corcoran understand the state of the case very 
 well. They have had repeated negotiations with Tom Hogan 
 
 2L
 
 522 KXOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 to induce him to give up possession, but he laughed at them, 
 as if it were a joke, and never lost an hour in the improve- 
 ment of that little farm in which his "heart was stuck." 
 
 " Never lose a day, Darby, whatever work you have on 
 hands. That's what stood to me always." 
 
 Poor Nancy could hold out no longer. She flung her arms 
 round his neck, and kissed his worn, hollow cheeks over and 
 over. 
 
 "0 father! dear father!" she cried, "have courage." 
 "Courage! "he repeated, staring vacantly around him, 
 "who could ever say that I hadn't courage? Hadn't I courage 
 to build them houses? Faith, Nancy, I always had the 
 courage at any rate." 
 
 " father," she exclaimed, " don't you see what 's after 
 happening ? Let us go away." 
 
 " What's afther happenin'?" he asked, with another vacant 
 stare on the crowd around him. "Where's Jemmy?" he 
 exclaimed suddenly, as his eye caught sight of the fixed 
 bayonets and red uniforms behind him. "Where is Jemmy? 
 Jemmy is the boy that wouldn't let any wan lay a hand on 
 me." 
 
 And where is Jemmy 7 
 
 He clutches his musket at the command to "charge!" and 
 his shout clear and thrilling as when the ball was struck 
 to the goal and Knocknagow had won mingles with the 
 wild hurrah that rises even above the cannon's roar. The 
 general, surrounded by his staff, watches anxiously for what 
 is to follow. The result of the battle hangs upon that charge. 
 For a moment the bayonets flash in the hot sun, as they rush 
 through the storm of iron hail that tears through their ranks; 
 and then friend and foe are lost in a thick, white cloud, and 
 the thunder is hushed. And, as the white cloud rolls away, 
 the general's eyes flash fire, as, raising himself in his stirrups, 
 and flinging his arm wildly above his head, he shouts 
 "Magnificent Tipperary!" 
 
 The day is won! England is victorious! 
 There is hot Tipperary blood gushing out upon the thirsty 
 plain; and where the fight was deadliest, Jemmy Hogan lies 
 mangled and bleeding. But there is one company of his 
 regiment which has not shared in the glories of that famous 
 tictory. It is drawn up with fixed bayonets before his
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 523 
 
 father's door at old Knocknagow; while the house in which 
 Jemmy Hogan was born is being levelled with the ground ! 
 
 Magnificent Tipperary! 
 
 Tom Hogan looks wildly around him now. He is startled 
 by a loud crashing sound that seemed to come from the 
 yard. It was the first crush of the crow-bar through the 
 wall of the dear old home. And it went right through Tom 
 Hogan's heart, and broke it ! 
 
 Tom Gary, the carpenter, caught the poor old man in 
 his arms as he fell senseless to the ground. 
 
 " Let us bring him up to my house, Tom," said Mat 
 Donovan, " till he comes to himse'f." 
 
 " Wouldn't it be betther," returned Tom Gary, " to bring 
 him down, as they 're all goin' to stop wud me for a start, 
 an' have him settled in the bed before he sees any more uv 
 what's goin on 1 ?" 
 
 " You 're right, Tom," said Mat; " that's the best way." 
 
 They lifted poor Tom Hogan upon their shoulders, and 
 bore him away, followed by his wife and daughter, weeping 
 bitterly, but silently. 
 
 Half of Knocknagow is swept from the face of the earth. 
 There is one more house, a little higher up the hill, to be 
 pulled down, and then the day's work will be completed. 
 'Tis easily done. The walls are of clay, and the roof of sedge 
 from the bog ; and nothing to be thrown out but an old 
 wooden bedstead with a slanting roof like a house, a table 
 and block of Dogwood, a pot and an old gallon, two white 
 plates and a yellow jug. The mule's crib and the antedilu- 
 vian elk's horns are fixtures, and he must seek for them 
 among the ruins to-morrow if he wants them. 
 
 But he does not want them. He is not thinking of them, 
 or of anything else belonging to him ; or of himself. He is 
 out in the bog " cutting a sod." He has found a smooth, 
 soft patch of green among the heath, and carefully marking 
 out what he required having measured the length and 
 breadth with his feet he commences cutting it with his 
 spade; rolling it up like a thick carpet as he goes on. Heel- 
 ing his car close to it, he gets in the roll of greensward with 
 some difficulty, using his spade as a lever. And then, after 
 looking at the brown, spongy turf, which he has stripped of 
 its emerald covering, he lies down at full length upon it, with
 
 524 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 his face upon his arms, and wishes with all his heart that a 
 sod might grow over him. For the long-dreaded calamity 
 has come at last. Norah Lahy is dead. 
 
 This is Tuesday. On Sunday morning Honor Lahy sent 
 for him. He had only left the old house with the steep roof 
 an hour or two before, to prepare for Mass having spent 
 the whole night sitting in the chimney-corner, on the bench, 
 where he used to sit and play "Auld Lang Syne" for her. 
 And now he is prepared for the worst as he softly opens her 
 room door. 
 
 Mary Kearney is reading the Litany; and Nelly Donovan 
 kneels behind her, kissing a pair of embroidered slippers, upon 
 which her tears are falling thick and fast. Norah has "left" 
 her slippers to Nelly Donovan. Honor Lahy stands at the 
 head of the bed, watching, watching. A faint smile ripples 
 for an instant over the dying girl's lips, and the poor mother, 
 bending down, holds her ear close to them; and then turn- 
 ing quickly round sees that Billy Hefiernan is standing in- 
 side the door. Norah wishes Billy Heffernan to lay his hand 
 upon her forehead, and keep it there. Mary Kearney 
 whispers to her sister Ellie, who leaves the room, and soon 
 returns with the "blessed candle;" and as she has left the 
 door open, Phil Lahy is seen kneeling outside. His wife 
 beckons to him poor Norah's lips have again moved and 
 lie stands up and timidly approaches the bed, as if he feared 
 to be reproached for all the sorrow he had caused her. But 
 he is welcomed with a fond, fond look. And dropping upon 
 his knees, Phil Lahy forms the resolution to make a promise 
 that shall never be broken or evaded; a promise that she 
 never asked him to make, because (he used to say) she knew 
 his constitution required "a little nourishment;" but he 
 knows now that it was because she feared he would not have 
 the strength to keep it. 
 
 Mary places the lighted candle in the dying girl's hand, 
 keeping the wasted fingers closed upon it. 
 
 " I b'lieve she is gone," said Honor, in a low tone, and 
 with a look of the most intense anguish.. "O Norah, 
 Norah, are you gone from me at last?" But the eyelids 
 quivered, and again the lips trembled for a moment, and 
 then settled into a smile of heavenly sweetness. The smile 
 brightened over the whole face, as if a sunbeam had fallen
 
 OR, THE HOMES OP TIPPERARY. 525 
 
 upon ifc. At the moment the old linnet in the window began 
 to sing; and they all thought that her soul lingered to listen 
 to the low sweet song that had so often made her glad. 
 
 As the song of the linnet ceased, her bosom heaved once; 
 and Xorah Lahy was among her kindred angels. 
 
 Father M'Mahon " himself" came to say Mass the day of 
 the funeral. And how his heart was torn to see the ruined 
 homes of Tipperary, on every side, as he dismounted from his 
 horse under the beech-tree. And when the wail of the out- 
 casts was heard amid the crash of falling roof-trees and the 
 tramp of armed men, Honor Lahy said she was glad her 
 darling was gone before that sorrowful day ; " for 'tis she 'd 
 be sorry to see the neighbours in trouble." But in spite of 
 all their trouble they attended her wake ; and many stood 
 round her grave who had to lie by the cold ditch-side that 
 night, or, with burning hearts, bend their steps to the hated 
 poorhouse. 
 
 The grave was filled up, and the clay heaped over it and 
 beaten into shape by Mat Donovan and Tom Maher. Then 
 Mat went to a corner of the churchyard to get some green 
 sods to cover it ; but Billy Heffernan touched him upon the 
 shoulder, and Mat went to the mule's car and thrust the 
 handle of his spade through the roll of greensward from the 
 bog ; and Billy, taking hold of the end of the spade handle, 
 they carry the sod, and lay it gently on one end of the grave. 
 Then it is unrolled, and the cold clay is wrapped in a mantle 
 of green. Poor Honor Lahy felt happy, and thought her dar- 
 ling's sleep would be the sweeter for that fresh green mantle. 
 
 "Would I doubt you, Billy!" she murmured, wiping the 
 tears from her hot eyes. 
 
 Then the people knelt down, and offered up the customary 
 short prayer; and the churchyard was deserted except by 
 four mourners. 
 
 "Billy," said Phil Lahy, "she got you to take the 
 pledge?" 
 
 " She did," he replied ; " God knows what might become 
 uv me on'y for her." 
 
 "Well, she never axed me to do that; because she couldn't 
 find id in her heart to be hard on me, Billy. But I '11 pro- 
 mise her now." He knelt down at the foot of the grave and 
 took on" his hat. His wife thought to interrupt him, but he
 
 526 KNOCKXAGOW ; 
 
 motioned ber back. " Norah, I promise you," said he ; and 
 then got up from his knees. 
 
 Billy Heffernan lingered at the stile, and looked back. 
 
 " Come, Billy," said JSTelly Donovan, " you may as well 
 come " She was going to say " home," but checked her- 
 self. Billy Heffernan had no home. 
 
 " Nelly," returned Billy Heffernan, " I was dead fond uv 
 her." 
 
 "Every wan was fond uv her," said Nelly Donovan, putting 
 her arm in his and drawing him away. 
 
 There was not a roof for miles around under which her 
 name was not mentioned, tenderly and sorrowfully. And 
 the tears sprang into the eyes of many a poor exile far away, 
 on coming to the words, "Norah Lahy is dead," in the letter 
 from home. But, perhaps, nothing spoken of her was more 
 truly pathetic, or showed more clearly how much they all 
 missed her, than a remark of Barney Brodherick's, as he sat 
 by the turf fire that roared up the wide chimney in Maurice 
 Kearney's kitchen. 
 
 "Ah! poor Norah !" exclaimed Barney, raising his head 
 from his knees, upon which it had been resting for a full 
 hour before. " Ah ! poor Norah she '11 never sit in a chair 
 again." 
 
 "Now, Anne," said Hugh Kearney, encircling his sister's 
 waist with his arm, and bending over her, half playfully, 
 and half seriously " is not this rather a sudden resolution 
 you have taken, to go to the convent at once ? You really 
 ought to reflect for a long time before you take so serious a 
 step." 
 
 "It is not a sudden notion," she replied. "I am a long 
 time thinking of it." 
 
 " But is there any particular reason that makes you wish' 
 to go just now?" 
 
 " Nothing, I trust and believe, but a sense of duty and 
 the love of God," she answered calmly and firmly. 
 
 " Oh, I '11 say no more," he replied, feeling somewhat awe- 
 struck. " But you don't know how much we all shall miss 
 you, and particularly Mary." 
 
 " Oh, I know it very well, Hugh," she exclaimed, the 
 tears streaming down her cheeks ; and, as she flung her 
 arms round his neck, he felt her heart swell as if it were
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 527 
 
 bursting. There was a knock at the door, and he was called 
 out. 
 
 Mat Donovan was standing at the little gate. 
 
 " I came in by the stile," said Mat, " as I 'd rather not 
 meet the boys an' girl. But I couldn't bring myse'f to go 
 wudout seein' Billy Heffernan. Nothin' 'd plase him but 
 to put up some soart of a shed on his own turbary an' sleep 
 in the bog, where, he says, he can feel himse'f independent. 
 I 'm runnin' over the short cut to him ; an' will you tell 
 Barney to have the ass an' car ready about eleven o'clock, 
 an' we can slip away." 
 
 " Very well, Mat, I '11 see that Barney is ready. I need 
 not tell you that I am sorry to part with you." 
 
 " Say no more, sir," returned Mat, grasping his hand. 
 " An' if my mother or Nelly is in want of a friend, I know 
 you '11 be a friend to 'em." 
 
 Before Hugh could reply, he crossed the little garden and 
 disappeared behind the laurels. The emigrant girl's words, 
 when she ran in to take her leave of them that stormy winter 
 night, "God be wud you, Mat, 'tis many's the time we 
 danced together at the Bush," occurred to him ; and, look- 
 ing carefully around to see that he was not observed, he 
 pressed his lips to the trunk of the old hawthorn tree. 
 " Ah !" said he, " the grass is growin' all around id already ; 
 an', I 'm afeard, 'tis long till 'twill feel a light foot again. 
 God be wud ould times; 'tis terrible to think uvthe change." 
 
 The night was not very dark, and, as he crossed the road 
 near where the hook-nosed steed came to grief, he encoun- 
 tered Mr. Beresford Fender and Darby Ruadh. 
 
 " Is that Donovan 1 I 'd like to know what brings you 
 here at this hour of the night?" exclaimed Beresford in his 
 big voice ; but he seized Darby Ruadh by the arm, and got 
 behind him. 
 
 " I don't see what id is to you," returned Mat ; " but, if 
 you want to know, I'm goin' down to look for Billy Hefferuan 
 at his own turbary. I b'lieve you know he hasn't a house 
 now." 
 
 Billy Heffernan was not at the place ; and, after waiting 
 for some time, leaning against the bank where poor Mick 
 Brien had his dream, that never-to-be-forgotten night, when 
 Bessy Morris sat for an hour in the little old chair, and he
 
 528 KXOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 accompanied her home as far as the little stream where Billy 
 Heffernan's mule always stopped to drink, Mat retraced his 
 steps by the short cut to his own house. He found Barney, 
 with his donkey and cart, at the door ; and, after placing a 
 deal box in the cart, he waved his hand and desired him to 
 drive on. 
 
 He came up with the cart at the hill near Phil Morris's, 
 and Barney was surprised to see him turn towards the wo6den 
 pate under the old hawthorns, and rest his forehead upon it. 
 His last parting with Bessy was not one which he could re- 
 member with pleasure, and now he longed for a kind word at 
 least. Bessy had received him. with studied coldness, and as 
 he was walking away with a heavy heart, through the little 
 boreen, Peg Brady overtook him, and placed an open letter 
 in his hand. He read it without knowing what he was doing 
 till he came to the signature, when he started and read it 
 over again. When Peg saw the colour fade from his cheek, 
 she got frightened, and said that there might be some mistake. 
 
 " No, Peg, no," said he, returning her the letter. " But 
 'tisn't right, I think, to be showin' a girl's letter that way." 
 
 " I '11 give id back to him," returned Peg. "I on'y wanted 
 to have a laugh." 
 
 Mat Donovan looked around him, seeming quite bewildered, 
 like a man that had lost his way. 
 
 " Sure, why wouldn't she meet him, or any wan else she 'd 
 like to meet," he said. " But to be sayin' she hated the sight 
 uv him, an' that he was mane and cowardly to be talkin' uv 
 her as he was ! I never thought Bessy had the two ways, 
 in her before." 
 
 Peg Brady wished that Mat would give up thinking of 
 Bessy Morris. She didn't like to see him " making a fool 
 of himself." But in the matter of the letter she feared she 
 had gone too far. And, in fact, if it were not for that letter 
 Mat Donovan would in all probability never have been able 
 to make up his mind to go to America. It was a short note 
 to the dragoon, telling him she would meet him at the hour 
 and place appointed, and couched in rather friendly terms. 
 But Peg who with Kit Cummins had got up a little party 
 of sympathisers with the dragoon, who pronounced Bessy's 
 treatment of him "a shame" suppressed the fact that the 
 letter was an old one, written when she was in Dublin.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 529 
 
 "Ah! Bessy!" he thought, "you had no right to thrate 
 me that way; for well you knew though I never tould you 
 so that I 'd lay down my life for you." 
 
 "Is id tired you are, Mat?" Barney asked. " If id is, sit 
 up. Don't be afeard uv Bobby ; for, be herrins, I 'd keep 
 up to the mail coach every fut uv the way." 
 
 "No, Barney, no. I 'd rather walk. Fire away !" 
 
 And Mat Donovan twirled his stick, and drew himself up 
 to his full height, and stepped out, as if his heart were as 
 light as a feather. 
 
 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. 
 
 MR. SAM SOMERFIELD, J.P., with two policemen on his car, 
 drove furiously up to Wellington Lodge. Other magistrates 
 arrived soon after, and in the course of an hour or so quite a 
 little army of police were on the spot. Mr. Beresford Fender 
 described, in a tremendous voice, the particulars of a most 
 daring outrage which had occurred the night before. Well- 
 ington Lodge had been entered by a band of armed men. 
 Two of them tied Mr. Isaac Fender with ropes, and carried 
 away all the money he had in the house. The robbers were 
 so disguised, the old gentleman could not recognise them, but 
 he had his suspicions, particularly of the tall man, who held a 
 pistol to his head while another was breaking open the desk 
 in which he kept his money. And most unfortunately he had 
 a considerable sum just received from Maurice Kearney and 
 other tenants of Sir Garrett Butler. The police were sent 
 to scour the country in all directions; and by some chance 
 the cover of a letter directed to Mr. Fender was found on 
 the brink of a deep, square hole in the bog. Beresford re- 
 membered immediately that he had met Mat Donovan near 
 that place at an unseasonable hour the night before. The 
 bog-hole was drained, and the box in which the money
 
 530 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 was kept was found at the bottom, empty and with the lock 
 broken. The man who handed up the box, feeling something 
 hard under his feet, thrust his hand down into the soft mould, 
 and held up a long gun, to the great astonishment of Mr. 
 Beresford Fender and Darby Ruadh. It was at once re- 
 cognised as Maurice Kearney's, for whom a policeman was 
 immediately dispatched. Mr. Kearney scratched his head, 
 and in reply to questions put to him by the magistrates, said 
 the gun usually hung in the kitchen, and was seldom taken 
 down except to shoot crows; that his son the doctor broke 
 the stock during the hard frost at Christmas, and that he 
 gave the gun to Wattletoes to bring to Mat Donovan to be 
 repaired, as he, Mat Donovan, could do it as well as a gun- 
 smith. That 's the last he saw of the gun. 
 
 " Where is Mat Donovan?" Mr. Somerfield asked. 
 
 To the surprise of all present, Hugh Kearney said he be- 
 lieved Mat Donovan was gone to America. He had been 
 seen late the night before in the bog. The whole affair 
 looked very suspicious, the magistrates said. Then it was 
 asked where was the person called Wattletoes? He had 
 gone with Mat Donovan as far as Waterford. The magis- 
 trates exchanged looks, and retired to consult as to what 
 should be done. The country was in a very bad state. 
 
 On the evening of the following day, a policeman led Bobby 
 and his blue cart up to Maurice Kearney's hall-door. Th 
 "tfhole family ran out greatly surprised, and under the im- 
 pression that poor Barney was a prisoner and in jail. But 
 the policeman informed them that the ass was found tied to 
 a post on the quay of Waterford, and that Barney could not 
 be found, or any intelligence of him learned. This was still 
 more astonishing, and Hugh began to feel really uneasy. 
 But his mother consoled herself with the reflection that in 
 all probability Barney Avas in hot pursuit of a Punch-and- 
 Judy while the police were searching for him. 
 
 " What do you think, Hugh?" Mary asked anxiously. 
 
 " I really believe there is a plot of some kind," he replied. 
 " But as yet I can't imagine what the object of it may be." 
 
 The next Saturday, Billy Heffernan was plodding behind 
 his mule after selling the last pen'orth of his creel of turf, 
 when a hand was laid upon his shoulder. It was the 
 dragoon, whom Billy had often met since the night he
 
 Oil, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 531 
 
 mistook his burnished helmet for a crock of gold at old Phil 
 Morris's; and whom he had come to despise very heartily. 
 
 "How are ye all in Knocknagow?"he asked, with a mean, 
 shame-faced look, as if he felt he was despised, and deserved 
 to be. . 
 
 "All well, so far as what's left uv us," Billy observed. 
 
 "Will you tell Kit Cummins that I'll be out before to- 
 morrow week; I'm only waiting for a new suit of clothes to 
 be made." He was dressed in plain clothes now, and not at 
 all the fine, soldierly-looking fellow he was when Billy 
 Heffernan first made his acquaintance. 
 
 "Kit was at the safe side of the road," returned Billy; 
 " so she 's there yet. I '11 tell her. Yo-up! Kit." And he 
 walked on as if he wished to get rid of the ex-dragoon. He 
 pulled up the collar of his ratteen riding-coat to shelter him- 
 self from the rain, which a keen wind was driving straight in 
 his face. " Begob," muttered Billy Heffernan, as he breathed 
 upon the tips of his numbed fingers the weather being un- 
 usually cold for the season of the year " begob, when they 
 wor makin' the winther, they forgot to put these days in id." 
 
 " God save you, Billy." 
 
 He started, and opened his eyes in mute amazement. 
 
 It was Mat Donovan, handcuffed between half-a-dozen 
 policemen, who as well as their prisoner were dripping wet 
 and covered with mud after a long march. Billy left his 
 mule to shift for herself, and ran back after them. 
 
 " Let me spake to him," said he to the constable, implor- 
 ingly. 
 
 "What do you want to say to him?" 
 
 "Well," he replied, holding his head close to the con- 
 stable's ear, as he walked by his side, "just to say a word 
 about a girl he 's fond uv." 
 
 " Halt," cried the constable, who happened to be fond of a 
 girl himself. " Let us stand in the" shelter for a minnit to 
 draw our breath. Come now, say what you have to say at 
 once." 
 
 But poor Billy Heffernan was so overcome when his eyes 
 rested on the iron handcuffs round his friend's wrists, ha 
 could say nothing at all. 
 
 " They tell me, Billy," said Mat, in a mild, sad tone, "that 
 I'm charged wud robbery. I was taken in Liverpool."
 
 532 KNOCKN'AGOW; 
 
 " So we heard last night," returned Billy. 
 
 "But, Billy, do any iiv the neighbours suspect me?" 
 
 "The divil a wan," Billy answered with animation. "I 
 was in at ould Phil's yistherday, an' if you hear the way 
 Bessy spoke uv you. She said she'd depind her life on you, 
 and that you wor the sowl uv honour." 
 
 "Did she, Billy?" rejoined Mat Donovan and his eyes 
 glistened. "Remember me to all the neighbours; an' tell 
 my mother an' Nelly not to fret. There 's some mistake that 
 I can't make out. It must be because I happened to have a 
 few hot words wud ould Fender that they pitched on me." 
 
 " Bub, Mat, where did Barney go ?" 
 
 " Didn't he go home?" Mat asked in surprise. " I parted 
 wud him on the quay uv Waterford just as the steamer was 
 startin', an' I tould him to make no delay." 
 
 " There 's no account uv him, high or low," returned 
 Billy. 
 
 " Begor, that 's quare !" Mat exclaimed. " I hope no harm 
 is afther happenin' to poor Barney." 
 
 " She'd depend her life on me," said Mat Donovan to him- 
 self, as he lay down upon his bed in Clonmel jail. And he 
 was certainly a happier man that night than he would have 
 been if he had not met Billy Heffernan and his mule on the 
 road. 
 
 When brought before a magistrate, Mat Donovan was 
 startled by the weight of circumstantial evidence against 
 him. He declared that Barney had never brought the gun to 
 him; and that he and Barney travelled together to Water- 
 ford the night of the robbery. Hugh Kearney told how 
 Mat had called on him about nine o'clock that night and 
 said he was going to the bog to see Billy Heffernan. And 
 Nelly Donovan swore that her brother intended leaving for 
 America the Sunday before the sheriff came out, but that 
 he remained to attend Norah Lahy's funeral. These circum- 
 stances were in his favour, but the mysterious disappearance 
 of Barney Brodherick, the magistrate said, was a most sus- 
 picious circumstance, and he must send the case for trial at 
 the next assizes. So poor Mat Donovan was marched back 
 to his cold cell, the magistrate, at the suggestion of the Crown 
 prosecutor, refusing to admit him to bail. He could not 
 conceal from himself that he stood in great danger of being
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 533 
 
 transported as a robber and a housebreaker unless Barney 
 Brodherick could be found. He knew, however, that he 
 had a good friend in Hugh Kearney, who would leave 
 nothing undone to get him out of the meshes of the law. 
 And Bessy Morris had written him such a kind letter, he 
 was almost thankful that he had come back to Ireland, even 
 as a prisoner. 
 
 But those Tipperary homes those that the crowbar has 
 spared among which we have, perhaps, lingered too long 
 and too lovingly for the reader's patience, are gloomy enough 
 now. Poor Honor Lahy can find little comfort even in Phil's 
 eloquence, though he is always sober and industrious. There 
 is a deeper shade of sadness in Mrs. Donovan's sad face; and 
 Kelly's ringing laugh is never heard now. She even stops 
 her wheel sometimes, and sits down to cry over a pair of 
 embroidered slippers. Billy Heffernan comes over now and 
 again from his hut in the bog, and sits on the bench in the 
 corner. He is every day saying he will " take courage," and 
 begin to play his flute again ; but week after week passes, 
 and he has not yet ventured to blow a single note. Nelly's 
 mind is very much troubled on his account. She is afraid 
 lhat when the flood rises, Billy Heffernan and his mule will 
 inevitably be drowned in the bog. Billy assures her that 
 the water was never yet known to cover the particular spot 
 upon which he has erected his domicile ; but he admits that 
 coming in and going out will be "no joke" after a heavy fall 
 of rain. 
 
 Kit Cummins is mute ; and her next-door neighbour hai 
 been known to sit on the ground inside her own threshold, 
 with her back against the open door, for hours together, and 
 so oppressed by the unaccustomed silence, that after finishing 
 a " round" of her knitting, her hands would drop down 
 languidly by her side, as, sighing deeply, she muttered under 
 her teeth, " Gir-r-r-out, you bla'gard," and fixed her eyes 
 vacantly upon the pig crunching Kit Curnniins's stirabout- 
 stick in the dung-hole outside the door. The ring of Jack 
 Delany's anvil is only heard by fits and starts ; and Brum- 
 magem's face is so black that he must have discontinued the 
 Sunday ablution in the quarry for some time. Tom Hogan 
 is dying at Tom Gary the carpenter's, whom he used to look 
 down upon as a " tradesman," who was " no match for a
 
 534 KXOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 farmer's daughter." Nancy nurses him tenderly ; and Tom 
 Gary never hints at his old love for her, even by a look ; but 
 Nancy thinks of it often, and sometimes says to herself that 
 Ned Brophy's love was not " the right love." 
 
 Old Phil Morris is becoming more and more cynical, and 
 will talk crossly even to Bessy, and ask her what ails her, 
 and why she looks so miserable. Even Peg Brady is un- 
 happy, and resolves to ease her mind by telling Mat Donovan 
 the truth about the letter ; for her conscience told her that 
 if it were not for her jealousy and duplicity, Mat would not 
 have left for America at all, and would not be now a prisoner 
 in the jail of Clonmel, in danger of being transported for life. 
 Mary Kearney is doing her best to be strong; but since 
 Norah Lahy's death the struggle is harder than it used to be; 
 and when she thinks of her light-hearted sister going into a 
 convent, she can scarcely suppress a cry of pain. There is a 
 rumour, too, that Arthur O'Connor is going to be married to 
 some rich lady who fell in love with him in Paris. And Mary 
 sees the traces of care growing deeper and deeper in her 
 brother Hugh's face, and fears that her father's affairs must 
 be becoming more embarrassed. Ellie is at school with 
 Grace, and Mary often thinks how Grace's presence would 
 brighten up the old cottage and how much it wanted 
 brightening up now. Maurice Kearney, however, appears as 
 jovial as ever; and the only weight on Mrs. Kearney's mind 
 is the fate of poor Barney, who, she fears, must have fallen 
 into the river at Waterford, or met with some other equally 
 untimely end. " Unless, indeed," she would add, " he has 
 turned ballad-singer or showman himself." And Barney's 
 mistress derived great consolation from the hope that he had 
 permanently attached himself to a Punch-and-Judy. 
 
 Attorney Hanly has got possession of one hundred and 
 fifty acres of land adjoining Castleview, at one pound an 
 acre. Besides Tom Hogan's little farm, for which Tom 
 Hogan paid two pounds, some fifty acres, including Mat 
 Donovan's " garden," and four or five other small holdings of 
 from five to ten acres, are in pretty good heart. But the 
 rest is so poor and exhausted, that Mr. Hanly does not con- 
 sider that he has got much of a bargain after all. He can, 
 however, make it all as good as Tom Hogan's, by deep-drain- 
 ing, and liming, and fencing, and manuring, as Tom Hogan
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 535 
 
 did. But Mr. Hanly is a shrewd man of business, and he 
 knows to do this would cost several thousand pounds ; and, 
 when 'twas all done, he knows also that the rent could be 
 raised on him, as 'twas raised on Tom Hogan ; or he could, 
 like Tom Hogan, be turned out altogether. So he won't 
 mind the draining until he has got a long lease. His lease 
 of Castleview will expire the same time as Maurice Kear- 
 ney's lease of Ballinaclash, and as Attorney Hanly looks 
 upon his handsome house, and his groves and meadows, he 
 begins to feel uneasy and dissatisfied. So he has had a good 
 deal of talk latterly with old Isaac ; and it has been sug- 
 gested to Sir Garrett Butler that he ought to give a new 
 lease of the whole farm to Mr. Hanly, who would then ex 
 pend a large sum of money in improvements, and would not 
 object to paying a reasonable fine. It happened that, at the 
 same time, Mr. Sam Somerfield, J.P., applied for a new lease 
 of Woodlands. And in both cases the arguments brought 
 forward to show that long leases would prove advantageous 
 both to the landlord and the tenant were so convincing, that 
 the old baronet, with all his simplicity and want of expe- 
 rience, could not help wondering why his agent had always 
 warned him against giving leases to his tenants particu- 
 larly to Maurice Kearney and pointed to the practice and 
 example of this same Mr. Sam Somerfield in support of his 
 assertion that leases would be ruinous to the landlord's 
 interests. 
 
 " And why does he ask me to give a lease to Mr. Hanly 
 now 1" the landlord thought. " Why should it be for my 
 interest to withhold leases from all the rest, if it be for my 
 interest to give a lease to him? And why does Mr. Somer- 
 field urge me so strongly to give him a lease, though he con- 
 sidered it a crime for landlords to give leases to their tenants, 
 and I understand has quite done away with leases on the 
 estate over which he is agent? Tis very strange. There 
 must be something wrong. I'll write to Mr. Fender, and say 
 I cannot give the lease till I make further inquiries." 
 
 Old Isaac shambled about in a state of distraction, and had 
 a severe attack of midges, when he read this letter. But 
 Beresford was not at all sorry: for if Attorney Hanly and 
 Mr. Somerfield had got leases, he could not see what excuse 
 there would be for refusing to renew Maurice Kearney's lease.
 
 536 KNOCKNAGOW; 
 
 And Mr. Beresford Fender had set his heart upon getting 
 possession of Ballinaclash by hook or by crook. One obstacle 
 was removed; Mr. Lowe who, he feared, might do something 
 to defeat his scheme was gone to India. If Hugh Kearney 
 were out of the way now, all would be right. Maurice 
 Kearney, he suspected, was in debt; and if he were un- 
 expectedly pounced upon for a year's rent he would never 
 recover the blow, and could be put out even without waiting 
 for the expiration of the lease. But old Isaac regretted that 
 he had urged the landlord to give Attorney Hanly a lease. 
 
 " I 'm afraid," old Isaac muttered, " Sir Garrett will take 
 some notion into his head. I'm sorry now I ever disturbed 
 Tom Hogan. Gary the carpenter stopped me on the road 
 when his funeral was passing, and said, before all the people, 
 that the coffin was his work, but that my work was in the 
 coffin. A farmer dare not talk to a gentleman that way. But 
 these tradesmen are very insolent. Phil Lahy the tailor 
 never puts his hand to his hat for me. And look at that old 
 Phil Morris. I never like to see his eye on me. 'Tis these 
 fellows that destroy the country. Only for them the farmers 
 would submit to anything." 
 
 " Donovan is sure to be transported," Beresford observed. 
 
 " I don't see what good that will do," returned his father : 
 " unless Sir Garrett will make some allowance, when he sees 
 it was as his agent I was robbed. I never liked that busi- 
 ness. I'd rather keep out of such things, unless when some- 
 thing is to be gained." 
 
 " Slap at Kearney now for a year's rent distrain his stock 
 and he '11 be smashed," said Beresford. "I'm told he's in 
 debt, and has a thrashing machine at work night and day, 
 and selling off his corn, though low prices are." 
 
 " His brother or some one might pay the rent for him," 
 returned the old agent; " and then we 'd be doing him good 
 instead of harm." 
 
 " He owes his brother money," rejoined Bereford, " and 
 there's no danger. The brother knows he has no hold of his 
 place, and I'm told he always said he was a fool to expend so 
 much money in improvements." 
 
 " Well, Dr. Kiely might interfere. He is a dangerous 
 man, and if he thought Kearney was harshly treated he 'd 
 never stop till he got Sir Garrett to look into things. The
 
 OB, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 537 
 
 creditors want the timber on Woodlands to be sold, and if 
 matters are stirred at all something unpleasant may happen. 
 But if Sir Garrett remains abroad, I think there is no 
 danger." 
 
 "Tis reported Kiely'a son has some notion of Miss 
 Kearney," said Beresford. 
 
 "Well, that's only another reason why we should be 
 cautious," replied his father, "and the longer he's let run 
 the easier 'twill be to manage him." 
 
 "No surrender !" muttered Mr. Beresford Fender down in 
 his chest, as he walked away to have an imaginary conver- 
 sation with the "colonel," and invent a few new oaths. 
 
 CHAPTER LXI. 
 
 BARNEY IS CAPTURED HIS ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. MAT THE 
 
 THRASHER IN CLONMKL JAIL, AND THE BIG DRUM SILENT. 
 
 IT is Christmas Day again. But the day has dawned, for 
 the first time within the memory of the oldest inhabitant, 
 without the windows in the old town of Kilthubber being 
 set dancing by the famous Ksacknagow drum. The drum 
 is silent and forgotten over Mat Donovan's dresser; and 
 Mat is a prisoner, awaiting his trial, in Clonmel jail. But 
 even if the drum were banged, as of old, at the Bush, behind 
 Maurice Kearney's, loud enough to awaken the Seven Sleepers, 
 how few would have rallied to the call, compared with that 
 day twelvemonth, when Mr. Lowe and his host followed th 
 procession over the snow-covered road? For, in spite of 
 Father Hannigan's encouraging assurance that the landlords 
 thereabouts were not exterminators, like some he could name, 
 the crowbar has done its work at Knocknagow. Brum- 
 magem made an attempt to collect some boys to hunt the wren 
 in the afternoon ; but so few came, and so little heart did 
 they put into it, that Mary Kearney thought it was one of 
 the most melancholy sights she ever beheld. It reminded 
 her of poor Mat Donovan and Barney; and she thought of 
 
 2
 
 538 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 Mr. Lowe, and Richard, and Grace, and how happy they all 
 were last Christmas. She remembered the tracks in the 
 snow, and how Arthur O'Connor had stood, for hours perhaps, 
 in the garden ; and even yet he did not know that she had 
 not received his note in time, and " what must he think of 
 her?" She leant back in her chair with a sigh of pain. She 
 asked herself what business she had in the world, and would 
 it not be better for her and every one else if she were at rest. 
 As her head touched the back of the chair, she started, and 
 a faint blush stole over her pale cheeks. 
 
 " Oh," she exclaimed drawing back the window curtain, 
 that she might have a view of the old castle and the little 
 ruined church near it "'tis a shame for me!" And Mary 
 gazed towards the churchyard with her hand resting on the 
 back of the chair. It was a straw chair. It was Norah 
 Lahy's straw chair which poor Norah had left to her 
 idolised friend. And how could she sit in that chair and 
 not be strong ? 
 
 She joined her father and mother and Hugh at dinner 
 with a smiling, happy face. But still there was a gloom over 
 the little circle it was such a contrast to all the other happy 
 Christmases they had known ; and it was a relief to them all 
 when a servant came in to say that Billy Heffernan was in 
 the kitchen, and wanted to see Mr. Hugh, as he was going to 
 drive Mrs. Donovan and Xelly to Clonmel in the morning to 
 visit Mat in jail. 
 
 They found Mat quite calm, and prepared for the worst. 
 But a pang shot through his mother's heart when she saw how 
 thin and pale he had grown. He had lived so long in the open 
 air, and led so active a life, imprisonment was telling fearfully 
 upon his strong frame. At times, too, his heart would sink 
 at the thought that he must stand before the public gaze 
 accused perhaps convicted of a cowardly and disgraceful 
 crime. But his mother's sad face told him, more plainly than 
 words, to be a man, no matter what might happen; while 
 Nelly, in spite of all her wild ways, utterly broke down, and 
 was supported out of the prison, crying and sobbing violently, 
 by Billy Heffernan. They told him all the news, and spoke 
 of all his old friends except one. He longed to hear of her, 
 and yet her name was never once mentioned. He did not 
 ask for her partly because he dreaded to hear something
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF Tiri'ERAUY. 539 
 
 unpleasant, and partly because lie thought she vrould rather 
 not be talked of by him. But he felt there was a want of 
 sympathy with him on his sister's part when she never told 
 him a word about Bessy. She spoke about every one she 
 cared much for herself ; and because she did not care much 
 for Bessy Morris, she quite forgot that Mat cared more for 
 her than for all the world. And to sympathise with him in 
 this would, he felt, be a greater proof of affection than the 
 greatest sacrifices his sister could have made for him. She 
 told him, over and over, what a good friend Billy Heffernan 
 was to them, and how he would drive them to Clonmel again 
 the day of the trial ; and Mat was truly glad to hear this. 
 But why did she not speak one word of his darling Bessy ? 
 Why did she not love her for his sake? Billy Heffernan told 
 him he had a letter from Hugh Kearney to his attorney, and 
 that nothing would be left undone to prove his innocence. 
 
 " I 'in sure uv that," said Mat. " I 'd depend my life on 
 him. And how is ould Phil Morris, Billy ? : ' 
 
 "As sound as a bell, as he says himse'f," returned Billy. 
 " I called in" 
 
 " Time is up," said the turnkey. And Mat Donovan was 
 alone again in that dreary cell. 
 
 Ah, if Nelly Donovan had "called in" to old Phil Morris's, 
 and brought one kind word from Bess>\ how much better it 
 would have been for her brother than all her sobs and tears ! 
 
 A week or two after the visit to the jail, Billy Helfernan 
 stopped his mule opposite the little thatched house, where, 
 exactly a year before, he sold the twopence-worth of turf 
 while waiting for room to pass through the loads of corn that 
 blocked up the street, after leaving the dragoon behind him 
 on the road. The woman of the house had become a 
 regular customer since, and even when she did not want a 
 supply of turf, Billy often stopped to have a chat with her. 
 While they were talking this morning, he observed a crowd 
 at the corner of the street, around a yellow painted van, 
 built on the plan of those houses upon wheels in which a 
 tall lady and a dwarf are usually to be seen, but small 
 enough to be drawn by a single donkey. Along one side 
 were two rows of lenses, like burning glasses, the under ro\v 
 low enough for the smallest urchin to peep through, and 
 the upper sufficiently high for a full-grown map *o view the
 
 540 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 wonders inside without stooping inconveniently. A green 
 baize curtain hung from a frame in front of the glasses, and 
 was drawn over the spectators who paid their half-pence, to 
 ehut them in from the gaze of the crowd. The showman had 
 a loud voice, and in a monotonous sing-song tone he solemnly 
 announced to the public that he was there by order of her 
 Gracious Majesty, Queen Victoria, to exhibit his panorama 
 for the instruction of her Irish subjects, especially the warm- 
 hearted people of gallant Tipperary. He then commenced 
 letting down his pictures one by one by means of strings with 
 brass curtain-rings attached to them, desiring his patrons 
 to "look to the right" and "look to the left," and they 
 would see " Napoleon Bonaparte mounted on a grey horse," 
 and " Solomon's Temple," and various other wonders, too 
 numerous to mention here ; always finishing his description 
 of a battle by asking them did they not " hear the cannons 
 roaring." 
 
 "Don't you hear the cannons roaring 1 ?" he exclaimed, as 
 Billy Heffernan pushed his way quietly through the crowd, 
 and stood close to the orator. 
 
 " Oh, I do," responded a voice from under the green baize 
 curtain, in accents of the profoundest wonder. 
 
 The showman, surprised and delighted by so strong a 
 testimony to the excellence of his exhibition, fought the 
 battle of Waterloo over again, and again asked, " don't you 
 hear the cannons roaring?" 
 
 "Oh, I do !" responded the voice again, in a tone of still 
 deeper wonder and profounder awe. 
 
 There was a broad grin on every face in the crowd, except 
 Billy Heffernan's he not being much given to mirth. And 
 of course the showman himself could not for a moment so 
 far forget the dignity of his mission as to allow his features 
 to relax into a smile. 
 
 "Don't you hear the cannons roaring?" he repeated, casting 
 a look of severe reproof upon his audience, to rebuke them 
 for their levity. 
 
 "Oh, I do !" responded the voice. 
 
 The curtain was drawn back, and Billy Heffernan started, 
 and, with eyes and mouth wide open, stared at the face, 
 radiant with more than human felicity, revealed to his 
 astonished gaze.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OP TIPPERARY. 541 
 
 "For God 'Imighty sake," gasped Billy Heffernan, "is id 
 yourse'f, Barney?" 
 
 ^ Begob id is, Billy," replied Barney, with a grin of intenser 
 deright if that were possible to a man who had been just 
 viewing Solomon's Temple, and listening to the cannons roar- 
 ing at the battle of Waterloo. 
 
 " Barney," said Billy Heffernan, " 'twas reported you wor 
 dead." 
 
 "Billy," returned Barney laying his hand on his arm, 
 and suddenly becoming very grave " don't b'lieve a word 
 uv id." 
 
 Billy Heffernan never took his eyes off him for an instant, 
 apparently dreading that if he did Barney might vanish, 
 
 " Like him the sprite, 
 
 Whom maids by night 
 Oft meet in glen that's haunted." 
 
 Heeling his car suddenly at the door of the thatched house, 
 he threw the load upon the ground. 
 
 " Oh, what are you doin'?" cried the woman of the house. 
 " I don't want any turf to-day. An' sure if I did idse'f, I 
 couldn't afford to buy a whole load together." 
 
 " Never mind," returned Billy Heffernan, excitedly, " you 
 can pay me by degrees." And collaring Barney, he pushed 
 him into the car, putting up the hind part of the creel and 
 fastening it upon him as he would upon a pig of lively pro- 
 pensities, 
 
 " Yo-up ! Kit !" And away they went. 
 
 Kit, in the whole course of her life, never made the journey 
 from Clonmel to Knocknagow in such quick time. The news 
 flew like wildfire that the prodigal had returned, and was 
 safely caged in Billy Heffernan 's creel; and men, women, and 
 children rushed out to see him and fco speak to him, before 
 they had reached Mat Donovan's. But Billy Heffernan 
 begged of them to keep back, as his mind would not be easy 
 till he had delivered up his charge to Hugh Kearney, who, 
 he hoped and trusted, would find means to secure him, at 
 least till after Mat Donovan's trial. So the crowd retired, 
 except Phil Lahy, who walked behind the creel as solemnly 
 as if he were following Barney to his last resting-place. The 
 truant looked frightened as they approached the house, and
 
 542 KNOCKNAGOW; 
 
 showed decided symptoms of a desire to bolt, till he saw his 
 mistress throw up her arms in surprise, and heard her exclaim, 
 "O poor Barney! did you come at last 1 ?" And the long 
 unheard "Wattletoes," in his master's well-remembered voice, 
 satisfied him that it was old times again, and no mistake. 
 
 So that Barney could not keep in a "hurroo ! " of exultation, 
 which took rather the shape of a screech, as he flung up his 
 left arm and assaulted himself with the heel of his right foot, 
 in a manner which, from any foot but his own, would have 
 been at least insulting. And, then and there, Barney per- 
 formed one of Callaghan's most difficult and complicated 
 steps, with a look of intense gravity, which deepened into a. 
 scowl, as he finished by clapping his foot flat upon the ground 
 with all his force, remaining motionless as a statue in that 
 position for half a minute, and then suddenly breaking into 
 another screech, and assaulting himself with his heel again. 
 Barney then favoured all present, jointly and severally, with 
 his old grin ; and Tom Maher exclaimed, " Good again, 
 Barney !" which seemed to be the meed for which Barney 
 had been labouring, and without which he would have con- 
 sidered his efforts thrown away; for Barney took off his hat 
 and drew his sleeve across his forehead, with the look of a 
 man who had done his duty, thoroughly satisfied with Tom 
 Maher's "Good again." 
 
 " And now, Barney," said Phil Lahy, " will you be good 
 enough to give an explanation of your disappearance, and 
 where and how you spent your time, since you parted with 
 Mat Donovan on the deck of the Liverpool steamer in the 
 harbour of Waterford ?" And having thus delivered him- 
 self, Phil cast a "gentlemen-of-the-jury" look around upon 
 his audience. 
 
 Barney seemed quite taken aback, and evidently feared 
 that his troubles were before him after all. 
 
 " Wait till he gets something to eat first," said Mrs. 
 Kearney. " I suppose he 's famished with the hunger. Go- 
 to the kitchen, Barney, and I '11 desire them to get you your 
 dinner." 
 
 "Would I doubt you, ma 'am!" exclaimed Barney, brighten- 
 ing up again. " Thundher-an'-turf, Miss Ellie, is id yourse'f 
 at all? Begor, Miss Mary, she '11 shortly be able to ate a tup- 
 penny loaf over your head. An' Masther Willie ! och, Masther
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIl'PKUARY. 543 
 
 Willie, if you see the fine pup I had stole for you, but I 
 couldn't brin' him wud me. Four months ould, an' as big 
 as a calf. He 'd be as big as Bobby. I see his father an' 
 mother wud my own eyes dhrawin' tember tin mile o' ground. 
 But bad luck to id, I couldn't brin' him." 
 
 "And where did you find him, Billy?" Mrs. Kearney 
 asked. 
 
 " Lookin' at a peep-show, ma'am," returned Billy Heffer- 
 nan. 
 
 "Oh, that was the peep-show !" exclaimed Barney. "I 
 never see the likes uv id. I 'd rather give a shillin' to get 
 wan look at id than to spind a shillin' at a races." 
 
 " What did you see in it, Barney?" his master asked. 
 
 "The whole world," returned Barney, with a look of 
 wonder. 
 
 "But tell us what you saw," continued his master, hugging 
 himself in the excess of his glee. " Tell us what you saw in 
 the peep-show." 
 
 " Look to the right," exclaimed Barney, in the solemn 
 tones of the showman, " and you '11 see Solomon's Temple 
 mounted on a grey horse." And his master immediately 
 ran into the house to order a good dinner to be set before 
 Barney Brodherick. 
 
 " Begob, Phil," Barney answered, when he had smacked 
 his lips and wiped his mouth after the Ballinaclash bacon, 
 " 'tis all like a dhrarne to me ; but I don't much care as 
 Bobby came home safe, as that was what was throublin' 
 me." And Barney did look contented, and in a very happy 
 frame of mind. 
 
 " But tell us where you went to and what kept you away 
 so long." 
 
 " Well, whin the steamer dhrove off wud Mat, I felt so 
 down-hearted I didn't know what to do wud myse'f. An' as 
 Bobby wanted a rest, I walked up an' down lookin' at the 
 ships. There was wan big wan full uv people, an' the sailors: 
 shoutin' an' singin' an' pullin' ropes, an' women an' childhei 
 roarin' an' bawlin' for the bare life, till you wouldn't know 
 where you wor standin'. 'Is that Barney?' says sonic wan 
 out from the middle uv 'em. An' who was id but a b'y 
 from Ballingarry side that challenged Mat Donovan to rise a 
 weight wan day at the colliery; an' begob he put Mat to the
 
 544 KKOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 pin uv his collar the same day. So out he comes an' pulls 
 me in on the deck; an' who the blazes did I see sittin' fur- 
 ninst me but Patherson the piper playin' away for the bare 
 life. Thin three or four more fellows that wor in the habit 
 uv comin' to the dance at the Bush med at me, an' you'd 
 think they'd shake the hand off uv me. The divil a wan uv 'em 
 that hadn't a bottle, an' I should take a small dhrop out uv 
 every wan uv 'em for the sake uv ould times, as they said. 
 Thin nothin' 'd do but I should dance a bout ; an' Pather- 
 son changed the ' Exile of Eryin' to ' Tatthered Jack Walsh' 
 while you 'd be lookin' about you. Well, Phil, you know 
 that 's wan of Callaghan's doubles, an' if I didn't show 'em 
 what dancin' was, my name isn't Barney. But some way or 
 other some wan knocked up agin me, an' my fut slipped on 
 the boords, an' down I fell." 
 
 Here Barney scratched his head and fell into a reverie. 
 
 "Well?" said Phil Lahy. "What happened you when you 
 
 " That 's what I 'm thryin' to make out, Phil," returned 
 Barney, "but I can't. Barrin' that I suppose I forgot to 
 get up; for whin, I kem to myse'f there I was ondher a hape 
 uv canvas, an' Patherson lyin' o' top uv me gruntin' like an 
 ould sow. 'Twasn't long any way till a couple uv sailors 
 pulled us out, an' whin I stood up the divil a stand I could 
 stand no more thin a calf afore his mother licks him. So 
 there I was spinnin' about thryin' to studdy myse'f, when the 
 flure slanted down, for all the world like as if a cart heeled 
 an' you standin' in id, an' I was pitched head foremost, an' was 
 d n near dhrivin' my head through the captain's stummuck. 
 'Where's your passage-ticket?' says he, shoutin' out loud; 
 for you couldn't hear your ears wud the wind, and the say 
 dashin' up agin the sides uv the ship, till you 'd think we wor 
 goin' to be swollied afore you could bless youi'se'f. 'Where's 
 your ticket?' says the captain again, seein' that I had my arms 
 twisted round a rope, an' I houldin' on for the bare life. 
 'Arra, what 'd I be doin' wud a passage- ticket?' says I, 
 ' whin I 'm not goin' anywhere.' ' Come, my good fellow,' 
 says he, ' I want none of your humbuggin'. Hand me your 
 ticket an' go below.' ' I'm not a coddy at all,' says I. ' Let 
 rue go look afther me little ass.' ' He 's a stole-away,' says 
 the captain, turnin' to the mate. ' That 's what they '11 say
 
 OK, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 545 
 
 at home,' says I, ' an' if you don't let me out, Bobby '11 be a 
 stole-away, too, God help me,' says I. ' An' where do you 
 want to go?' says the captain, an' I see he couldn't help 
 laughin'. ' Good look to you, captain,' says I, ' an' let me 
 out on the quay uv Watherford, an' that's all I'll ax,' gays I. 
 'We have another here,' says the mate, pintin' to Patherson, 
 
 * rowlin' hether an' over on the broad of his back.' ' That 's 
 the piper,' said the captain. ' Whai are we to do wud 'em ?' 
 
 * Let me out, sir,' says I, ' or I'll have no business to show my 
 face to the misthress,' says I. ' You 're fifty miles from 
 Watherford,' says he, ' an' I suspect this is a schame uv yours 
 to chate me,' says he. Wud that the b'y from Ballingarry 
 came up a step-laddher out uv a place they call the hoult 
 an' the divil's own hoult the same place is an' he explained 
 all to the captain, an' said I 'd be handy about the cookin', 
 an' as for the piper, if the weather cleared up, he 'd give 'em 
 a tune, an' keep 'em alive. An' that 's the way myse'f an' 
 Patherson went to New-found-land. We wor home together, 
 too, an' he wanted to keep up the partnership, we did so 
 well in St. John's, he playin' an' I dancin'. But, good luck 
 to you, Phil, an' let me out to see Bobby, an' I'll tell you all 
 another time." 
 
 " Just tell me, Barney," said Hugh, who had been listen- 
 ing unobserved to the latter part of his narration, "what did 
 you do with the gun you were desired to bring to Mat 
 Donovan, to have the stock mended?" 
 
 "Oh, for God's sake, Misther Hugh," Barney exclaimed 
 showing such decided symptoms of a desire to run away, that 
 Billy Heffernan closed the door and placed his back against 
 it "don't get me into a hobble about the gun, an' I afther 
 goin' through such hardship. Let me go see Bobby an' my 
 poor ould mother. Sure I 'm bad enough, God help me." 
 
 " I don't want to get you into any throuble about it," said 
 Hugh. "But, by telling the truth, you will get your friend 
 Mat Donovan out of trouble. Why did you not bring the 
 gun to him, and where did you bring it?" 
 
 " 'Twas all on account uv Peg Brady," Barney answered, 
 moodily. " An' see all the throuble I brought on myse'f for 
 wan slob uv a kiss." 
 
 " Well, tell me how it happened. " 
 
 " I see her goin' home by the short-cut, sir," returned
 
 546 KNOCKXAGOW; 
 
 Barney, looking the very picture of repentance, "an' wint 
 across to meet her, thinkin' id 'd be a fine thing to let her 
 see me wud a fire-lock on my shoulder. An' thin I wint to 
 help her over the double-ditch above the forth. An' as I was 
 comin' back I hear the beagles givin' tongue, an' the hare 
 wint poppin' through the nine-acre field, and was makin' for 
 the furze over Raheen. Thin the hounds come on, keepin' on 
 the thrale elegant, and the fust man I see toppin' the double- 
 ditch was yourse'f, and the huntsman after you. So I stuck 
 the gun into a brake uv briers, an' cut off to see the fun ; an' 
 the divil a wan uv me ever thought uv the gun till the day 
 uv the hurlin', whin Father M'Mahon tould me 'twas in 
 Billy Heffernan's bog-hole ; and what use would id be for me 
 to go look for id in a hole that 's as deep as the top uv the 
 house?" 
 
 " Did he tell you who put it in that hole ?" Hugh asked. 
 
 ''Not a word, sir," Barney replied, "on'y that 'twas 
 there." 
 
 " All right, Barney," said Hugh. " You may go see Bobby 
 and your mother as soon as you like now. Let him out, 
 Billy; he won't run away again, never fear," he added, on 
 observing Billy Heffernan's look of alarm. 
 
 "Be my sowl, 'tis runnin' enough I'm afther gettin'," 
 returned Barney. " An' that I may never die in sin if ever 
 I put a f ut on a ship again, anyway. Will I ride Bobby to see 
 my mother, Misther Hugh 1" 
 
 The permission was granted, and in a few minutes Barney 
 passed by the side of Knocknagow, that was left at full gal- 
 lop ; in his excitement either not seeing or not heeding Kit 
 Cummins, who ran to her door holding up a bottle and glass 
 invitingly,; nor even seeming to notice Peg Brady, who, with 
 the dragoon, stood behind her.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 54T 
 
 CHAPTER LXIL 
 
 SAD NEWS FROM BALLINACLASH. 
 
 ANOTHER year has elapsed, and Grace has uever once visited 
 the old cottage. She shrinks from it now, as she shrank 
 from Norah Lahy's pale face. Yet she feels that Norah 
 Lahy has done her good, and is glad to think that she won 
 the love of the poor sick girl; for Mary Kearney mentioned 
 in her letters that Norah had spoken affectionately of her to 
 the last. Grace says to herself that she ought to spend 
 some time with Mary in her now lonely home that it 
 "would be right;" and, as in Norah Lahy's case, she feels 
 it would have done her good. But she has such troops of 
 pleasant acquaintances now, and so many invitations to all 
 sorts of parties, and is so admired and flattered, that she 
 scarcely has time even to think of her old friends. She is 
 reminded of them this morning by a letter from Mary. 
 Mary tells her they are all well; that Anne writes from her 
 convent in her old, cheerful way, but that Ellie did not come 
 home at Christmas ; that there was a letter from the Cape 
 from Richard, who was delighted with the voyage. (He had 
 gone as surgeon in an Australian vessel.) 
 
 ' Billy Heffernan's house in the bog," the letter went on to 
 say, "was swept away by the flood after the heavy rains; and 
 he was barely able to save himself and his mule from drown- 
 ing. But he is now hard at work building another house, as 
 Mr. Lloyd has given him a lease for ever of twenty acres of his 
 bog, for the yearly rent of a creel of turf ; and though my 
 father says a single sod would be too much for it, Billy thinks 
 himself quite independent, and says he has an estate while 
 grass grows and water runs, and no landlord can turn him out. 
 "Whether grass can be made to grow on the ' estate,' how- 
 ever, is doubtful. Nelly Donovan has given her heart to 
 Billy Heffernan ; but his heart, I really think, is in Norah 
 Lahy's grave. And Mat, too, loves not wisely, but too well ; 
 and has become quite a grave and thoughtful character, do-
 
 548 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 voting all the time he can spare to reading. Old Phil Morris 
 is dead, and Bessy is gone to live with her aunt in Dublin. 
 She had been very unhappy on account of the unkind things 
 people \ised to say of her; and that foolish dragoon, en- 
 couraged, it is said, by Peg Brady, kept persecuting her to 
 the last. Peg is our dairy -maid now; and she has confessed, 
 with a flood of tears, that she deceived Mat Donovan about 
 a letter of Bessy's, and is sorry she had not the courage to 
 tell the truth before Bessy went away. As I have said so 
 much of the 'course of true love' running in the usual way 
 in this part of the globe, I must tell you that a little cir- 
 cumstance which accidentally came under my notice the 
 other day has convinced me that your friend, ' Fionn MacooV 
 is, after all, in love with somebody ; but, for the life of me, 
 I cannot guess who she may be, though I could tell you the 
 colour of her hair. Strange to say, I thought of Bessy Morris, 
 but though you will say that is just what might be ex- 
 pected from an 'oddity' I am sure it is not she. Might it 
 be Miss Delany? He praised her beauty and agreeable man- 
 ners more than ever I heard him praise any one else. But, 
 take my word for it, Hugh is gone about somebody, as sure 
 as the sun is at this moment sinking down behind the poplar 
 trees on the hill which trees always remind me of you and 
 Bessy Morris, and all the chat we used to have about her 
 father, and her anxiety to find him and live with him in their 
 old home, after all his wanderings. That 's what made me 
 like Bessy, and I never could believe her heartless, as she 
 had the name of being. 
 
 "The Messrs. Pender are carrying things with a high hand. 
 Poor Father M'Mahon is heart-broken at the sufferings of the 
 people. The poor-house is crowded, and the number of deaths 
 is fearful. Last Sunday, when requesting the prayers of the 
 congregation in the usual way for the repose of the souls of 
 those who died during the week, the list was so long that 
 poor Father M'Mahon stopped in the middle of it, exclaiming 
 with a heart-piercing cry, " my poor people ! my poor 
 people!' and then turned round and prostrated himself at 
 the foot of the altar convulsed with grief, and could not go 
 on reading the list of deaths for a long time. Then he got 
 into a rage and denounced the government as a ' damnable 
 government.' I was quite frightened at the excitement of
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPEKAKV. 549 
 
 the people. Some faces were quite white, and others almost 
 black. But a very affecting incident turned their anger into 
 pity, though one would think it ought only to incense them 
 all the more against their rulers. When he resumed the 
 reading of the list, a woman shrieked out and fell senseless 
 upon the floor. She was one of the paupers in the auxiliary 
 workhouse, who are marched to the parish chapel every 
 Sunday, as the chapel in the regular workhouse is too small 
 even to accommodate the inmates of that house. This poor 
 woman was only admitted the week before with her husband 
 and children, from whom, according to their infamous rules, 
 she was at once separated. She noAV heard her husband's 
 name read from the altar, and with a wild shriek of agony 
 fell down, and was borne senseless out of the chapel. They 
 did not even take the trouble to inform her that her husband 
 was dead ! Were human beings ever treated before as our 
 poor people are treated 1 I often wondered at the almost 
 wild looks of the paupers while the list of deaths was being 
 read. But I understand it now ! Oh ! I must drive away the 
 thought of such barbarous cruelty, and not distress you with 
 such pictures of human suffering. But perhaps it is well to 
 think of these things sometimes, Grace, and pray to God to 
 alleviate the misery around us. I do my best to keep up 
 my spirits. I sit in poor Norah's chair every evening till 
 the light in Mat Donovan's window reminds me to go down 
 and read the newspaper or play a tune for my father, while 
 mamma is making her favourite slim-cake for tea. Hugh, as 
 usual, is nearly always in his own room, where I spend an 
 occasional hour with him. He is, however, becoming amiable, 
 and comes out of his den when our Castleview friends make 
 their appearance. I am always glad to see them, and they 
 cheer us up a good deal. Miss Lloyd scarcely recognises 
 them now, and maybe she doesn't get it from Hose, with 
 whom Johnny Wilson is again ' the white-headed boy.' 
 Can you make out this mystery about Hugh as you did the 
 tracks in the snow 1 
 
 "Ah, we had not so merry a Christmas as that since! But 
 I can't realise that idea of the poet you used to quote about 
 a ' sorrow's crown of sorrow.' I like to remember ' happier 
 things,' and would say with our own bard 
 
 " ' Long, long be my heart with such memories filled.'
 
 550 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 I take my walk nearly every evening. Great news of Tommy 
 Lahy ! His uncle, who is very rich, has adopted him. He is 
 in college, and from his likeness he must be a fine fellow. 
 Do you remember his laughing blue eyes and luxuriant curls? 
 Fancy Tommy Lahy coming home a polished gentleman to 
 us. Would he have any chance of you? It would be quite 
 romantic. I'm glad I have one more pleasant item to relieve 
 the gloom of this tiresome letter. Nancy Hogan is married 
 to Tom Gary, the carpenter, and they are as happy as the 
 day is long. Tell me all about your great ball. I am all 
 anxiety to know whether it is the white or the pink you have 
 decided on; but as you will have decided before you can get 
 this, I won't give you my opinion, though you say you would 
 be guided by it. Of course you will be the belle, as Eva 
 would have been the beauty. How I should like to go to 
 her profession ; but I fear it will be impossible for me to 
 leave home. Mr. Lloyd says still he will never love again. 
 It is a great loss to Edmund that he is not at home, as you 
 have such pleasant parties. I am so thankful to you to give 
 me such graphic descriptions of them. Edmund writes to 
 me sometimes. He and Arthur O'Connor will soon come to 
 spend a few days with Father Carroll, and they all promise 
 to pay us a visit. How glad I'd be if you would come. The 
 light is fading. I'll take to thinking now, till Xelly Donovan 
 lights her candle. Good-bye, dearest Grace, and believe me 
 ever your affectionate friend, 
 
 "MARY KEARNEY." 
 
 Grace was by no means unmoved by the passages in this 
 letter in which Mary glanced at the sufferings of her poor 
 neighbours, and the sad change that had come over Knock- 
 nagow, where, Grace used to say, the idea must have been 
 suggested to her favourite poet : 
 
 " You 'd swear they knew no other mood 
 But mirth and love in Tipperary." 
 
 But that allusion to Hugh and Miss Delany put her into a 
 brown study. Could it be that matters had gone so far be- 
 tween him and Minnie Delany ? He had only met her once, 
 but Grace now remembered he was quite " taken up with 
 her," and scarcely took any notice of herself. Grace was 
 angry, and angry for being angry. For, what was it to her 1
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPrKRAIlY. 551 
 
 The arrival of the dress for the ball which fitted to perfec- 
 tion, and looked even more becoming than she expected 
 put everything else out of her head for an hour or two. 
 Then, as she sat down to take breath, after trying the effect 
 of all her ornaments, strange to say, she found herself think- 
 ing of Tommy Lahy, an educated gentleman, handsome and 
 rich perhaps famous crossing the wide ocean to lay all 
 his wealth and laurels at her feet. But then it occurred to 
 her that the moustache with which, in fancy, she had adorned 
 his lip was not yet a reality, and Tommy Lahy was dis- 
 missed contemptuously. 
 
 When dressed for the ball she went, as was her custom, 
 to her father's study, in order that he might see her in all 
 her glory. She was startled, on entering, to see a man 
 standing alone at the table wrapped in a great-coat. It was 
 Hugh Kearney. For a moment surprise kept her from 
 giving him her hand, which she did give at last without 
 speaking. He almost hesitated to touch the dainty glove, 
 for he was wet and travel-stained, the rain glistening upon 
 his face and beard. She thought the dark eyes glistened, 
 too and she was not mistaken. How immeasurable seemed 
 the distance between them at that moment ! She was so 
 bright and so beautiful, so fitted for the sunshine, that to 
 draw her towards him, into the gloom that hung over his 
 pathway, even if he could do so, would (he thought) be almost 
 a crime. 
 
 Recovering from her first surprise, she became quite formal, 
 almost haughty, in her manner, as she sat upon a chair, ac 
 the opposite side of the table from him, and said: 
 
 " I had a letter from Mary to-day, and was glad to see by 
 it that ye were all well." 
 
 This was a relief to him ; as he feared she might ask a 
 question which he would have found some difficulty in 
 answering. 
 
 " I '11 be back in a moment," said the doctor, entering 
 hastily with a letter in his hand. "O Grace!" Hugh made 
 a sign and the doctor checked himself. " You are already 
 dressed for the ball," he added; "I see you are determined to 
 be early in the field." 
 
 " Mrs. D is to call for me," said she, laughing as she 
 
 left the room.
 
 552 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 " I don't like to bring you out such a night as this," said 
 Hugh, "unless you think it absolutely necessary. Dr. Cusack 
 assured me there was no immediate danger." 
 
 " Well, I prefer going at once," returned Dr. Kiely. " Will 
 you have some refreshment ?" 
 
 " No, thank you. I had something at the hotel. And I 
 have no time to lose," he added, looking at his watch. 
 
 "Well, I hope you will succeed in the object of your 
 journey. If not, don't forget to let me know. Good night." 
 
 As Hugh Kearney sat upon the top of the mail-coach, re- 
 gardless of the cold rain dashing, into .his face, he could wish 
 that the night and his journey were a year long. It galled 
 his proud spirit to think that he was going to beg. It would 
 be easier for him to die. But he thought of his father and 
 mother, and his sister, his beautiful and noble sister, and 
 for their sakes he resolved to make any and every sacrifice 
 consistent with honour. He bowed his head and covered hi& 
 face with his hands as the thought occurred to him that he 
 might never see his mother alive again. " And if I fail in, 
 my mission," he said to himself, "I could almost wish it may 
 be so. She would feel the blow more keenly than any of us, 
 when the first gust of the storm has almost killed her." 
 
 He was roused by the loud bray of the guard's horn, and, 
 on looking up, saw a crowd of vehicles blocking up the road 
 in front of a suburban mansion, from the windows of which 
 the light streamed out upon the throng of smoking horses 
 and shouting drivers, as they struggled and jostled one 
 another to get out of the way of the mail coach. Hugh re- 
 membered it was at this house the ball was to which Grace 
 was going, and fancied he caught a glimpse of her crossing 
 the hall as the coach plunged into the darkness. 
 
 " There's a ball there, sir, "said the guard behind him, who 
 thought he meant to inquire what it all meant ; for Hugh 
 had waved his hand towards the lighted windows. 
 
 But the action was an involuntary " Farewell." 
 
 Grace was not there, however. She ran down stairs on 
 
 hearing Mrs. D 's carriage stop at the door, and meeting 
 
 her father in the hall wrapped in his cloak, she asked where 
 he was going. 
 
 "To Ballinaclash," he replied. "Mrs. Kearney got sud- 
 denly ill this morning."
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIl'PERAUY. 553 
 
 "Why did not Hugh tell me?" 
 
 " Well, he saw you dressed for the party, and did not like 
 to -spoil your enjoyment. He is going to Dublin by the 
 night coach." 
 
 She paused for a moment, looking bewildered, and then 
 hurried to the hall-door, where a servant was waiting to hold 
 an umbrella over her while she got into the carriage. Her 
 father looked sad, and shook his head, as he turned into his 
 
 study for a parcel he had forgotten. Mrs. D 's carriage 
 
 was rolling up the street as he came out, but to his surprise 
 Grace met him in the hall. 
 
 " I have told Mrs. D of Mrs. Kearney's illness," said 
 
 she, in a low, firm voice. "And now will you let me go with 
 you 1 I '11 be ready in ten minutes." 
 
 " It is a cold, wet night, for so long a drive," he replied. 
 
 " Oh, no matter. Do let me go." ^ 
 
 " Well, then, lose no time." 
 
 She flew up the stairs, and there was no sadness in his 
 look now, and no shaking of the head, as he gazed after her, 
 with all a father's love and pride. 
 
 The tears welled into Willie Kearney's eyes when Hugh 
 shook him by the hand in his uncle's warehouse. 
 
 "I hope you find Willie a good boy?" said Hugh. 
 
 " No better, no better," returned his uncle. " He '11 be a 
 first-rate business man." 
 
 " Well, Hugh," said the merchant, when he had explained 
 Nhe business upon which he had come, " it is a sad business. 
 fiut I must tell you plainly I cannot do what you require. 
 It would be only throwing good money after bad, and I owe 
 a duty to my own children. Your father was always care- 
 less and improvident, and I often told him he was a fool to 
 expend so much upon his farms when he had no sufficient 
 security. I lent him money before, which I never expect to 
 be paid. And you know I never got a penny of what I was 
 entitled to by my father's will. I left it all to them, and 
 depended on my own exertions. And now I ask you is it 
 iust to expect more than that from me, particularly in so 
 hopeless a business?" 
 
 " I agree with every word you say," Hugh replied. " I 'd 
 cut off my hand rather than ask it for myself. But I can't 
 bear the thought of seeing them ruined. And if the rent* 
 
 2s
 
 554 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 now due, were paid, I do "believe it possible, by care and 
 economy, to pay you after a little time. I '11 pledge you my 
 honour I '11 do my best." 
 
 After a long pause, his uncle filled a cheque, and handed 
 it to him. 
 
 " It is not much more than half the sum you want," said 
 he, " but I cannot give you more. And mind, it is to you, 
 and not to your father, I am giving it. You won't go back 
 without coming out to see us ? Your cousins would be most 
 bappy to meet you." 
 
 "Oh, I cannot lose an hour," replied Hugh. "Good-bye." 
 And after shaking hands warmly with the sturdy merchant, 
 who had some of his father's brusqueness in his manner, he 
 hurried out of the office, his heart somewhat lightened of its 
 load. 
 
 "Dr. Kiely will do the rest," said he, as he hurried 
 through the crowded streets. "And if my poor mother has 
 rallied, with God's help, all will be well." 
 
 While Hugh Kearney was picturing Grace whirling among 
 the dancers at the ball, she was hurrying to his mother's 
 bedside. 
 
 The second day after, she and Mary were sitting together 
 in the well-remembered little room up in the steep roof of 
 the old cottage. Mrs. Kearney was out of danger, but it was 
 feared she would never wholly recover the effects of the 
 shock she had got. The cause of the shock was kept a 
 secret from Grace; and she candidly told Mary that this 
 made her feel uneasy and uncomfortable, for she could not 
 imagine what motive there could be for concealing the cir- 
 cumstance, whatever it was, from her. Mary flushed scarlet 
 as she answered 
 
 "Well, it is very foolish to be making a mystery of it. 
 But I believe people always feel ashamed under such circum- 
 stances; though I scarcely know why they should. The 
 fact is, we were all startled the other morning to find all our 
 cattle, and sheep, and horses, and, in fact, all we had, seized 
 upon by the agent for rent, and driven away to pound. 
 When poor mamma heard the bailiffs shouting, and saw what 
 had happened, she fell down in a fit, and we feared for some 
 lime she was dying. But, thank God, it is not so bad, and 
 if I saw any hope of her being reconciled I 'd be happy."
 
 OR. THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 555 
 
 " I don't see anything to be ashamed of," said Grace. 
 
 "And yet," Mary replied, "people who would fawn upon 
 us yesterday would not know us to-day. And if Hugh cannot 
 prevail upon my uncle to advance the money to release the 
 cattle before they are canted, I don't know what the end 
 will be. How well I can now understand what the poor 
 people suffer in being driven from their homes every day. 
 I love the very stones of this old place," she murmured, with 
 the tears in her eyes, as she leant out of the window, and 
 looked round the garden, and out over the fields, and down 
 to the little brook, along whose banks she and her brothers 
 and sisters used to spend the long summer days in their happy 
 childhood. And must they leave it all now to strangers, 
 perhaps, who never heard their very names? Her father 
 was standing on the "'new ditch," looking towards that part 
 of his farm which was a quagmire some years before, and she 
 guessed what his thoughts were. 
 
 " It was very good of you to come to us, Grace," said she. 
 " X o one can cheer my father like you." 
 
 "Ah, I ought to have come long ago," Grace replied with 
 a sigh. 
 
 "Better late than never," returned Mary, cheerfully. 
 "And here is somebody else who wants you to comfort him. 
 I really think he will change his mind, and give you Eva's 
 place in his heart." 
 
 Grace laughed as Mr. Lloyd rode by on his grey horse ; 
 and then looked grave. 
 
 "Oh, here are the Hanlys," she exclaimed, brightening 
 up ; " and the pony coming on quite gaily, and head fore- 
 most. I suppose we must go down. By-the-by, Mary, 
 
 what about -" She stopped in the middle of her ques- v 
 
 tion, which was suggested by Rose Hanly's curls, which fell 
 over her shoulders in ringlets that might almost rival those 
 in which Mr. Lloyd's heart got so hopelessly entangled the 
 night he distinguished himself as a poet. 
 
 "What were you going to say?" Mary asked. 
 
 " Oh, nothing. Let us go down to them." 
 
 Grace looked very often at Rose's curls during the next 
 half-hour; and when she and Mary were again alone, she 
 was about asking for an explanation of that passage in her 
 letter about Hugh's being in love. But, strange to say, she 
 could not bring herself to ask so simple a question.
 
 556 KXOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 Mrs. Kearney was reclining in her arm-chair, propped up 
 with pillows. 
 
 " I think, Mary," said she, " I hear the sheep." 
 
 Mary thought it was only fancy, and merely replied that 
 the evening was very fine and calm. 
 
 "And the cows," she added. 
 
 Mary looked anxiously at Grace, for she feared her mother's 
 mind was beginning to wander. 
 
 But just then Jim Dunn was heard shouting to Tom 
 Maher; and Tom Maher shouting to Barney Brodherick; and 
 Barney hollowing to no one in particular but in a general 
 way, and for his own private amusement. Mary and Grace 
 ran to the window ; and there were the sheep already spread 
 over the lawn, smelling at the grass, and snatching a hasty 
 nibble ; and then holding up their noses in the air, and look- 
 ing all round on the groves, and the lime-trees, and the elms, 
 and the old cottage itself, as if a dim notion had got into 
 their foolish heads that they had seen all that before. Then 
 the cows and the heifers and the yearlings came rushing 
 through the gate like a routed army; but after a little 
 while subsided into tranquillity, and began to low softly in 
 response to Attorney Hanly's herd, which Joe Eussell was 
 driving to their stalls from Tom Hogan's meadow. And, to 
 crown all, Bobby rushed through the open gate, and made 
 straight for the house at a hand-gallop, twisting his neck into 
 every possible position, and kicking up his heels in a most 
 extraordinary fashion, till he came close under the window, 
 and suddenly stood stock still. And raising his head as high 
 is possible in the air, Bobby brayed so long and loud, that 
 Mrs. Kearney and Mary and Grace were fain to stop their 
 ears. Then Grace laughed her old ringing laugh ; and when 
 Barney, suddenly remembering that "the misthress was 
 sick," stopped Bobby's music by clapping his "caubeen" 
 over Bobby's upturned nose, Mary laughed quite as heartily 
 as Grace. And poor Mrs. Kearney smiled, and fancied she 
 was quite well again; and could almost persuade herself 
 that the shock she got the morning everything was seized 
 and driven away, and the stillness and desolation of the place 
 ever since, were only the effects of a troubled dream. 
 
 Dr. Kiely assured them the accustomed sights and sounds 
 about the house would tend greatly to Mrs. Kearney's re-
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY 557 
 
 covery. And after his second tumbler Maurice was himself 
 again, and abused old Isaac Fender and his hopeful son in so 
 superlative and original a manner that Grace laughed as 
 much as she did that Christmas Day we first made her 
 acquaintance, when, between her gravity and her vivacity, 
 Mr. Lowe did not know whether to call her a woman or a 
 child. 
 
 Hugh sat at the end of the table, with his hand on the 
 head of his favourite pointer. Grace thought, as his dark 
 eyes rested upon her, without seeming to see her, that she 
 never saw him look so sad. Could it be that what Mary 
 alluded to in her letter had anything to do with it 1 
 
 He was looking into the future the near future, and not 
 the distant, as was his wont. The blow that he feared 
 must fall, was only delayed. The lease would soon expire; 
 and were they to be ejected like Tom Hogan, or the rent 
 raised? In either case certain ruin would be the result. 
 Then, he was in debt; and until his uncle and Dr. Kiely 
 were paid, he could never have an easy mind. And how 
 were they to be paid? There was only one way; and it was 
 when he thought of this, that Grace saw a deeper shade of 
 sadness come into his dark eyes as they involuntarily, dwelt 
 upon her. 
 
 Maurice Kearney's " surprises" were exactly in his old 
 style, and had for Grace the double charm of freshness after 
 the artificial manner of life she had for some time been accus- 
 tomed to and of recalling her merry childhood. She was 
 asked to sing, too; and the songs and the old tunes recalled 
 the dance and the hurling, and Billy Heffernan and his 
 flute, and Mat Donovan and the famous drum, and the stal- 
 worth youths and blooming maidens around the Bush on 
 Sunday evenings, when 
 
 " You 'd swear they knew no other mood 
 But mirth and love in Tipperary." 
 
 Ah, the cattle and the sheep could be brought back to 
 Maurice Kearney's fields. But can these be ever brought 
 backt
 
 558 KNOCKNAGOWj 
 
 CHAPTER LXIII. 
 
 EJECTED. THE BAILIFFS IN THE OLD COTTAGE. BILLY HEFFER- 
 
 NAN PLAYS " AULD LANG SYNE "AGAIN, AND THE OLD LINNET 
 SINGS IN THE MOONLIGHT. 
 
 HUGH KEARNEY is in Australia, toiling to make money. He 
 is resolved to pay the debt due to his uncle, and that for 
 which his generous friend, Dr. Kiely, is responsible. He is 
 determined, too, to have a home for his father and mother 
 and sisters, if they should require it. But he does not know 
 that they require it even now. Sir Garrett Butler made a 
 feeble elfort to inquire into the condition of his tenantry and 
 the conduct of his agent, but his health or his energy failed, 
 and he relapsed into his former habits. 
 
 " He can't live long," said Mr. Beresford Fender to his 
 worthy father. " Mrs. Lowe mentioned that the doctors or- 
 dered him to Italy, so we may as well slap at Kearney at 
 once. He will be likely to fololw his son to Australia ; and 
 'twill be a matter of importance to have possession of the 
 place whatever happens." 
 
 Old Isaac had nothing to object against this, and legal 
 proceedings were forthwith taken against Maurice Kearney. 
 He had been careful to keep his rent paid up since the 
 seizure of his stock for the arrears; but that was no use now, 
 and he was ejected for non-title. He had to sell off his cattle 
 and sheep at a ruinous sacrifice ; but when the sheriff came 
 to hand over the possession of his houses and lands to the 
 agent, Mrs. Kearney was so dangerously ill that it was found 
 necessary to allow them to remain in the house till she was 
 efficiently recovered to be removed, or, what seemed more 
 likely, till she was borne to her last peaceful home in the 
 churchyard near the old castle. 
 
 Mrs. Kearney was slowly recovering. But they dreaded 
 to tell her that the sheep whose bleating she listened to were 
 not her own, but Mr. Beresford Fender's. The tears sprang 
 into Mary's eyes as she looked into the little garden, and saw
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERAUY. 559 
 
 a sow with her numerous progeny lying upon one of the 
 flower-beds. There was a rude straw shod, also, erected near 
 the rustic seat, which was broken and laid across the en- 
 trance, to keep in half-a-dozen calves, whose heads were 
 thrust under it, as if they had been caught there, and could 
 not by any possibility be pulled back again. 
 
 " I think, Mary," said Mrs. Kearney, " as the day is so fine, 
 I'll sit out in the garden for a while. I know it would do me 
 good." 
 
 " Oh, I 'm sure it will," returned Mary, eagerly. "I'll get 
 your shawl. You '11 find, if you only take courage, you are 
 much stronger than you think." 
 
 She induced the invalid, instead of going to the garden, to 
 walk in the lawn in the shelter of the fir-grove. After a turn 
 or two they sat down on the trunk of a fallen tree, and nearly 
 an hour passed unheeded, as they listened to the cawing of 
 the rooks, and the thousand dreamy sounds of the summer 
 noon. 
 
 Mary saw her mother's face brighten as she looked round 
 on the dear old place, and her heart sank within her as she 
 thought the time had now come when the truth must be 
 told that it was no longer theirs, and they must soon leave 
 it for ever. 
 
 " Oh," thought Mary, as she watched her mother's bright- 
 ening looks, " how are we to break it to her ? I fear it will 
 kill her. May God direct us for the best." 
 
 Her father had taken a house in Kilthubber ; and at her 
 request a good deal of the furniture of the cottage was 
 removed to it. She heard Beresford Fender ask him when 
 he was to get possession of his house, and she wished that 
 her father should not be exposed to such insults any longer 
 than it was absolutely necessary. That very day she had 
 persuaded him to go into town, and superintend the fitting- 
 up of the new house. She dreaded Mr. Beresford Fender's 
 brutal insolence ; and now that her mother was sufficiently 
 recovered to leave her room, a visit from that gentleman 
 might be expected at any moment. 
 
 " I was dreaming of Hugh last night," said Mrs. Kearney; 
 " and of my poor uncle Dan, God rest his soul. I hope it 
 was not a bad dream. Mr. Butler that is Sir Garrett now 
 came in with his ebony flute under his arm, and, strange to
 
 560 KNOCKNAGOW j 
 
 say, Hugh clenched his fist and was going to knock him 
 down, till my uncle Dan caught him by the arm. Then, 
 my uncle Dan got his violin, and he and Mr. Butler 
 played the ' Coulin' together. I never heard such heavenly 
 music," said Mrs. Kearney, holding her hands together, and 
 turning up her eyes to the cloudless sky. "I'm sure it 
 can't be a bad dream. Grace ran in and flung her arms about 
 Hugh, and he looked so surprised ! Then a whole lot of 
 ladies and gentlemen took hands and began to dance. You 
 were dressed in white and Ellie in blue, and ye were the 
 beautifullest of them all. But that Barney," added Mrs. 
 Kearney, indignantly, "wouldn't stop dancing and prancing 
 in and out among them all, and jumping upon chairs, and 
 standing on his head, and kicking his feet about, till my 
 mind was confused, and I couldn't make head or tail of it. 
 But I know it wasn't a bad dream, for the music continued 
 even after that young Hanly roared, and poor Miss LloyC. 
 was tumbled head over heels. Then Richard began to kick 
 Beresford Fender poor Richard was always too hasty," 
 sighed Mrs. Kearney, pathetically " and there was nothing 
 but uproar and confusion. But the 'Coulin' could be heard 
 through it all; and that 's what makes me think it was not a 
 bad dream, at any rate." 
 
 Mary laughed as she pinned her mother's shawl more com- 
 fortably about her, and said it was she herself who was 
 playing the "Coulin" last night, but she touched the keys 
 so lightly, she thought the sound could_'not reach her mother's 
 room. 
 
 " I think you may as well come in and have your broth 
 now," said she. 
 
 " You may as well bring it to me here, Mary," her mother 
 replied. " 'Tis such a beautiful day, and this is such a nice 
 place to rest." 
 
 " Oh, very well," returned Mary, " I '11 go for it." 
 
 She walked quickly back to the house, in better spirits 
 than she had known for a long time. She thanked God that 
 her mother was so much stronger than ever she hoped to see 
 her again. 
 
 "If she knew that we must go, and could be reconciled to 
 it, I 'd feel quite happy," she thought, as she pushed against 
 the hall-door, which she had left unlatched when coming out.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OP T1PPEHARV. 561 
 
 But the door was fastened, and she knocked loudly, as the 
 old housekeeper's ears were not of the sharpest, and there 
 was no one else in the house. There was no response to 
 her knocking, and she went round to the back-door, a little 
 annoyed, as she expected to encounter some of Mr. Fender's 
 people, who occupied one of the out-offices. To her surprise 
 the back-door also was fastened, and on looking round she 
 started and seemed quite bewildered? Chairs, tables, bed- 
 steads, and household furniture of every kind, were strewn 
 in heaps about the yard. The truth at once flashed upon 
 her; advantage had been taken of her mother's going out 
 to get possession of the house. The discovery almost took 
 away her breath ; but indignation at so cowardly a trick gave 
 her strength, and she walked boldly to the office occupied by 
 Fender's bailiffs and servants. That, too, was locked, and 
 she asked aloud was there any one within. There was no 
 reply ; and the silence and desolation of the place filled her 
 with an oppressive sense of fear. But this was only for a 
 moment. All her anxiety was for her mother. 
 
 " Oh," said she, covering her face with her hands, " it will 
 kill her. If Ellie were at home, or even if I had Judy 
 but I know they have purposely contrived some plan to get 
 the poor old woman out of the way I might be able to do 
 something." She was on the point of giving way to despair, 
 when her eye rested on Norah Lahy's chair. Snatching it 
 up between her hands she hurried back to her mother. 
 
 "The broth is not ready, mamma," said she, "and Judy is 
 gone somewhere. You 'd be tired sitting on that hard tree, 
 so I brought you this chair." 
 
 " Oh, 'tisn't strong enough for me," said her mother, " I 'm 
 too heavy for it." 
 
 "Oh, 'tis quite strong. It was Mat Donovan made it, 
 and there is a wooden frame inside the straw. You '11 find 
 it very comfortable ; I was often thinking of bringing it to 
 your room." 
 
 " Well, bring it down to the hedge. I saw a wasp going 
 into a whole at the root of this tree, and I suppose there is a 
 nest there. I 'm always afraid of wasps since my uncle Dan 
 got the sting in the eye-brow, and it swelled up till you 'd 
 think he hadn't an eye in his head. That's why I was 
 always against keeping bees; though Mrs. Donovan tells me
 
 562 KNOOKNAGOW ; 
 
 not one in her house ever got a sting, but one Mat got when 
 he grabbed at a bee that got entangled in Bessy Morris's hair. 
 Oh, I declare 'tis a very nice chair. I think I '11 stay out till 
 your father comes home, and he '11 be surprised. He said he 
 only wanted to see Wat Murphy about some sheep he bought, 
 so I suppose he won't be long." 
 
 The allusion to Mrs. Donovan suggested to Mary that the 
 best thing she could do was to gee Nelly to assist her. 
 Mat, she knew, was with har father fitting up the house in 
 town. 
 
 Nelly and her mother were quite startled when Miss 
 Kearney told them what had happened. Nelly's first sug- 
 gestion was to "choke" old Isaac without a moment's loss of 
 time. But, remembering that this summary proceeding was 
 not practicable just then, old Isaac not being in the way, she 
 let down her apron which she had tucked up as if the 
 choking business were to be done on the spot and became 
 more calm. 
 
 " Sure I can break in the doore, Miss," said Nelly. 
 
 " Oh, no," returned Mary, and she could not help smiling. 
 " that would not do. Darby Ruadh and the rest of them are 
 in the house, I am sure. I think the best thing we could do 
 is to get mamma over here, until my father comes with the 
 car. And if she can bear the shock, Mrs. Donovan could 
 talk to her about old times, and that would cheer her. But 
 she is not strong enough to walk." 
 
 " I '11 run over for Billy and the mule," exclaimed Nelly, 
 flinging her cloak on her shoulders. " He 's at the big dhrain 
 to-day an' sure 'tis at the same dhrain he is every day a'most 
 for the last twelvemonth." 
 
 As Nelly was starting off to the bog for Billy Heffernan, 
 the old housekeeper came in, vowing vengeance against 
 " that limb uv the divil," Darby Ruadh, who had told her 
 that Honor Lahy wanted her in all haste, and off she ran, 
 and never "cried crack" till she reached the "barrack," and 
 found Honor did not want her at all. 
 
 "Never mind, Judy," said Mary, soothingly. "Anything 
 such people would do need not surprise you. Come \vith me 
 now, as I may want you." 
 
 Mary was quite alarmed to find Mr. Beresford Fender 
 standing in front of her mother's chair, while his father
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 563 
 
 shuffled up and down behind him, rubbing his face. But, to 
 her surprise, instead of bullying and insulting her mother, 
 the worthy pair were bowing to her with every sign, of the 
 most profound respect, and assuring her how much they 
 regretted that she had been put to even the slightest in- 
 convenience, while poor Mrs. Kearney looked from one to 
 the other quite bewildered. 
 
 " 'Twas all a mistake, Miss Kearney," said Beresford, turn- 
 ing to Mary. " The rascals acted without my orders. But 
 I arn after telling them to leave the house, and the furniture 
 will be put back again at wance." 
 
 " What is it, Mary ?" Mrs. Kearney asked, faintly. 
 
 " Something the bailiffs have been doing, I believe," she 
 replied. " But it appears it was a mistake." 
 
 "Making another seizure 1 ?" returned her mother, with a 
 frightened look. And Mary, thinking she was going to 
 swoon, put her arms round her, assuring her again it was all 
 a mistake. 
 
 " All a mistake, Mrs. Kearney," said Beresford. 
 
 " All a mistake, Mrs. Kearney," old Isaac repeated. 
 
 "Good morning, Mrs. Kearney," said Beresford, with a 
 low bow. 
 
 "Good morning, Mrs. Kearney," said old Isaac, with 
 another low bow. 
 
 Though somewhat reassured by their obsequiousness, Mrs. 
 Kearney was alarmed, and said she feared they were " bent 
 on some villainy." 
 
 Billy Heffernan's services were not required. But Nelly 
 Donovan's appearance in his lonely house that day, he after- 
 wards confessed, first put the thought into his mind, that it 
 would be pleasant, after all, to have some one to welcome 
 him home on summer evenings and winter nights. And that 
 same night, as Kit sat winking at the moon, after a luxurious 
 tumble on a heap of dry turf dust, the remains of last year's 
 rick, certain sounds reached her ears to which she had been so 
 long unaccustomed, that she wakened up and switched her tail 
 three several times. And though, except the tail, not a muscle 
 moved, it was quite evident that Kit was going through a 
 series of very wild gambols in her own mind. Her master, 
 for the first time since Horah Lahy's death, took down his 
 flute from the elk's horns upon which it hung, and played
 
 564 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 " Auld Lang Syne." Then, putting back the flute, he went 
 out and paced up and down through the rushes, feeling un- 
 easy and excited. Was he going to forget her, he asked 
 himself. And if she knew his thoughts would she not 
 reproach him with her dark eyes 1 But then he recalled her 
 words the evening he ran to tell her that Mat Donovan was 
 not killed by the falling of the hay-rick, and remembered 
 how fond she always was of Nelly. He felt he could not 
 sleep in the state of mind he was in ; and instead of going 
 to bed at once, he thought he might as well walk over to 
 Honor Lahy's for his usual supply of meal. 
 
 "God save all here!" said Billy Heffernan; "'tis a fine 
 night." 
 
 "God save you kindly, Billy!" returned Honor and Phil 
 together ; " sit down." They were sitting near the window, 
 watching the moon as it peeped over the beech-tree. Billy 
 sat down in his old place on the bench. And as the moon 
 rose higher and higher above the tree, the light fell on the 
 place where Norah used to sit, and the thought occurred to 
 each of them that she was looking at them now. 
 
 " God save ye," said another voice, in a low, subdued tone ; 
 "'tis a beautiful night." It was Nelly Donovan, who sat 
 down exactly where Norah used to sit, and, resting her chin 
 on her hand, gazed up at the moon, with a softness in her 
 eyes that Billy Heffernan had never noticed in them before. 
 The dreamy sadness of their looks changed suddenly to as- 
 tonishment. The old linnet began to sing that low sweet 
 song of his ; though his voice had never before been heard 
 except in the day-time. 
 
 Honor Lahy made the sign of the cross, evidently viewing 
 the incident in a supernatural light. 
 
 " There 's some thin' goin' to happen that Norah 'd be glad 
 uv," said she. 
 
 And as Billy Heffernan continued to look into Nelly 
 Donovan's eyes, he remembered still more distinctly what 
 Norah had said about his leading so lonely a life, without 
 one to care for him. 
 
 " There is Mat," said Phil. " I '11 run out and ask him is 
 there any news." 
 
 " Somethin' is up," was Mat's reply. " 'Tis reported the 
 Penders forged Sir Garrett's name to a bill in the bank. I
 
 OR, THE HOMES OP TIPPERARY. 565 
 
 don't say 'tis thrue, for I met Darby Ruadh with his coat off, 
 runnin' to hire a car; an' he wouldn't tell me where he was 
 goin' if they wor makin' off. But there's somethin' up." 
 
 This rumour created great excitement; and the few of old 
 Isaac's victims who still remained in the country indulged 
 in wild hopes that the day of retribution had come. 
 Among these, we need scarcely saj r , was Maurice Kearney, 
 who hoped that -if the agent were proved to be a knave, the 
 landlord would not only give him back the possession of his 
 farms, but compensate him for the injury he had suffered. 
 And, though by no means so sanguine as her father, even 
 Mary felt a presentiment that brighter and happier days were 
 at hand, when she looked from her window next morning, 
 and missed the sow and the calves from the little garden, and 
 saw that all Mr. Beresford Fender's flocks and herds had dis- 
 appeared from the fields. 
 
 CHAPTER LXIV. 
 
 A CONSPIRACY. THE COULIX. MISS LLOYD WANTS TO KNOW ALL 
 ABOUT IT. VISIONS OF HAPPY DAYS. 
 
 " COME, Arthur, let us have a walk," said Edmund Kiely. 
 
 "Where shall we go 1 ?" Arthur O'Connor asked, laying 
 down his book. 
 
 " Oh, to the Priest's Walk," replied Edmund. " That is 
 the best place to see the sun setting behind the castle." 
 
 " If you don't hurry, the sun will be gone down," Father 
 Carroll observed, looking, not towards the setting sun, but in 
 quite an opposite direction, towards the turn of the road, 
 where a car had just come in view. 
 
 It was evident that his reverence and Edmund were 
 deep in some conspiracy, of which Arthur was to be kept in 
 ignorance. But, quite unsuspicious of the plotting of his 
 friends, he drew on his gloves and followed Edmund towards 
 the river. 
 
 He looked stronger and happier now than when last he
 
 56G KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 stepped over those moss-covered stones. But, though his 
 face lights up now and then, its prevailing expression is 
 gloomy. 
 
 "Strange to say," Edmund remarked, "I have not yet 
 got rid of the feeling that we are destined to be rivals." 
 
 " And what reason have you for thinking so 1" 
 
 " No reason ; it is only a feeling." 
 
 Their eyes met, and in both there was a look of suspicion. 
 
 " A very foolish feeling," Arthur observed, after a pause. 
 
 They passed beyond the Priest's Walk, and into the 
 pleasure-grounds near the castle ; and Arthur stopped short 
 as a strain of low, sweet music fell upon his ear. 
 
 "I thought these people were away on the Continent," 
 said he. 
 
 Edmund did not reply. He was watching the play of his 
 friend's features, which changed from indifference to surprisp, 
 and then softened into melancholy. 
 
 " That air reminds you of something," said Edmund. 
 
 "Well, it does," returned Arthur O'Counor, and his palu 
 cheek became crimson for an instant. 
 
 " Of the day you heard it in Tramore ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Edmund dropped into a rustic seat near him, looking quite 
 miserable. 
 
 "I suppose it can't be helped!" he exclaimed at last. 
 " And the sooner 'tis over the better. But it is a bitter drop 
 in the cup which I thought would be unmixed .bliss." 
 
 " Is it raving you are ?" Arthur asked. 
 
 "Now, Arthur, you know you are thinking of her !" 
 
 "Thinking of whom?" 
 
 " The person of whom that air has reminded you." 
 
 " Well, suppose that is the fact," returned Arthur, redden- 
 ing again, "what then 1 ?" 
 
 " Tis a most extraordinary fatality," said Edmund, quite 
 distressed. " Though you only saw her that one time." 
 
 "You are most certainly taking leave of your wits," re- 
 turned Arthur. " Of course I saw her often since." 
 
 " You never told me that," exclaimed Edmund, looking up 
 in surprise. " And she never gave me the least hint of it." 
 
 " Why, you saw me in her company repeatedly yourself," 
 Arthur replied, looking as if he were really anxious on the
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPER.VRY. 567 
 
 score of his friend's sanity. "Perhaps Father Carroll's whiskey 
 is too much for you?" 
 
 " My dear Arthur," cried Edmund Kiely, springing to his 
 feet, " I have heen making a fool of myself. It is not of 
 the same person we are thinking at all. Let us go back. 
 It is getting late, and Father Carroll may think we have 
 been spirited away by some one of the numerous superna- 
 tural visitants who haunt the Priest's Walk after nightfall, 
 if Mrs. Hayes is to be believed." 
 
 The candles were lighted in the priest's parlour when they 
 reached the cottage. Arthur O'Connor stood still, looking 
 quite bewildered, when he opened the parlour door, and saw 
 the most gloriously beautiful girl he had ever beheld stand- 
 ing before him and smiling through her tears. She advanced 
 as if she found it impossible to restrain herself, and clasped 
 his hand in hers, while the big tears that sprang into her 
 eyes when she first looked at him rolled down her cheeks. 
 He looked to Edmund for an explanation, but that gentle- 
 man only rubbed his hands gleefully, evidently enjoying his 
 friend's bewilderment. 
 
 " She is gloriously beautiful," thought Arthur, as he sur- 
 veyed her splendid figure, and then looked inquiringly into 
 her dark lustrous eyes. 
 
 " You don't remember me," she said in a clear, musical 
 voice. 
 
 " I must have seen you before," he replied ; " but I can't 
 recollect when or where." 
 
 An old man, with long white hair and slightly bent 
 figure, advanced from behind Father Cleary's high-backed 
 arm-chair, where he had been standing unobserved b{ 
 Arthur, and stood beside the lovely girl, holding an ebony 
 flute in the hollow of his left arm, and looking at Arthur 
 with a plaintive smile. 
 
 "I remember now," said Arthur, appearing more bewildered 
 than ever, as the old gentleman shook him by the hand. 
 At this the tears sprang into the young lady's eyes again, 
 and then she and Edmund exchanged looks and laughed. 
 
 But all the laughing was not to be on Edmund's side, and 
 he looked almost as astonished as Arthur, when Father Car- 
 roll led forward another lovely girl, of the mild and statu- 
 esque, and not of the glowing sort, like the first, who now
 
 568 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 caught her by the hand; though it was plain they had met 
 that evening before. It was the first time that she and 
 Arthur had met for years; but each read in the eyes of the 
 other what the reader must have guessed by this time. 
 
 "My dear Miss Kearney," exclaimed the dark beauty, "how 
 much I regret I did not know who you were that day at the 
 sea-side. And to think that the young abbe, as I have 
 always called him, was my own cousin ! It is like a romance. 
 I never heard the 'Coulin' since that I did nob think of both 
 of you." 
 
 " I know now," said Edmund, " of whom the ' Coulin' re- 
 minded you." 
 
 " Yes, and I have some faint notion of what you were 
 driving at," returned Arthur. " But who is she ]" 
 
 Before he could answer, Edmund felt a little hand glide 
 into his, and turning round, he caught his sister Grace in his 
 arms. 
 
 Father Carroll looked on, rubbing his hands in silence, and 
 congratulating himself upon the success of his part of the 
 plot, when Mrs. Hayes came in and whispered some words 
 to him. He went to the white-haired old gentleman, who, 
 buried in the high-backed arm-chair, seemed to be quite un- 
 conscious of what was going on around him, and started as 
 if from a dream when the priest addressed him. 
 
 "Tell the servant to come in," said Father Carroll. 
 
 Mrs. Hayes withdrew, and a liveried functionary imme- 
 diately appeared, looking so solemn and dignified that Grace 
 asked Mary in a whisper, was he the bishop. 
 
 " Did I not tell you that I could not see that person 1" 
 said the old gentleman. 
 
 " Yes, sir," returned the dignified personage, with a slight 
 bow, and turning his toes more out, "but when I saw he was 
 determined to come over after you I thought it right to 
 come and tell you." But the dignified functionary said 
 nothing of the half-crown in the pocket of his plush breeches. 
 
 " You may as well see him," said Father Carroll. 
 
 " Very well," returned the old man, with a helpless sigh, 
 as if he were quite incapable of thinking for himself. 
 
 The servant retired; and when the door was again opened, 
 the ladies were startled to see Mr. Beresford Fender rush in 
 and fling himself ujton his knees.
 
 OR, THE HOMB3 OP TIPPERARY. 56i> 
 
 "Mercy, mercy, Sir Garrett!" he blubbered. "Don't 
 transport me." 
 
 " I have nothing to do with it ; you must see my lawyer," 
 returned Sir Garrett Butler, trying to push back his chair, 
 which was already against the wall. 
 
 " I '11 be transported, I '11 be transported Ooch ! whoo ! 
 hoo !" And Mr. Beresford Fender burst into a hideous howl. 
 
 " I can do nothing. I have allowed myself to be deceived 
 too long," said the baronet more firmly. " I fear I have 
 much to answer for, for all the wrong that has been done in 
 my name." 
 
 " Tis forgery, 'tis forgery," cried Beresford, looking one 
 after another into the faces around him. " Mercy, Miss 
 Butler, mercy !" he blubbered, dragging himself across the 
 room on his knees, causing the young lady to take refuge 
 behind a chair, as he was about prostrating himself at her 
 feet. 
 
 " 'Tis all my father's fault ; 'tis all my father's fault," he 
 whined, dragging himself back again to where the baronet 
 sat ; " I 'm innocent, I 'm innocent, Sir Garrett. Ooh ! hoo ! 
 whoo !" 
 
 "Do you see the face at the window]" Grace asked in a 
 whisper. "Who can it be?" 
 
 " Perhaps some one who has been attracted by all this 
 roaring," returned Mary. " 'Tis a woman's face." 
 
 " Yes ; and she has contrived to convert her nose into 
 a badly baked pancake against the glass oh, my goodness, 
 the window is broken !" Grace exclaimed, as the face vanished, 
 and the broken glass fell upon the floor. But Mr. Fen- 
 der's howls for mercy prevented any one else from noticing 
 the accident. 
 
 " I think you had better withdraw," Father Carroll sug- 
 gested, " or stand up at least." But it was no use. Beres- 
 ford howled and blubbered, till there was nothing for it but 
 to eject him by force. Edmund and Arthur advanced for 
 that purpose, but both shrank in disgust from touching the 
 grovelling creature, and Tom Doherty was called in. Tom 
 quietly flung Mr. Fender on the broad of his back, and was 
 pulling him away, when an assistant appeared upon the 
 scene in the person of our friend Barney Brodherick, who 1 
 jumped between Beresford's legs, and catching a shin in each 
 
 2 o
 
 570 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 hand, like the shafts of a wheelbarrow, started off round the 
 table that being easier than a short turn and swept out 
 through the door with such speed, that Tom Doherty was left 
 standing on the spot where his prisoner was snatched from 
 him, staring in utter bewilderment, till Beresford resumed 
 his roaring which the celerity of his exit had silenced 
 outside the hall-door. Then Tom Doherty walked out, 
 scratching his head as if even still he thought the affair 
 rather puzzling. 
 
 "Begob, Barney," said he, "you made short work uv 
 him." 
 
 "The divil a thing I'd rather be doin' thin whalin' him," 
 returned Barney. " But I '11 never sthrike a man down." 
 
 " Don't lay a hand on him," muttered a gruff voice ; and 
 Barney was pushed rudely aside, coming violently into col- 
 lision with a female, who at the moment ran round the corner 
 of the house. 
 
 "Oh, my gracious !" she screamed, grasping at Barney as 
 both tumbled to the ground. 
 
 " D n your sowl, let me go," muttered Barney, " an' I '11 
 smash every eye in his head." 
 
 "Can't you tell me what it is all about? "she gasped, 
 panting for breath, and fastening her hands in Barney's shirt- 
 front like the claws of a kite. 
 
 " Where 's his hat?" Darby Ruadh asked, after pulling his 
 master to his feet. 
 
 Mrs. Hayes flung out the hat from the hall. 
 
 " Come away out uv this," Darby continued. " Didn't I 
 tell you there was no use comin' here ? An' you know you 
 have no time to lose." 
 
 Barney forced open the claws that held him in a spasmodic 
 clutch, and was rushing headlong to take instant vengeance 
 for the insult he had received, when he was stopped by Tom 
 Doherty. 
 
 " Never mind him, Barney," said Tom, " come an' finish 
 your supper an' tell us about that letther from Misther Hugh. 
 I 'm glad he 's doin' welL" 
 
 " Dear Mr. Fender," exclaimed a voice, just as Beresford 
 had got into the covered car that was waiting for him on the 
 road, " do tell me what it was all about." 
 
 "Blast your eyes," Darby Ruadh whispered into his master's
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 571 
 
 ear, " now is your time ; you '11 never have a betther chance. 
 Tell you all about id?" he continued, turning to the lady. 
 "Av coorse. An' why not? Here, come in here, an' I 'm the 
 b'y that can tell you all about id." And he lifted her into 
 the car and told the driver to drive on. 
 
 " Oh, don't drive on " 
 
 " Never mind. We '11 let you down at the gate. Sure I 
 knew you wor at the major's. An' glad I was whin the 
 butler towld me Miss Isabella an' the captain wor well, an' 
 doin' well, in Ingy, an' that they wor shortly expected home. 
 Twas the wondher uv the world whin the captain married 
 Miss Isabella instead uv you, until we lamed how it was, an' 
 that you refused him." 
 
 " Dear Mr. Pender, don't squeeze me so hard. And please 
 take care of my nose or 'twill begin to bleed again." 
 
 " Can't you talk ?" muttered Darby. " Wan 'd think you 
 hadn't a word in your gob." 
 
 " Xo surrender," said Beresford. 
 
 " Oh, please, don't," she said faintly. " I hope we have 
 not passed the gate." 
 
 " An' you want to know all about id," continued Darby. 
 
 " Oh, yes. What was it all about ? And why was he 
 shouting so dreadfully ?" 
 
 " Faith an' sure no blame for him to shout, whin that ould 
 rascal wanted to make him marry his daughter in spite uv 
 him. ' No,' says Misther Beresford, ' I '11 never marry a 
 woman but the wan that I always had the love in my heart 
 for,' says Misther Beresford ; ' though 'tis little she suspects 
 it,' says he. ' So for God 'Imighty sake, Sir Garrett Butler,' 
 says Misther Beresford, ' don't ax me.' Wasn't that enough 
 to make any man roar?" 
 
 " Oh, 'twas dreadful !" 
 
 " ' 1 11 die like the mules, Darby,' says Misther Beresford 
 to me, ' if I don't get the on'y wan I ever loved,' says he." 
 
 " Don't hold me so tight, please," said the lady. 
 
 " Don't blame him, Miss," returned Darby. " Tis little you 
 know all he 's afther goin' through on your account." 
 
 " On my account !" 
 
 " Oh, bedad I 'in afther lettin' the cat out uv the bag," 
 exclaimed Darby. " Afther he warnin' me never to tell a 
 word uv id to man or mortal."
 
 572 KNOCKNAGOW; 
 
 "Oh, I 'm sure we have passed the gate," said the lady. 
 
 "Nevermind, my darling," returned Beresford. "Don't 
 you know that I 'd die for you. No surrender is my motto." 
 And they drove on whither the young lady did not in- 
 quire. 
 
 "Only think, Miss Kearney, I once almost worshipped 
 that man as the most valiant of heroes," said Miss Butler, 
 when Beresford's howling had ceased. She looked and spoke 
 so piteously that Edmund burst into a loud laugh. " Indeed 
 yes," she continued. " My aunt Lowe used to show me his 
 letters. Cousin Henry was in the country at the time, and 
 we thought you all particularly your eldest brother very 
 bad people indeed. But Mr. Fender was in my eyes a most 
 gallant and chivalrous gentleman." 
 
 "Yes, he and my friend, the abbe, were my only dangerous 
 rivals," said Edmund. 
 
 "And to think the abbe was my cousin!" added Miss 
 Butler, with a beaming look at Arthur ; " and that he knew 
 my beloved mother. And that we should meet in this old 
 cottage where she was married. Did you ever read of any- 
 thing more romantic in a book?" 
 
 " Really, Edmund," Grace observed, "you ought to make it 
 the subject of a drama or a novel. It has every requisite 
 for it." 
 
 " Except the sensational," said Edmund. 
 
 "Oh, that could be easily managed. Suppose you have 
 her fall from the cliffs, when you were in pursuit of her along 
 the shore, into the angry, roaring waters. Her shrieks bring 
 her father to the spot. He gazes down into the deep, dark 
 whirlpool, with a gesture and a cry of anguish and despair. 
 She is seen to rise for a moment to the surface, and is again 
 engulfed in the remorseless waves. He is about flinging 
 himself after her, in the madness and agony of the moment, 
 when you appear. You plunge boldly into the roaring, 
 raging, seething surges, and, diving to the bottom, you are 
 not seen for say a minute and a-half which will be an 
 age, of course, to the agonized spectators." 
 
 " You have given me only one spectator," Edmund inter- 
 rupted. 
 
 "Oh, I am thinking of the readers or the pit, boxes r 
 and gallery."
 
 OR, THE HOMES Of TIPPERAKY. 573 
 
 " Well, I bring her up of course," said Edmund. 
 
 "Not the first time, I think," returned Grace, seriously. 
 "You must keep them on the rack. You should dive at 
 least three times before you bring her up. Then, with one 
 arm encircling her waist, you buffet the mad waves with the 
 other, and, after a desperate struggle, reach the dark, beet- 
 ling rock that towers above you as high as you please and 
 as you cling to it, a huge fragment gives way and falls with 
 a crash like thunder into the whirling billows. You are lost ! 
 But no ; again you are seen buffeting the waves, but instead 
 of struggling against the receding tide, you are borne out to 
 sea, and raising your arm aloft, while you rise and sink upon 
 the heaving billows, and the lightning flashes through the 
 frowning sky above you, you shout for help. The hardy 
 fishermen hear your cry. A boat is launched. They pull 
 vigorously through the foaming surf and so on. Nothing 
 is easier than the sensational, to my mind. You might bring 
 in a shark or two if you liked, and be met by a mad bull on 
 the way home, or something of that sort." 
 
 " And then, I suppose, it would all end in half a dozen 
 happy marriages?" said Father Carroll, laughing. 
 
 " As it is likely to do in reality," returned Grace, " at least 
 with a couple of happy marriages." 
 
 Mary blushed, and looked so distressed that Grace was 
 sorry for what she had said. 
 
 " We '11 send for Mr. Lowe, who, of course, will be a rich 
 nabob, and give Grace to him," said Edmund. 
 
 "And I suppose," Arthur remarked, "Mr. Beresford 
 Fender will be the villain of your novel?" 
 . " Oh, not at all," replied Grace ; " he would not make even 
 a respectable villain." 
 
 " You used to say Hugh Kearney would make an excellent 
 brigand," said her brother. 
 
 "Papa had a letter from him lately," returned Grace, 
 looking grave. " He has had a severe attack of illness, but 
 was recovering." 
 
 " I fear he means to settle down permanently in Australia," 
 said Mary. " He wishes to have Willie brought home, but 
 he says he would rather be a merchant than a farmer." 
 
 "I hoped to have Hugh for a neighbour," Edmund re- 
 marked, " and if he does not come home it will be a sore
 
 574 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 disappointment to me. But, after the turn things have 
 taken now, I am sure you can prevail on him to come 
 home." 
 
 " It was the case of that poor man Tom Hogan that first 
 opened my eyes," said Sir Garrett. " If it were not for that, 
 more wrong would have been done in my name. But I 'm 
 glad Mr. Kearney has escaped." 
 
 " But how did you' become acquainted with Sir Garrett 
 Butler 1 ?" Arthur asked, turning to Edmund. 
 
 " Oh, when you hear it all, it will be an interesting story," 
 he replied. " You know the beginning of it in the old flute- 
 player. The very day you left for Paris, Annie saw me, and 
 sent a servant to learn my name in Kingstown ; but I didn't 
 know who she was for a long time after. I '11 tell you all 
 another time. We must see them home now. Will you 
 venture to go back by the Priest's Walk?" 
 
 "Oh, certainly," Miss Butler replied. "It will be de- 
 lightful in the moonlight." 
 
 "Was it Sir Garrett's flute we heard in the evening?" 
 Arthur asked. 
 
 " Yes, that was a plan of mine," replied Edmund. " I 
 wanted to know would it remind you of the incident in 
 Tramore. By George, I little thought what good reason 
 you had for remembering it," he added, glancing at Mary. 
 K I was quite frightened at the thought that it was of Annie 
 you were thinking. It is, as Grace says, really like a novel. 
 And if I should think of founding a story on it, what ought 
 it to be called?" 
 
 "I think the 'Coulin' would be a suitable title," returned 
 Grace. 
 
 "Is Flaherty the piper alive, and in the country?" Sir 
 Garrett asked. 
 
 " Oh, yes," replied Father Carroll. " I met him lately at 
 Father M'Mahon's." 
 
 " I am very glad," rejoined the baronet. " I must have 
 him at Woodlands. It was he first inspired me with a love 
 of our native music." 
 
 "Cousin Henry told me about him," said Miss Butler. 
 " He met him at a country wedding. Miss Lloyd reminded 
 me of it to-day. She wants me to write to cousin Henry, 
 and as much as say that she will go back with him to India
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERAUY. 575 
 
 if he comes for her, and that he will get twice as much 
 money as Captain French got with her sister." 
 
 "Come, you must be off to bed," said Father Carroll. 
 " Miss Butler will be sure to play the siren, and these 
 gentlemen won't be back for two hours yet." 
 
 "And why are you in such a hurry?" Mary asked. 
 
 " Simply, because I must sleep on the sofa," he answered, 
 "and will have to say Mass at seven in the morning." 
 
 "Well, don't forget to close the shutters," said Grace. 
 " There is a pane broken in the window." 
 
 Mary did not sleep much that night. She was too much 
 agitated to be happy. Grace, too, was restless enough ; but 
 she is a "mystery;" and we must leave herself to unravel 
 herself. 
 
 " We are all quite alarmed about Miss Lloyd. She can't 
 be found anywhere," said Miss Butler, who met Mary and 
 Grace on their way home next morning. " They are afraid 
 she followed us to Father Carroll's and fell into the river." 
 
 " is o, Miss," answered Barney Brodherick, who was driving 
 the car, " she went home be the road." 
 
 "How do you know?" Mary asked. 
 
 " Sure I see her, Miss," Barney answered, " cuttin' away 
 as fast as her legs could carry her. She kem into the kitchen 
 to put cobwebs to her nose." 
 
 "Cobwebs to her nose?" 
 
 "Yes, Miss, her nose was bleedin'. 'Twas gettin' the 
 cobwebs that delayed me from goin' to help Tom to pull out 
 Pendher." 
 
 " Why, Mary, it was she was at the window," exclaimed 
 Grace. 
 
 "I must go tell them," said Miss Butler. "They are 
 searching the deep pools in the river ; and a messenger has 
 been sent to her brother's." 
 
 Neither Mary nor Grace was disposed for talking on the 
 way. 
 
 "Ah, that 'Good-bye' came from his heart," thought 
 Grace as they passed the turn of the road that brought them 
 in view of the cottage. 
 
 " Mary," she asked, " do you remember the day I came 
 away from Ballinaclash with papa and Eva, and Richard and 
 Mr. Lowe? It was the day old Mr. Somerfield died."
 
 576 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 " Indeed I do," replied Mary. " I felt very lonely after 
 you all. And you never came after, till mamma got ill. I 
 used to think of that day as the last of the old 'happy 
 days.'" 
 
 " The old happy days will come again," said Grace. 
 
 "I hope so," returned Mary. "Things look so bright 
 now, I am almost frightened by the visions of happiness I 
 have." 
 
 Maurice Kearney's voice was heard shouting to his work- 
 men in his old style ; which so delighted Barney that he 
 grinned from ear to ear, and made up his mind to earn a 
 "ballyragging" as soon as possible for himself. 
 
 "My poor father !" said Mary. " It is dreadful to think 
 how near he was to being driven for ever from those fields. 
 And there is mamma superintending the feeding of the 
 young turkeys. I really begin to hope she will be as strong 
 as ever again." 
 
 " You will be as happy as ever," said Grace. 
 
 "I hope so. And yet there is one great drawback. I 
 don't think I can ever be happy while Hugh is far away, and 
 among strangers." 
 
 "Why did he go at all?" Grace asked. 
 
 "Ah, you don't know him, or you would not ask. He 
 went for our sake. He has all the old debts paid off. It is I 
 that know what a sacrifice he has made. He is too generous, 
 too noble." 
 
 The tears rushed into her eyes; and Grace clasped her 
 by the hand, and held it so tight that Mary looked at her in 
 surprise. But Grace took no notice. 
 
 "Oh, ye 're home very early," said Mrs. Kearney. 
 There's a letter for you, Mary, from Australia. I was so 
 impatient, I 'd open it, only for you are home so soon." 
 
 Mary jumped from the car, and ran into the house, 
 followed by her mother and Grace; all eager to know the 
 contents of the letter from Australia.
 
 OB, THE HOMES OF Tll'PEltAKY. 577 
 
 CHAPTER LXV. 
 
 MAT DONOVAN FOLLOWS GRACE'S ADVICE ; BUT BESSY MORRIS 
 IS GONE. HONOR AND PHIL LAHY IN THEIR NEW HOME. 
 
 A YOUNG merchant jumped from an omnibus opposite the 
 General Post-office, and, after glancing at his watch, hurried 
 down Sackville Street with the air of a man who had no time 
 to spare. Before he had got half-way down the street, how- 
 ever, he stopped short, after passing a tall, broad-shouldered 
 countryman, who was standing opposite a shop window. 
 There was something in the fine manly figure of the country- 
 man that might well have arrested any one's attention ; and 
 the young merchant smiled on observing how intent he 
 seemed in examining the newest styles in bonnets and artifi- 
 cial flowers. He touched the rustic connoisseur upon the 
 shoulder with the end of his umbrella ; and, after a start, 
 and a look of surprise, there was a warm shake-hands, and 
 mutual expressions of pleasure at the meeting. 
 
 " How are they all at home ?" the young merchant asked. 
 
 " All well, sir," was the reply. " 'Tis younger your father 
 is gettin'. I 'm afther sellin' two fine stall-fed fat cows for 
 him I didn't see betther at the market. An' faith, Wat 
 Murphy '11 have an argument against us ; for when all ex- 
 penses are paid, 'twon't be a crown a head more than Wat 
 offered. I sold a fine lot of bullocks for Mr. Kiely ; no bet- 
 ther. But he spares no expense in buyin' the best stock ; 
 an' Woodlands is as good fattenin' land as there 's in the 
 county." 
 
 " I saw in the papers that they had an increase in the 
 family at Woodlands, and that it is a son this time." 
 
 " So they had, sir. But they wor all sure you 'd be down 
 to the christenin' at Docthor O'Connor's." 
 
 "Well, I was not able to go. How is my mother now?" 
 
 " She 's very sthrong, then; on'y for the lowness o* sperits. 
 But Miss Ellie can get great good uv her; an' when Miss
 
 O/O KNOCKNAGOWj 
 
 Grace happens to be at Docthor O'Connor's or at Woodlands 
 she '11 send for her, an' the misthress '11 be as gay as a lark 
 in less than no time." 
 
 " Come down to the warehouse with me," said the young 
 merchant. " I want to know all about everybody." 
 
 The countryman looked once more at the window, the 
 display of flowers and feathers seeming to possess some ex- 
 traordinary attraction for him, and, after glancing up and 
 down the street, as if he would fain linger where he was, 
 could he only find a reasonable excuse, walked on with the 
 young merchant. 
 
 " I had my mind made up to call to see ye," said he, " as 
 I have the day to myse'f till the six o'clock thrain." 
 
 " This is Mat Donovan, sir," said "Willie Kearney to his 
 uncle, when they reached the warehouse. 
 
 "Oh, how are you?" said the merchant. "I hope all 
 friends in Tipperary are well." 
 
 "All as well as you could wish, sir," Mat answered. 
 
 " I was very much interested in your case," Mr. Kearney 
 observed, "that time you were charged with robbing old 
 Fender. Hugh wrote to me about it, and I was glad to have 
 it in my power to be of some use to you." 
 
 " I had good friends, sir," returned Mat. " But I suppose 
 you heard ould Isaac confessed before he died that it was 
 Beresford an' Darby Ruadh that took the money in ordher 
 to have an excuse for robbin* Sir Garrett Butler, God rest 
 his sowl." 
 
 " Why didn't Sir Garrett follow up the prosecution against 
 them?" the merchant asked. " I was hoping they would be 
 both transported." 
 
 " Well, when Beresford made off, the ould father confessed 
 all, an' gave up some uv the plunder, an' as he was so near 
 his end, they left him so." 
 
 " Where is the son now?" 
 
 " In Queensland, or somewhere off in that direction," re- 
 plied Mat. " We heard nothin' about him since Misther Lloyd 
 paid the two thousand pound. An' faith, Misther Bob 'd be in 
 the ooorts like Sam Somerfield and the rest uv the landlords 
 down there, on'y that Tom Ryan and Ned Brophy, an' a few 
 more uv the tenants, made up the money an' lent it to him. 
 He was just afther payin' his other sister's fortune to Cap-
 
 OR, THB HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 579 
 
 tain French, when Beresford's attorney slapped at him. The 
 tenants 'd be sorry to lose Misther Bob, an' these new land- 
 lords are such screws. Every wan was sorry for poor Major 
 French, an' his fine place went for nothin'. But do you 
 think will Misther Hugh ever come home, sir?" 
 
 " I think he will. I have written to him to say it would 
 be for his own interest as well as for the interest of the 
 whole family." 
 
 " We 're sure uv him so," Mat replied with a delighted 
 look. " Whatever is for their good he '11 do id. Many 's the 
 good turn I knew Hugh to do ; an' 'tis little talk 'd be 
 about id." 
 
 "Hugh Kearney is a man," said the merchant. 
 
 " He wouldn't be his father's son if he wasn't a good fel 
 low," returned Mat. 
 
 "He's worth a ship-load of his father," exclaimed the 
 merchant. 
 
 " Come this way, Mat," said Willie, showing him into his 
 office. " You have not told me half the news yet. Has 
 Barney that thrush's nest with which he used to cheat me, 
 still?" 
 
 " He coaxed a bull-dog pup from Wat Murphy's son wud 
 the same nest a few weeks ago," returned Mat. " Wat came 
 out an' there was the divil's row. Peg Brady was rearin' 
 the pup wud the calves unknownst to any wan, till Wat came 
 out for him, an' said he wouldn't give him for the best fat 
 sheep your father had. We expect that Peg and Barney '11 
 be married shortly." 
 
 " I had a letter from Tommy Lahy lately," said Willie, 
 "and he reminded me of Barney, and all the old neigh- 
 bours." 
 
 " I 'm tould, like yourself, sir, his uncle is afther takin' 
 him into partnership." 
 
 "Yes; their house is one of the most respectable firms in 
 Boston. It was about an order for Irish linen he wrote 
 to me." 
 
 " 'Twas no later than last Sunday," returned Mat, " that 
 the schoolmaster remarked, after readin' Phil's speech, that 
 yourse'f an' Tommy Lahy wor the two innocentest boys he 
 ever initiated into the sciences, as he said ; that ye wor no 
 way crafty, an' could be chated out of your marvels wud the
 
 580 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 greatest facility, an' your castle-tops came in for the most 
 hannels ; an' now ye are the two richest men belongin' to 
 the parish." 
 
 " What's that you said about a speech ?" 
 
 " Wan that Phil Lahy made at a great Temperance meet- 
 in'," Mat answered. "An' the divil a finer speech was made 
 there. He sent the paper to Billy Heffernan. An' sure I re- 
 member when Phil an' Billy wor the two greatest dhrunkards 
 in Knocknagow, except Jack Cummins, that used to bate 
 his wife, an' that 's what Phil never done ; an' Billy had no 
 wan to bate but his mule. But it was poor Norah done id 
 all." 
 
 " I often think of Norah," said Willie. "I knew her chair 
 in Mary's room the moment I saw it." 
 
 " An' Nelly has her slippers," returned Mat, " hangin' at 
 each side of the crucifix at the head of her bed, wud her 
 beads in wan an' a bit of palm in th' other. An' if you go 
 into the churchyard uv a Lady Day in harvest you won't be 
 long lookin' for Norah's grave, for not an inch uv id that 
 won't have a flower on id. Nelly an' Billy dhresses the grave 
 every Patthern-day as sure as the sun shines. But didn't 
 Tommy say anything about his father an' mother?" 
 
 " Yes; he said they were well; but that his mother was 
 always pining for home. I have no doubt it is that grave 
 you mention that makes her wish for home." 
 
 " Poor Honor ! she was the heart an' sowl uv a good 
 woman." 
 
 "Tom asked how the mocking-bird he sent Ellie was going 
 on." 
 
 " He 's a fine singin' bird," replied Mat solemnly. " She 
 sent him over to Billy Heffernan's to have Nelly take care uv 
 him while she was at the wather wud Mrs. O'Connor and 
 Mrs. Kiely, an' he picked up the whistle uv the plovers an' 
 the curlews, so that he'd bother you sometimes. He frightens 
 the life out uv Mrs. Kearney when he screeches like a hawk. 
 She says he 's not right ; an' faith my mother has the same 
 notion, an' thinks the lads in the forth has some thin' to do 
 wud him. But is that Lory Hanly wud the bag? "Mat 
 asked, looking through the window. 
 
 " Yes; he 's going to the Four Courts. I suppose you know 
 he is a barrister. He is getting on very well."
 
 OK, THE HOMES OF TIl'PERARY. 581 
 
 "Oh, I know, sir. He was cheered in Clonmel afther 
 gainin' the law for a poor man the landlord thought to turn 
 out. That was a fine letther against the land laws his father 
 wrote in the papers. An' 'twas a hard case to be turned out 
 uv his place afther all he lost by id, for no raison but because 
 the new landlord wanted to have a residence on his pro- 
 perty. But the divil a word he had to say that poor Tom 
 Hogan hadn't to say; an' id come out whin ould Isaac wa 
 dyin' that Hanly bribed him to put out Tom Hogan an' give 
 the farm to himse'f." 
 
 " It appears he did not see the injustice of the law till it 
 came to his own turn to feel it," said Willie. " His daughter 
 is married to a Mr. Wilson, a friend of mine." 
 
 " Maybe 'tis Johnny Wilson, that was in the bank ?" Mat 
 asked. 
 
 " The same," returned Willie, " and you will be likely to 
 have him in Kilthubber, as manager of the same bank soon. 
 His wife is very anxious to go there, as she and Mrs. O'Connor 
 were great friends." 
 
 " So they wor," said Mat. " An' the other sister was a 
 grand girl." 
 
 " Yes, she is still to the good, and looked upon as a great 
 beauty." 
 
 " I '11 have a bag-full uv news for Miss Grace," said Mat. 
 " But I must run an' get a letther uv credit for this money, 
 as I don't like to have so large a sum about me. But I '11 
 call in again on my way to the railway." 
 
 After getting the letter of credit, Mat Donovan made 
 straight for the same window where we found him a few 
 hours before, and which had bloomed into brighter and more 
 varied splendour in the meantime, as if the flowers there 
 displayed were alive and real and felt the influence of the 
 sun. But this would scarcely be enough to account for the 
 absorbing interest Mat Donovan seemed to take in that shop- 
 window. Could it be that he wanted to make a purchase T 
 It would seem so, for, after deliberating with himself for 
 some minutes, he walked into the shop. But then he seemed 
 to have forgotten what brought him there, and looked a little 
 puzzled and embarrassed. 
 
 " What can I do for you ?" asked a smiling young lady 
 inside the counter, surveying him with a look of kindly 
 encouragement.
 
 582 KNOCKNAGOW; 
 
 Mat looked about him, and, after a long pause, asked for 
 1 a ribbon to put in a bonnet." The ribbons were displayed, 
 and one selected and neatly folded in white paper ; and 
 seeing that the young lady laughed in spite of herself, 
 Mat, as he put the parcel in his pocket, thought fit to 
 set her right and remove an erroneous impression, by 
 remarking carelessly that it was for a sister of his, who was 
 as fond of ribbons as ever she was, though she had " three 
 or four childher at her heels." But Mat evidently wanted 
 something else, and, in reply to the question whether she 
 could do anything else for him, he told her to show him a 
 broad, thick ribbon. 
 
 "Tis for an ould woman's cap for my mother I want 
 id," said Mat Donovan. And the young lady inside the 
 counter did not laugh now, but rather looked pensive and 
 melancholy. Perhaps she, too, had an old mother in some 
 Minister valley, who wore a broad ribbon over her cap. 
 This purchase \yas folded up and paid for, too; but still Mat 
 Donovan lingered. 
 
 " I think you are from Tipperary," said the young girl. 
 
 " Well, I am," he replied. " Though I don't know how 
 people can know I 'm a Tip. But you are right ; I am from 
 Tipperary." 
 
 " So am I," said she. 
 
 " Well," returned Mat, resting his elbow on the counter, 
 " I was tould a neighbour uv mine was employed in this estab- 
 lishment, an' if so, I'd like to see her before I go home, as 
 some uv her relations would be glad to hear how she is." 
 
 "What's her name?" 
 
 Mat Donovan rubbed his hand over his face, which made 
 him look quite flushed, and, after making several unsuccess- 
 ful attempts to pick up a very diminutive pin from the 
 counter, answered, "Bessy Morris." 
 
 " Yes ; she is here ; but I didn't see her for the last week. 
 I '11 inquire." And after much delay, and sending up and 
 down stairs, Mat Donovan walked out with Bessy Morris's 
 address written on a slip of paper. 
 
 After many turnings and windings, and inquiries, Mat 
 Donovan found himself in an out-of-the-way street in a very 
 poor neighbourhood. 
 
 " Number seven," said he, glancing at the paper. " It must
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPER ART. 583 
 
 be the small house, wud the hall-doore. An', sure enough, 
 Uiiiu white curtains is what I 'd expect to see wherever Bessy 
 'd be. 'Tis a clane, snug little house, though there 's nothin' 
 but dirt an' poverty all around id." 
 
 His hand trembled and his heart fluttered, like a very 
 coward, as he knocked at the door. Several minutes passed 
 before it was opened, and he had his hand on the knocker 
 again, when it occurred to him that the house was so small 
 it was impossible that the first knock was not heard ; and he 
 waited for another minute. At last the door was opened, 
 and Bessy Morris stood before him. She was very pale and 
 thin, but as captivating as ever. But how calm and col- 
 lected she was ; and not in the least surprised to see him ! 
 And though he felt the pressure of her hand, his reception, 
 he thought, was very cold indeed, considering how long it 
 was since they had met before. But he did not know that 
 she had seen him from the window, and sat down and covered 
 her face with her hands for a moment ; and then ran to the 
 .glass, and hurriedly arranged her hair, and tied a ribbon 
 round her neck, before she opened the door. He walked in 
 and sat down, and replied to all her questions about her 
 friends in the country. And then she told him how her 
 aunt's only son, who was a sailor, had been drowned not long 
 before, on one of the American lakes, and she feared his 
 mother would never recover the shock the intelligence of his 
 death caused her. 
 
 " She has been so very ill for the last week," said Bessy, 
 "that I am obliged to stay with her continually. If she 
 does not get better soon, I must try and procure some work 
 that I can do in the house/' 
 
 "An' how do you get your health yourse'f ?" Mat asked. 
 
 " Well, indeed, pretty well ; but I am a little worn-out 
 now. I am very glad to hear that your mother and Xelly 
 are so well." 
 
 " Will we ever have a chance of seem' you in Knocknagow 
 again ?" he asked, with his old smile. 
 
 She shook her head sadly, but made no reply. But a 
 dreamy look came into her eyes, as if she were thinking of 
 the days that were gone. 
 
 " I needn't tell you lhat we 'd be all glad to see you," he 
 euid.
 
 584 KNOOKNAQOW; 
 
 " I don't know tliat, Mat," she replied with another sad 
 shake of the head. 
 
 " Don't know id !" rejoined Mat Donovan ; and his broad 
 chest heaved but he could say no more. 
 
 "Are you as fond of songs and music as ever, Mat?" she 
 asked, as he stood up, and held out his hand to say good- 
 bye. 
 
 " Well, I am, then," he replied. " Miss Grace of'en plays 
 a tune for me, an' so does Miss Ellie. But nun uv 'em can 
 touch Mrs. Kiely. I never hear the like of her ! " 
 
 She handed him a little book, and, turning over the leaves, 
 he said, " This is an elegant song-book." 
 
 " Keep it for my sake," returned Bessy, with her old win- 
 ning smile, as she clasped his hand with energy, and hurried 
 back on hearing her aunt's voice, calling to her. 
 
 The next day Mat Donovan was at Woodlands with the 
 price of the cattle he had sold for Edmund Kiely. Grace 
 brought him in as usual to play some of his favourite airs 
 for him. 
 
 "Do you remember the day of Ned Brophy's wedding, 
 Mat," said she, " when you asked me to play that tune for 
 you?" 
 
 " I do, well, Miss," he replied. 
 
 " Mr. Kearney wanted you to win a wife with a fortune/' 
 she continued. "But now that you are making money so 
 fast as a cattle dealer, why do you not get married?" 
 
 " I was asked the same question in Dublin about your- 
 se'f, Miss," returned Mat, "an' I couldn't answer id." 
 
 "Who asked you?" 
 
 "Bessy Morris," he answered. "She warned me not to 
 forget to remember her to you and Mrs. O'Connor, an' how 
 ye used to have many a talk in the little room in the cot- 
 tage." 
 
 " So we used," returned Grace, thoughtfully. " I remem- 
 ber the day she told me the legend of Fionn Macool and the 
 Beauty Race. Is Bessy herself married yet ?" 
 
 " No, Miss," he replied. " She 's not married." 
 
 Grace's fingers ran carelessly over the keys, as she watched 
 Mat Donovan from the corners of her eyes. He had covered 
 his face with both hands and leant forward on the table near 
 which he was sitting.
 
 OR, THB HOMES OF TIPPKRAKY. 585 
 
 " I used to say long ago that you were fond of Bessy," said 
 she. "Now, tell me candidly, was I not right?" 
 
 "You wor right, Miss," he answered, unhesitatingly; for 
 there was something in her manner that invited confidence, 
 and he sorely needed sympathy. She went on questioning 
 him with so much tact and delicacy, that she got the his- 
 tory of Mat Donovan's "whole course of love" from him, 
 even from the time when he used to toss the cherries over 
 the hedge to Bessy Morris, on her way from school. 
 
 "Mat," said Grace, "you should have told her." 
 
 " I was too poor, Miss," he replied. " An' seein' so many 
 respectable young fellows about her, I thought id would be 
 no use. An' besides, though she was always nice and friendly, 
 she never cared much about me." 
 
 " Take my advice, Mat, and tell her ; and you '11 find you 
 are mistaken." 
 
 "Do you think so, Miss?" he asked eagerly. 
 
 " It is impossible," returned Grace, with emphasis, " that 
 she could be indifferent to such love as yours." 
 
 " In the name uv God," said Mat Donovan, after a long 
 pause, " I '11 take your advice." 
 
 Before many weeks had elapsed, Mat Donovan stood again 
 at the door of the small house in the out-of-the-way street. 
 He knocked with a firm hand this time, and there was no 
 fluttering of the heart as on the former occasion.; for he had 
 his mind made up for the worst. But there was no answer 
 to his summons. 
 
 "She must be out," he thought, "an' maybe the ould 
 woman is keepin' the bed still, an' I believe they have no wan 
 in the house but themselves." He glanced at the windows, 
 and it immediately occurred to him that the white curtains 
 were gone, and then he saw that the shutters were closed. 
 
 " She 's dead," said a woman, who came to the door of the 
 next house, and found him looking at the windows. 
 
 " Dead !" he exclaimed and the colour flew from his 
 cheek "who is dead?" 
 
 "The old woman," was the reply; "an' she had the beau- 
 tifulest coffin I ever seen leavin' the street. They wor dacent 
 people." 
 
 "An' the young woman?" he asked, drawing a long 
 breath. 
 
 2*
 
 586 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 " Well, I don't know where she 's gone ; but she left for 
 good the day after the funeral." 
 
 He hurried to the shop in Sackville Street, but could only 
 learn from the proprietress that Bessy Morris had given 
 notice that she could not return to her employment there ; 
 for which they were very sorry, as she was an excellent 
 work- woman. 
 
 "Might there be e'er a comrade girl uv hers in the house, 
 ma'am, that could tell me anything about her 1" poor Mat 
 asked in his bewilderment. 
 
 Inquiries were made, and a young girl came down to the 
 shop and told him that Bessy was a particular friend of 
 hers. 
 
 " An' could you tell me where she is ?" he asked. 
 
 " She 's gone to America," was the reply. 
 
 " To America !" he repeated, in so despairing a tone that 
 the young woman raised her eyes to his face, and said : 
 
 " You are Mat Donovan ?" 
 
 "Well, that is my name," he replied absently. 
 
 " She was thinking of writing to you," returned the young 
 woman. 
 
 "Was Bessy thinkin' of writin' to met" 
 
 " Yes ; but she changed her mind. She was thinking, too, 
 of writing to Mrs. Dr. O'Connor, somewhere in the county 
 Clare, I think, but she didn't know the address." 
 
 " I thought I tould her we had Docthor O'Connor, in Kil- 
 thubber since Father Carroll got the parish," rejoined Mat 
 " But how long is she gone ? " 
 
 " She only left for Liverpool on Monday. The name of 
 the ship she was to go by was the 'Ohio.' I was with her 
 getting her passage ticket at the agent's." 
 
 "Where was that?" he asked eagerly. 
 
 "Eden Quay," she replied, "but I forget the number." 
 
 The agent told him that unless some delay occurred, he 
 would have no chance of catching the " Ohio" in Liverpool, 
 as she was to have sailed that same day. But there was a 
 chance, and next morning, in the grey dawn, Mat Donovan 
 was hurrying along the docks of Liverpool, staring at the 
 forest of masts, and looking round for some one who could 
 tell him whether the "Ohio" had yet sailed for America. 
 
 "The 'Ohio'?" replied a sailor who was returning to his
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TI1TERARY. 587 
 
 vessel, evidently after being up all night. " Yes, she sailed 
 for New York at four o'clock last evening." 
 
 Bessy Morris was gone ! 
 
 " But sure 'tis long ago she was gone from me," he thought, 
 as he rested his elbows on a pile of timber, and gazed at a 
 vessel in the offing. " When is id that she wasn't gone from 
 me 1 An' for all that, I feel as if she was never out uv my 
 sight till now, that she is gone for ever. He stood there like 
 a man in a dream, he did not know how long, till the noise 
 around him, as the lading and unlading of the vessels com- 
 menced, roused him, and turning from the busy scene he 
 strolled listlessly into an unfrequented street, and wandered 
 on, on, merely wishing to pass away the time, and to be 
 alone, till one o'clock, when the steamer was to leave for 
 Dublin. 
 
 " Lend me a hand, if you plaze," said a man, with a heavy 
 trunk on his shoulder, in an accent which placed it beyond 
 all doubt that the speaker was a Munstennan. The trunk 
 Avas laid upon the pavement, and the man dived into an 
 arched doorway, pulling off his hat and making the sign of 
 the cross. Mat looked up at the building, and saw that it 
 was a Catholic church. He entered, and kneeling in front 
 of the altar, offered up a short prayer. As he rose from his 
 knees, his attention was attracted by a young girl coming 
 out of one of the confessionals. She knelt, or rather flung 
 herself down upon the stone floor, and with hands clasped 
 almost convulsively, raised her streaming eyes to the picture 
 of the crucifixion, over the altar. Her pale face told a tale 
 of suffering, and misery, and sore temptation, which there 
 was no mistaking. 
 
 "My God!" thought Mat Donovan, "maybe that's the 
 way Bessy will be, afther landin' in a sthrange counthry, 
 wudout a friend, an" maybe sick an' penniless. Oh, if I could 
 on'y do somethin'for her; if I could know that she was well 
 an' happy, I 'd be satisfied." Acting on the impulse of the 
 moment, he walked towards the priest, who, after looking up 
 and down the church, and seeing no other penitent requiring 
 his ministry, was on his way to the sacristy. On seeing Mat 
 approaching, he went back to the confessional. 
 
 " 'Tis to ax your advice I want, sir," said Mat. "Bein' 
 an Irishman an' a sthranger in this place, I 'd like to get your
 
 588 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 advice about somethin' that's throublin' my mind very much." 
 And he told his story from beginning to end; and how "she 
 was always in his mind," and how he never thought of any 
 one else as he used to think of her though he never ex- 
 pected she 'd be anything to him more than a friend they 
 being neighbours and neighbours' children. And now what 
 ought he do t He wouldn't mind crossing over to America 
 for her sake no more than he 'd mind crossing the street. 
 And did his reverence think he ought to go ? 
 
 " I don't like to give an opinion in such a case," replied 
 the priest. " You should not forget your mother and your 
 sister, and it may be the young woman would not respond to 
 your feelings, and might not require your assistance. But 
 on the other hand she may, and probably will have to en- 
 counter severe trials, alone and friendless among strangers, 
 and you might be the means of saving her." 
 
 " That 's id," Mat interrupted, fairly sobbing aloud, as he 
 glanced at the poor girl on her knees. " 'Twould break my 
 heart." 
 
 " In the name of God, then," continued the priest, " do as 
 your heart prompts you. You seem to be a sensible man, 
 not likely to act rashly or from a light motive. And at the 
 worst it will be a consolation to you to think that you did 
 your best for her. And it might be a source of much pain 
 to you, if any misfortune happened to the young woman, 
 to think that you might have saved her and neglected to 
 do so." 
 
 " Thank you, sir," replied Mat. " Your advice is good." 
 
 He left the church a happier man than he had been foi 
 many a day before. On passing a small print-shop within a 
 few doors of the church, the well-known portrait of Daniel 
 O'Connell, "the man of the people," caught his eye, and Mat 
 stopped short, feeling as if he had met an old friend. And, 
 while looking into the "Liberator's" face with a smile almost 
 as full of humour and pathos as his own, the writing mate- 
 rials displayed for sale in the window reminded him of the 
 necessity of communicating his intention of going to America 
 to his mother. 
 
 " Miss Grace is the best," said he, after pondering over the 
 matter for some time. " I '11 tell her as well as I can, an' 
 lave id to herse'f to tell my mother, and there's no danger but
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 589 
 
 she '11 manage id all right." So he wrote to Grace that h* 
 would start by the first ship leaving Liverpool for the Uniteu 
 States which the man in the print-shop informed him was 
 the "Erin" for Boston in pursuit of Bessy Morris. 
 
 Mat Donovan counted the hours as the good ship sped upon 
 her way across the great ocean. Never before did he think 
 the days and the nights so long not even when he lay a 
 prisoner in the jail of Clonmel. The vessel was crowded 
 with Irish emigrants, and many an "o'er-true tale" of suffer- 
 ing and wrong did he listen to during the voyage. But as 
 they neared the free shores of America, every face brightened, 
 and the outcasts felt as if they had seen the end of their 
 trials and sorrows. Alas ! too many of them had the worst 
 of their trials and sorrows yet before them. But it was only 
 now Mat Donovan began to see how difficult, how almost 
 hopeless, was the enterprise he had embarked in. He had no 
 clue whatever by which he could hope to trace Bessy Morris. 
 And his heart died within him at the thought that he might 
 spend a life-time wandering through the cities of the great 
 Republic, sailing up and down its mighty rivers, or travelling 
 over its wild and lonely prairies, without finding her. 
 
 " Where am I to go or what am I to do ?" he said to him- 
 self as he stood alone on one of the principal streets of Boston. 
 Suddenly he remembered Tommy Lahy, and it was like a ray 
 of hope to think that he had at least a friend at hand to 
 consult with. He had no difficulty in finding the extensive 
 concern in which Tommy was now junior partner. But 
 when in answer to his inquiries he was told Mr. Lahy had 
 sailed for Europe only two weeks before, Mat felt more dis- 
 heartened than ever. 
 
 " Can I see his uncle?" he asked, recovering from his dis- 
 appointment. 
 
 " Yes, come this way," replied the clerk. 
 
 The merchant received him civilly, and when Mat told 
 him he was from Knocknagow, and asked, as Mr. Lahy was 
 gone to Europe, could he see his father and mother, they 
 being old friends and neighbours, the merchant replied of 
 course he could, and very glad, he was sure, they would be 
 to see him. " As for Mrs. Lahy who, I suppose you know, 
 is my sister we can't make her feel at home in this country 
 at all," he continued. " But she is more contented since
 
 590 KNOCKNAQOW : 
 
 Tom has got a house in the country, where she can keep a 
 cow and fowl, and grow potatoes and cabbages. It is only 
 about a mile outside the city, and you will have no trouble 
 in finding it." 
 
 Following the directions given him by the merchant, Mat 
 soon found himself at the door of a handsome house in 
 the suburbs. He knocked, and the door was opened by a 
 smart-looking young woman, who looked inquiringly into his 
 face. 
 
 " Is Mrs. Lahy wudin ? " he asked. 
 
 " Mat Donovan !" she exclaimed, the moment she heard 
 his voice ; and catching him by both hands she pulled him 
 in; and Mat found himself sitting in a nicely furnished 
 room before he had recovered from his surprise. 
 
 " Is id yourse'f, Judy 1 ?" he asked, looking round the room 
 and wondering why it felt so hot, seeing that there was no 
 fire the stove being an "institution" with which Mat had 
 yet to become acquainted. 
 
 It was the same Judy Connell who had caused such dire 
 confusion, by forgetting to shut the door behind her, in Mat 
 Donovan's kitchen, that windy winter's night long ago, when 
 she ran in to "take her leave of them." 
 
 Judy told him that Mrs. and Mr. Lahy Avould be in soon. 
 They had only gone to visit a poor woman whose husband 
 had broken his arm by a fall from a scaffolding. Mrs. Lahy 
 was always finding out poor families in distress. Judy her- 
 self had a situation in one of the principal hotels in the city, 
 but she always felt unhappy among such crowds of strangers, 
 and so she asked Mrs. Lahy to take her, and now her mind 
 was easier than ever it was since she came to America. Mrs. 
 Lahy was like a mother to her ; and besides, she had the 
 same wages she was getting at the hotel, which was a great 
 advantage, as she was able to send as much as ever home to 
 her poor old father besides feeling so comfortable and happy. 
 And Judy ran on with astonishing volubility, asking in- 
 numerable questions, and answering them all herself. Her 
 intimate knowledge of everything concerning her present 
 neighbours was amazing; but Mat opened his eyes in wonder 
 when she detailed minutely and correctly every important 
 event that had occurred in the parish of Kilthubber, since the 
 day she left it down to the eviction of the Henuessys, which
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 591 
 
 happened only three weeks before, and the election of poor-law 
 guardians for the division of Knocknagow, on the head of 
 which several black eyes were given and received in the city 
 of Boston. 
 
 Here Mat managed to edge in a word, as Judy's voice sub- 
 sided into an inarticulate murmur she having caught her 
 poll-comb between her teeth, while twisting up her hair, 
 which had suddenly fallen down and assured her that the 
 election in question passed off quite peaceably at home, Mr. 
 Kearney having nearly all the votes. The new landlord, 
 who lived in Attorney Hanly's handsome house, set up a 
 candidate in opposition to Maurice Kearney, but got no one 
 to vote for him but his own tenants, who were few and far 
 between. So that Mat Donovan was greatly astonished to 
 hear that there had been a fight on account of the election 
 of a poor-law guardian for Knocknagow in the city of Boston ; 
 and managed to say so before Judy Council's tongue had 
 room to go on again. 
 
 " Here they are," she exclaimed, sticking the comb in her 
 poll, and running to open the door. 
 
 And how Mrs. Lahy raised her hands in wonder, and wel- 
 comed Mat Donovan, as if he had dropped down from the 
 sky! 
 
 Mrs. Kearney going to second Mass on an Easter Sun- 
 day was never a more respectable-looking woman than Honor 
 Lahy, Mat thought. But she was the same Honor Lahy 
 still, for all that. And as for Phil, dressed as he was in a 
 suit of superfine broadcloth, and carrying a varnished walking- 
 stick in his gloved hand why, only for the shirt-collar, 
 which was as high and as stiff as ever, Mat Donovan would 
 not have believed his own eyes, that that old gentleman ever 
 made a blue body -coat with gilt buttons for him. 
 
 " I 'm glad to see you, Mat," said Honor. " Proud an' 
 happy I am to see you sittin' in that chair. But ye 're all 
 lavin' Ireland all lavin' the ould sod. 'Tis of'en I said to 
 myse'f, when my heart used to be breakin', thinkin' how 
 lonesome the ould place was 'tis of'en I said Knocknagow 
 was not gone all out so long as Mat Donovan was there. I 
 used to think uv yourse'f an' your mother standin' in youi 
 nice little garden, an' lookin' down to the beech-tree, an' 
 thinkin' of them that was far away; an' of poor Norah; an'
 
 592 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 maybe takin' a walk to the churchyard uv a Sunday eveniii 1 
 an' offerin' up a prayer at her grave. I always knew," con- 
 tinued Mrs. Lahy, who was quite as well-informed as her 
 handmaiden of all that had passed in her native place since 
 she left it, " I always knew Miss Mary an' Billy Heffernan 
 would have luck. I knew heaven would reward them for 
 all their kindness to my sufferin' angel. An' glad I am 
 that they are well an' doin' well. An' I know they '11 all be 
 glad to see Tommy, for he promised me faithfully he wouldn't 
 come back wudout payin' a visit to the ould place; an' sure 
 'tis well to have any wan at all left there to welcome him 
 after the scourgin' the counthry got." And Honor buried 
 her face in her hands and wept silently. 
 
 They were all silent for some minutes. Mat wished to say 
 something, but did not know how to begin. Phil tapped the 
 lid of his silver snuff-box, and took a pinch. And as for Judy 
 Connell, she seemed to have run down like a clock, and could 
 do nothing but stare at the window, and pant for breath. 
 
 " Ye 're all lavin' Ireland," Honor repeated, as if to her- 
 self. 
 
 " If they are," Phil observed, " it is because the invader 
 won't allow them to live there. The Celts are gone with a 
 vengeance, says the London Times. An' the English Vice- 
 roy tells us that Providence intended Ireland to be the fruit- 
 ful mother of flocks and herds. That is why our people are 
 hunted like noxious animals, to perish in the ditchside, or 
 in the poorhouse. That is why the floating coffins are cross- 
 ing the stormy Atlantic, dropping Irish corpses to the 
 sharks along the way, and flinging tens of thousands of living 
 skeletons on the shores of this free country. That is why 
 the last sound in the dying mother's ears is the tooth of the 
 lean dog crunching through the bones of her infant " 
 
 " Phil, Phil, stop !" his wife cried ; " 'tis too terrible to 
 Jisten to." 
 
 "Woman, it is true," he replied. " And England whose 
 duty it was not to allow a single man, woman, or child to 
 die of hunger when this glorious Republic ottered to send 
 food to the starving Irish if England would send her 
 idle war-ships to carry it England refused, and let the 
 people starve, and now shouts in triumph that the Celts are 
 gone with a vengeance. But mark my words," continued
 
 OR, THE HOMES OP TJPPERARY. 593 
 
 Phil Lahy, rising to his feet, and gracefully extending his 
 right arm, while the left rested on the back of his chair 
 "a day of retribution will come 
 
 '"The nations have fallen, but thou still art young, 
 
 Thy sun is but rising, while others have set ; 
 And, tho' slavery's cloud o'er the morning hath hung 
 The full noon of freedom will beam round thee yet.' 
 
 And I say, Mat Donovan, if you could live in tolerable com- 
 fort at home, you had no right to desert your country." 
 
 " Well, I'm not desertin' Ireland," replied Mat. " I didn't 
 come to this counthry wud the intention of remainin'." 
 
 They all looked at him in surprise ; and, after some hesi- 
 tation, he told them the object of his voyage, adding that he 
 feared he 'd have his journey for nothing. 
 
 Judy Cornell mentioned some twenty or thirty different 
 places to which, for one reason or another, Bessy Morris 
 would be likely to go. But, after reflecting for a minute or 
 two, Phil Lahy said : 
 
 "Lave it all to me, Mat, an' I'll manage it. Don't think 
 of a wild-goose chase all over the States. It would be mad- 
 ness. Stop here for a few days with us and rest yourself. 
 An' I'll get a few lines in the papers that '11 be sure to come 
 under her notice wherever she is. I needn't give her name 
 in full if you like. But a few lines under the head of ' In- 
 formation Wanted' will be sure to make all right. So make 
 your mind aisy, an' let us have a walk while supper is gettin' 
 ready, an' we '11 drop in to the editor, who is a particular 
 friend of mine." 
 
 "That's a good advice, Mat," Honor observed, eagerly. 
 " You 'd be only losin' your time an' your money for nothin' 
 if you went huntin' about the counthry. An' 'twill do us 
 all good to have a long talk about ould times. So make up 
 your mind and stay for a week or two wud us, an' you may 
 depend on Phil that he '11 find Bessy even if he was to go to 
 the bishop himse'f." 
 
 It was so agreed ; and Judy Connell and her mistress if 
 we may use the word set about the supper, and so astonished 
 Mat Donovan by the display he found spread out before him 
 on his return from the city, that he was afterwards heard to 
 declare that he "didn't know what he was aitin'." 
 
 About ten days after, Mat Donovan found himself in the
 
 594 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 sitting-room of a private house on the shore of one of the 
 great lakes " out West." He had inquired for Bessy Morris, 
 and was shown into this room. 
 
 "This is a grand house," said he to himself. "I never see 
 such a lot of big lookin'-glasses. I wondher is id in service 
 she is ? I thought she 'd be more likely to go on as she was 
 in Dublin. But sure she might be employed that way here, 
 too, I suppose." 
 
 The door opened, and Bessy Morris stood before him ! 
 She looked surprised, quite startled, indeed, on seeing him. 
 Then her eyes sparkled, and the blood mounted up to her 
 forehead; and with the old winning smile, she advanced and 
 gave him her hand. 
 
 "My goodness, Mat !" said she, "what a surprise it is to 
 see you so soon. When did you come to America?" 
 
 " I on'y landed in Boston the week before last," he re- 
 plied. 
 
 " Well, will wonders never cease ?" returned Bessy. 
 
 A pretty little girl here came into the room, and Bessy 
 desired her go and shake hands with an old friend of hers 
 from Ireland. And as she glanced up into his face, Mat said 
 to himself that she was the "dead image" of the little girl 
 to whom he used to toss the cherries over the hedge, once 
 upon a time. 
 
 " I will be back to dinner at the usual hour," said a gen- 
 tleman, who advanced a step or two into the room. " I 'm 
 in a hurry, as I ought to be at the store before now." 
 
 "This is Mat Donovan," said Bessy. 
 
 "I'm glad to see you," returned the gentleman, shaking 
 hands with him. " You have done well to come out west. 
 Irish emigrants make a mistake by remaining in the towns 
 and cities, when they ought to try at once and fix themselves 
 in permanent homes in the country. Of course you will 
 keep him for dinner, Bessy. We '11 have a long talk, and 
 I '11 be glad to give you all the assistance I can. Good-bye 
 for the present." 
 
 He hurried away, and Mat looked inquiringly at Bessy. 
 
 " Don't you know he is my father?" she asked. " He was 
 unsuccessful for a long time after coming to America. Then 
 he was told that I had died when a mere child, and he put 
 off writing to his father from year to year, till he thought
 
 OB, THE HOMES OF TIPPERAUY. 595 
 
 che old man must be dead too ; and having married again, 
 he never wrote to Ireland till, reading the account of the loss 
 of the vessel in which my aunt's son was a sailor, he learned 
 her address from a letter found upon my cousin's body when 
 it was washed ashore. And this prompted him to write to 
 my aunt. The letter only arrived the day before her death ; 
 and in my impatience to meet my long-lost father, I lost no 
 time in coming to him. He is very well off, quite rich 
 indeed, and I have every reason to be satisfied with his 
 reception of me. The little girl is his youngest child." 
 
 "God knows, I 'm glad uv id!" exclaimed Mat Donovan, 
 drawing a long breath. "I was afeard you might be wudout 
 a friend, an' maybe in bad health ; for you didn't look 
 sthrong at all that day I called to see you." 
 
 " I suffered a good deal while my aunt was sick," replied 
 Bessy. " No one knows all I have gone through since poor 
 grandfather's death. But, thank God, it is over. And so far 
 as my father is concerned, my most sanguine hopes have 
 been more than realised. I am the mistress of his house, 
 and he says he must make up in the future for his neglect 
 in the past. I am very glad to think that he can be of ser- 
 vice to you, Mat, if you settle down in this part of the 
 country." 
 
 "'I'm not goin' to stay," returned Mat. "'T wouldn't do to 
 lave my poor mother. An', as Phil Lahy says, no man 
 ought to lave Ireland but the man that can't help id." 
 
 She looked at him in unfeigned astonishment; and Mat 
 became quite confused, and regretted that he had said so 
 much. 
 
 "You did not come to America with the intention of 
 remaining 1 !" she asked. 
 
 " No, I never had any notion of stayin' in America," he 
 answered absently. "God be wud you," he added, rising, 
 and holding out his hand. 
 
 She placed both her hands in his, and continuing to look 
 earnestly into his face, said : 
 
 "But you will come back and see my father again?'' 
 
 " Well, maybe I would," he replied with a sorrowful smile, 
 as he clasped her hands tenderly between his. " An' when- 
 ever you think uv ould times, an' the ould neighbours, I 
 hope you '11 remember that Mat Donovan uv Knocknagow
 
 596 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 was your friend, ever an' always, Bessy. Ay," he added, 
 gulping down his emotion, "a friend that 'd shed the last 
 dhrop uv his blood for you." 
 
 He rushed out of the house, leaving Bessy standing in the 
 middle of the room, as if she were spell-bound. 
 
 " Call him back, Fanny," she said hurriedly to her little 
 sister. " Tell him I want to speak one word to him." 
 
 The child overtook Mat Donovan before he had gone many 
 yards from the house, and brought him back. 
 
 " Mat," said Bessy Morris, speaking calmly and thought- 
 fully, " was it you got the advertisement in the paper ? I 
 thought it might be a girl I knew in Dublin, who came out 
 last summer." 
 
 " Well id Was," he answered. 
 
 " And you came to America for nothing else but to find 
 me?" 
 
 " I thought you might want a friend," he stammered. 
 
 "And you are going back again?" she continued, coming 
 close to him, and laying her hand on his arm, just as she 
 laid the same hand on the sleeve of the blue body-coat in 
 Ned Brophy's barn. 
 
 "What else would I do?" he answered, sadly. 
 
 "And have you nothing else to say to me?" she asked, 
 dropping her eyes. 
 
 " O Bessy, don't talk to me that way," returned Mat, 
 reproachfully. " Where would be the use of say in' more?" 
 
 She moved closer to him, and leant her head against his 
 broad chest, which heaved almost convulsively as she did so. 
 
 " Mat," she murmured, " I will go with you." 
 
 " Go wud me !" he repeated, with a start. 
 
 " And be your wife," she added, in a whisper that thrilled 
 through his whole frame, making him feel faint and dizzy. 
 
 "Do you know what you're sayin'?" he asked, recovering 
 himself. 
 
 " I do, well," Bessy replied. 
 
 " Look around you," he continued. " An' then think uv 
 the poor thatched cabin on the hill uv Knocknagow." 
 
 " I have thought of it," she replied. "I have often thought 
 of that poor cabin, as you call it, and felt that if ever it was 
 my lot to know happiness in this world, it is in that poor 
 cabin I would find it."
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPEHAUY. 597 
 
 Both his arms were round her now, and he held her to his 
 breast. 
 
 "God bless Miss Grace," said he; "'twas she advised me 
 to tell you all." 
 
 " What did she say?" Bessy asked. 
 
 " She said that you couldn't be indifferent to such love as 
 mine," Mat answered, with his old smile. 
 
 "And she was right," returned Bessy. 
 
 " But are you sure, Bessy, this is no sudden notion that 
 you might be sorry for?" he asked anxiously. 
 
 "As sure as that I am alive," she answered. 
 
 " Oh, you must let me go out to have a walk in the open 
 air," Mat exclaimed. " My heart is too full; I 'm smotherin'." 
 He hurried out to wander by the shore of the lake, and think 
 over his great happiness, and thank God for it. 
 
 " And so, Bessy," exclaimed her little sister, who had been 
 a wondering spectator of the foregoing scene, " you 're going 
 to marry a greenhorn. Though Colonel Shiel admires you 
 so much, and wants you to go to the hop with him." 
 
 " Yes, I am going to marry a greenhorn," returned Bessy, 
 catching the child up in her arms and kissing her. "And 
 who knows but you will come to see me to dear old Ireland 
 yet ; and find me in a pretty thatched cottage, witli a fine 
 old cherry-tree in the garden, and lots of beehives; and such 
 a dear, kind old mother to take care of them." 
 
 "Yes, that will be nice. I shall go to Ireland to see 
 you," returned the child, placing a hand on each of Bessy's 
 cheeks and looking into her eyes. "I shall like the thatched 
 cottage and the beehives very much." 
 
 "And you will like the greenhorn, too, I am sure." 
 
 *' Yes, I think so. But it was so foolish for such a big 
 fellow to be crying like a child." 
 
 "Was he crying, Fanny 1 ?" 
 
 " Indeed yes. When I overtook him at the end of the 
 block he was crying. I 'm sure he felt real bad. And ribvr 
 you are crying, too," added the child. 
 
 " It is because I am so happy, Fanny," Bessy replied. 
 " I am so happy that I will go now and kneel down and pray 
 to God to make me worthy of the love of that big, foolish, 
 greenhorn." 
 
 " I guess you Irish must be always praying."
 
 598 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 " It is good to pray, Fanny." 
 
 " Yes, of course, once in a while. But have you got two 
 cents ? Thank you. I '11 go right away to the candy-store ; 
 and if I meet the greenhorn I'll give him some, and tell him 
 to be a good boy and stop crying, and sister Bessy will marry 
 him." 
 
 "Well, there he is under the trees," returned Bessy ; 
 laughing. "And remind him that twelve o'clock is our 
 dinner hour." 
 
 CHAPTER LXVI. 
 
 ONLY A WOMAN'S HAIR. MORE WEDDINGS THAN ON T E. A HEART 
 
 AS "BIG AS SLIEVENAMON." BEAUTIFUL IRELAND. XHB 
 
 SORT OF A WIFE THAT BARNEY GOT. 
 
 " POSITIVELY, Mary," exclaimed Grace, " Tommy Lahy as 
 T suppose we may still call him between ourselves is about 
 the nicest fellow I ever met." 
 
 "And your old weakness for nice fellows is as strong as 
 ever, I dare say," returned Mrs. O'Connor, smiling. 
 
 "A strong weakness!" rejoined Grace; "that's not bad. 
 But, really, he is so handsome, and so manly and intelli- 
 gent " 
 
 " And rich," Mary added. 
 
 " Well, of course that is worth counting, too. Even papa 
 says he never met a more intelligent young man. It is 
 really a treat to talk to him." 
 
 "Yes, I have noticed that you think so." returned Mary. 
 "Ye seem to like each other's society very well, indeed. 
 But is he in the toils in downright earnest ?" 
 
 "No," she replied, shaking her head; "he does not seem 
 to be very susceptible." 
 
 " And what am I to think of that handsome and expensive 
 ring on your linger?" 
 
 "Nothing; only that he admires me." 
 
 " And suppose he more than admired you, how would it 
 bo?"
 
 OR, THE HOMES OP TIPPERAUY. 599 
 
 " "Well, though I scarcely ever knew any one else so much 
 to my taste in every way," returned Grace thoughtfully, " I 
 believe I could not love him. In fact I sometimes think I 
 have no heart. And only for papa I 'd follow Eva," 
 
 " There was a time," said Mary, " when I used to say the 
 same of myself." 
 
 Grace bent her head, to hide the blush which she felt 
 stealing into her face, and, walking to the window, seemed to 
 take great interest in the movements of the magpies in the 
 elm-tree. Perhaps she was thinking of the evening long ago, 
 when Tommy Lahy peeped into the magpie's nest before 
 throwing down Mat Donovan's coat, after he had emerged 
 from under the fallen hayrick. 
 
 "I suppose," she observed, "you know we are to have 
 Kathleen Hanly at Woodlands to-night, and Lory. I never 
 can call him anything but Lory. He protests he admires 
 me as much as ever, and if I only have patience till he gets 
 his silk gown, he will lay that coveted garment at my feet." 
 
 "1 am very glad to have Rose for a neighbour," said 
 Mary. " I always liked her, and was delighted when Mr. 
 Wilson was appointed manager of the bank." 
 
 "Johnny Wilson, an you love me," returned Grace; "let 
 us speak of them all as we used to do in the old times. I 
 wonder does Adonis think of Kathleen still ? I was greatly 
 amused by Mrs. Captain French's account of the tiger hunt. 
 Only to think that Richard and Mr. Lowe or let me say 
 Adonis and Apollo figured so conspicuously in it ! It is a 
 pity Mr. Lloyd was not with them." 
 
 "Hugh was very sorry," Mary observed, "that Richard 
 should go into the army. Arthur has written to him, strongly 
 recommending him to come home. But I really fear he 
 would not be contented." 
 
 " He might if he could retain the uniform," rejoined 
 Grace. " He came to see me or rather to let me see him 
 before he went away. And if ever mortal man soared into 
 the seventh heaven upon a pair of epaulettes, that mau was 
 Surgeon Richard Kearney, of the th Lancers. I asked him 
 did he think Annie handsome, and he only stared at me. He 
 could think of nothing but his new uniform." 
 
 "Hugh was greatly struck by Annie," Mary observed. 
 " He says she is the most splendid woman he ever saw."
 
 600 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 " Yes, she does strike people at first ; but it wears off after 
 a while." 
 
 " Edmund does not think so," returned Mary. 
 
 "Well, no; he is as enthusiastic as ever. But Edmund is 
 essentially an enthusiast. He is half out of his wits, he is- so 
 glad to have Hugh at home. I pity the poor snipe and 
 partridges." 
 
 " Why don't you apply the same rule to Hugh as to the 
 others, and call him Fionn Macool ?" Mary asked. " Do you 
 remember giving him that name 1 ?" 
 
 "Indeed, yes," returned Grace, pensively. "And how 
 distinctly I remember the day in your room when Bessy 
 Morris said I could not have given him a grander name, 
 though I by no means meant to be complimentary. Were 
 you frightened, Mary, when you saw him so awfully thin 
 and worn ? I thought he had only come home to die. But 
 papa said he would be as strong as ever again. And he is 
 wonderfully improved during the last few weeks." 
 
 Mary clasped her hands together, and turned her mild blue 
 eyes upwards, but made no reply. 
 
 "But where is he now?" Grace asked. 
 
 " Writing in his own room," Mary replied. " He has little 
 Grace with him. He is very fond of little Grace." 
 
 " Oh, between little Grace's prattle, and her mother's sing- 
 ing," returned Grace, with a frown, "he has no time to 
 devote to other people." 
 
 "I'll go tell him what you say," rejoined Mary, laughing. 
 
 "You have kept the old writing desk during all your 
 wanderings," she observed, on entering Hugh's room. 
 
 " Yes," he replied ; " I have brought it with me every- 
 where." 
 
 " Oh! and you have kept this, too ?" she exclaimed, opening 
 a loosely folded paper she had carelessly taken from the desk. 
 
 " Yes, of course," he replied, smiling, on seeing what she 
 had discovered. 
 
 " And is it really somebody's that you care for f " 
 
 " Well, it is," he replied, gravely; but he reddened im- 
 mediately, and would have recalled the words if he could. 
 
 "And can't you tell me who it is ? Do I know her?" 
 
 " Oh, you must ask no more questions," he replied, snatch- 
 ing at the paper.
 
 OB, THE HOMES OF TIPPERABY. 601 
 
 But she was too quick for him, and carried it off in 
 triumph. 
 
 " Here is that mysterious lock of hair," said Mary to 
 Grace, who was still standing at the window, gazing at the 
 mountains. " Can you unravel the mystery, as you did that 
 of the tracks in the snow ?" 
 
 "I can't imagine who it can be," she said, after looking for 
 a moment at the tress of hair. 
 
 " He admits it is somebody he really cares for," said Mary. 
 
 Grace scrutinised the hair again, and as her own hair fell 
 down on her hand while she did so, Mary observed : 
 
 "It is very like your own. But what is that written on 
 the paper?" 
 
 Grace looked sharply at the half-obliterated pencilling, and 
 said, " Oh, yes. ' Only a woman's hair' Swift, you know 
 
 " ' The passioned tremble of the heart 
 
 That ripples in the little line 
 
 " Only a woman's hair." ' 
 
 But he has made a change which is by no means an improve- 
 ment. He has ' Only a girl's hair.'" 
 
 "There is something else written under it," said Mary. 
 
 "Yes, it is the date. 'January 9, 18.'" 
 
 The words swam before her eyes, and she fell senseless 
 upon the floor. Mary caught her up, and placed her upon a 
 low chair, by the side of which she had fallen. She was 
 about to cry out for assistance when Grace's bosom heaved, 
 and her eyes opened. 
 
 "Oh, what has happened to you?" Mary asked anxiously. 
 
 " Mary," she replied as if she were just awaking from 
 a deep sleep, " it is my hair." 
 
 Mary could only look the surprise she felt. 
 
 " Do you remember," continued Grace, " when Mr. Lowe 
 was here, the day Mat Donovan asked me to play the air of 
 the song he was to sing at Ned Brophy's wedding ? It was 
 the same day that Lory Hanly brought me the jay." 
 
 " Yes, I remember," returned Mary. " But what has that 
 to do with it?" 
 
 " Look at the date on the paper," said Grace, closing her 
 eyes. 
 
 " It is the very same day," replied Mary.
 
 602 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 " And don't you remember, "continued Grace, keeping her 
 eyes still closed, " how I cut off a lock of Hugh's hair with 
 your scissors, and he caught me and cut off some of mine ?" 
 
 "Yes, I recollect it all now," Mary answered, looking 
 troubled. "I trust in goodness that I have done no harm." 
 
 "And he has kept it all the time," Grace thought. " He 
 has always loved me ! " 
 
 " This is Grace's hair, Hugh," said Mary, on coming into 
 his room again. 
 
 " Well, it is," he replied, as if the earnestness of her manner 
 had surprised him into the admission. 
 
 " Hugh," said she, looking anxiously at him, " I never 
 thought of this. I will bring her up." 
 
 "I fear you have been making me ridiculous," he exclaimed, 
 getting between her and the door. 
 
 She told him what had just occurred in the parlour; and 
 so great was Hugh Kearney's astonishment, that for the 
 moment he felt no other emotion. But when Mary asked 
 him would she go for Grace, he seemed much agitated. 
 
 " Yes," he answered, with a motion of his hand towards 
 the door. He paced up and down the room two or three 
 times, and then sat down again at the table where he had 
 been writing, looking quite unmoved; save for that light, 
 half fire and half softness, that swam in his dark eyes. 
 Grace came in, and those dark eyes met hers. She crossed 
 the room with a measured step, and laid her hand on his 
 shoulder, still looking into his eyes. There was no need for 
 words. 
 
 " I don't know what to say," said he at last. " But, 
 Grace, when did you first think of me?" 
 
 " I don't know," she replied. " I think always." 
 
 " There must really be a mystery in these things, Grace. 
 I never hoped such happiness would ever be mine. Did you 
 know how much I always loved you ?" 
 
 " Well, I didn't know but, somehow, I believed it." 
 
 They were silent again for a long time ; and Grace re- 
 called Bessy Morris's words, " If a ship were sinking with 
 you, or a lion rushing to devour you, wouldn't you feel safe 
 if his arm were around you?" Yes, she felt it was so. 
 
 " Wonders will never cease," exclaimed Mary, flinging the 
 door open. " Fionn Macool can make himself agreeable.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 603 
 
 Do you forget that we are all invited to a great ball at Wood- 
 lands in honour of Fionn's safe return from the antipodes ?" 
 
 Grace, for once in her life, would have forgiven the great 
 ball. But she resolved to make herself as "killing" as pos- 
 sible ; for it was rather provoking that Mrs. Kiely so dazzled 
 her guests on such occasions, that even a certain young lady, 
 who was generally admitted to possess some attractions of 
 her own, was quite thrown into the shade at Woodlands. 
 
 "That dark dress becomes you admirably, Mary," said 
 she. " And Ellie looks downright lovely in white. There 
 is something fawn-like about her. But which of these shall 
 I wear?" 
 
 " Ask Hugh's opinion," returned Mary. 
 
 " Yes, Ellie ; ask him which would he prefer." 
 
 " He doesn't care which," said Ellie, after consulting Hugh 
 on this important matter, "as neither is green." 
 
 "I like green, but green does not like me," returned 
 Grace. " I must leave that to Annie." 
 
 " Here is Arthur," said Mary, rather impatiently. " De- 
 cide at once; we have no time to lose. Even mamma has all 
 her bows pinned on to her entire satisfaction." 
 
 " Yes, but she had no difficulty in deciding on the colours," 
 Grace replied. " Her uncle Dan settled that long ago. E 
 only wish his worthy nephew or grandnephew would do 
 the same for me. But I will have my revenge, and dance 
 all night with Lory." 
 
 "What will your papa say, when he knows?" Mary asked, 
 as they drove up the avenue at Woodlands. 
 
 " He will like it," Grace answered, emphatically. 
 
 And he did like it. And said and said truly that there 
 was no man to whom he would rather entrust his daughter's 
 happiness than to Hugh Kearney. And yet the patriotic 
 Dr. Kiely felt disappointed, though he strove to hide it even 
 from himself. For, in spite of his theories, he cherished the 
 hope of seeing his darling Grace the wife of a descendant of 
 one of those Norman freebooters, who " came to divide, to 
 dishonour," and to whose ill-omened advent none knew better 
 than the learned and patriotic doctor how to trace all the 
 vroes of unhappy Ireland. "But then, "he would say in hi* 
 grand way, " some of them became more Irish than the Irish 
 themselves."
 
 604 KNOCKNAGOW ', 
 
 Is it necessary to add, that there was a wedding soon 
 after ? 
 
 Grace wished to have the ceremony performed by Father 
 Carroll, as it was he married Arthur O'Connor and Mary, 
 and Edmund and his dark-eyed bride. But the democratic 
 Dr. Kiely dearly liked eclat ; and Grace had the honour of 
 being married by a bishop. And never did priest or bishop, 
 or Cardinal or Pope of Rome, hold his hand over a brighter 
 or a happier little bride. 
 
 But there were more weddings than one. 
 
 "Mat Donovan and Bessy Morris!" the astute reader 
 exclaims. 
 
 Of course. But a child would have guessed that. 
 
 And the tall pedlar, who never passed the way without 
 taking a draught from the pail under the little window, 
 opened his eyes in wonder on seeing a neat square farm yard, 
 with barn, dairy, cow-house, and all other requisites, behind 
 the little thatched house, to which two rooms with good- 
 sized windows had been added. The tall pedlar, as he re- 
 placed the cup on the little window, rubbed his cuff across 
 his grey beard, and hoped it was not all the work of the 
 " good people," and would not have vanished into thin air 
 before he came his next round as happened to his own 
 knowledge to a snug little place one side of Holycross Abbey. 
 And the tall pedlar, swinging off his heavy pack, and sitting 
 on the corner of the table, gave a full and true account of 
 how he had been hospitably received in the snug little house 
 before-mentioned, one fine summer evening, and awoke next 
 morning by the side of a furze bush, without a house, or the 
 sign of a house, within miles of him. At which Mrs. Donovan 
 the elder blessed herself many times, and devoutly thanked 
 Providence that her house was not one side of Holycross 
 Abbey though nearer to an imaginary straight line between 
 Maurice Kearney's fort and the quarry than she could have 
 wished. 
 
 The little boarded parlour, with its papered walls and 
 American clock on the chimney-piece, was just what Grace 
 had fancied as suitable for Bessy Morris. There was a book- 
 shelf, too, with a goodly number of volumes arrayed upon it, 
 which caused Mr. Bob Lloyd to stare the first time he saw 
 it, and furnished Mrs. Ned Brophy with a subject for much
 
 OR. THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 605 
 
 scornful laughter. Whenever Ned did not make his ap- 
 pearance in due time on the nights of market-days, he was 
 pretty sure to be found by Mat Donovan's fireside. And as 
 he meekly obeyed the order to " get up out of that," and 
 staggered homeward, Ned invariably protested that his liba- 
 tions during the day did not exceed " a couple uv tumblers 
 uv porther." But we fear this did not always save him from 
 a whack of his own blackthorn across the shoulders. 
 
 Old Mrs. Donovan, however, preferred the kitchen with its 
 snow-white dresser and shining pewter not forgetting the 
 old spinning-wheel and the straw-bottom chairs as, indeed, 
 did Mat himself, and Bessy, too. And as for Billy Heffernan, 
 he protested that his flute became quite hoarse whenever lie 
 attempted a tune in the parlour. And when he took his 
 place on the bench, with his back against the partition, Nelly 
 always thought of the night when she made the discovery 
 that Billy loved Norah Lahy ; and how, after the first pang 
 of jealousy, she loved Norah herself better than ever. Yes, 
 Bessy Morris and Mat Donovan were married ; and that 
 dear, kind old mother's sad face had a moonlight sort of smile 
 in it for ever after. But lest Mat should get credit for more 
 than he deserves, we feel bound to admit that if Bessy's 
 father had not behaved so handsomely, he could not have 
 built the out-offices quite so soon ; nor would he have the 
 ten acres at the other side of the road. 
 
 But there were more weddings than two. 
 
 "Where is that fellow?" Mrs. Kearney asked, fretfully. 
 " I never can find him when I want him." 
 
 No one seemed to pay particular attention to Mrs. Kear- 
 ney's grievance. There was a car at the hall-door, with Mary 
 and Grace on one side, and Mrs. Edmund Kiely about 
 whose feet Hugh was elaborately wrapping the rug on the 
 other. 
 
 " She is the only handsome woman," Mary observed, " that 
 I ever knew Hugh to care about." 
 
 "Thank you," returned Grace. 
 
 "Did you send him any where?" Mrs. Kearney asked from 
 the door-step addressing her husband, who was pointing out 
 a defect in the horse's shoeing to the servant. 
 
 " Yes," he answered, at last. " I sent him to count the 
 sheep."
 
 606 KNOCKNAGOW } 
 
 " And you knew I wanted to send him to town," returned 
 Mrs. Kearney reproachfully. 
 
 " He ought to be back an hour ago," Maurice answered. 
 " But I suppose he fell into the quarry and broke his neck ; 
 or was attacked by the bull in the clover-field. Get that shoe 
 taken off," he added, turning to the servant, as if the broken 
 neck or the attack by the bull were a matter of little conse- 
 quence compared with Edmund Kiely's chestnut going lame. 
 
 Mrs. Kearney was quite alarmed ; but to her great relief 
 Barney Brodherick was seen tearing across the lawn mounted 
 on Bobby, who snorted and flung his heels in the air at every 
 prick of the "spur-sauleen" with which the heel of one of 
 the rider's brogues was armed. Flinging himself from his 
 steed, Barney hurried up to his master. 
 
 "Are the sheep all there?" he asked. 
 
 " Begob I have 'em all in my hat, sir," Barney answered. 
 
 Mary's laugh was almost as ringing and quite as musical 
 as Grace's but Mrs. Kiely only looked astonished, with all 
 her great black eyes as Barney carefully scooped a fistful of 
 sloes out of his hat, and presented them to his master, who 
 commenced to count them with a look of intense gravity. 
 
 " They 're all right," said he, flinging away the sloes, and 
 looking quite satisfied. 
 
 " She 's after consintin', sir," said Barney with a grin. 
 
 " Oh, very good," returned his master. " One fool makes 
 many." 
 
 "But, "continued Barney, rubbing his poll, "if Miss Grace 
 'd put in a good word for us, I know Father Carroll wouldn't 
 be hard on us, an' he gettin' so many jobs all uv a slap." 
 
 " What is it, Barney?" Grace asked. 
 
 "Goin' to be married, Miss," Barney answered, looking 
 very solemn. " An' if you would tell him to do id as chape 
 as he could, I know he 'd do anything for you an' not to be 
 too hard wud the questions. I have my prayers as pat as 
 A B ; an' what more do a poor man want ? An' I 'm purty 
 good at the seven deadly sins, an' know what is mathrimony, 
 now, since Miss Ellie put id into my head," Barney added 
 with increasing seriousness. 
 
 "And so, Ellie, you have been putting matrimony into 
 Barney's head?" said Grace, turning to Ellie, who was romp- 
 ing on the grass with two of Mary's children.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 607 
 
 " Yes," she replied, throwing her hair back from her face ; 
 "because, when he went to get married last winter, the 
 priest sent him away. He asked him, ' What is matrimony?' 
 and Barney answered, 'The marriage money;' and so Father 
 Carroll refused to marry him till he had learned his cate- 
 chism." 
 
 "An' damn hard work I had makin' up the same marriage- 
 money," returned Barney, with an injured look. " An' whin 
 I had id, 'tis little I thought I 'd be throubled wud any other 
 money. 
 
 "And what sort of a wife are you going to get?" Mrs. 
 Kiely asked, turning round and bending her black eyes on 
 the odd figure before her. 
 
 " A good labourin'-man uv a wife, ma 'am," Barney an- 
 swered readily. " Peg Brady." 
 
 And so Barney and Peg Brady added one more to the 
 "jobs," which happened to be neither few nor far between 
 that season though very like "angels' visits" to Father 
 Carroll's mind, notwithstanding. But one more of these 
 "jobs" concerns us too intimately to be passed over. 
 
 Do you recollect the still, summer day when the glad 
 tidings that Norah Lahy was sitting out under the beech- 
 tree ran like wildfire from end to end of Knocknagow ? And 
 how, while Miss Kearney stopped to talk to Norah, a shy 
 young girl ran into the house to talk to the old linnet? 
 And how she was caught in a motherly embrace as she 
 jumped down from the chair ? 
 
 Well, that same shy girl was clasped to the same motherly 
 heart in the pretty house where Mat Donovan was so warmly 
 welcomed and hospitably entertained, near the city of Boston, 
 a few months before. 
 
 "Oh, the villian of the world!" exclaimed Honor Lahy, 
 " never to tell me a word about it ! He said 'twas goin' to 
 see the Pope he was." 
 
 " And so I did go to see the Pope," said Mr. Tom Lahy, 
 laughing. 
 
 " Oh, yes, Mrs. Lahy," Ellie added, " we were in Rome, 
 and saw his Holiness. I have a beads blessed by himself for 
 you. And we have got our portraits painted, and have a 
 great many other things that you will like." 
 
 "Don't talk to me about anything but yourself," re-
 
 608 KNOCKNAGOW J 
 
 turned Honor, with another hug. " Oh, did I ever think 
 my poor ould heart would ever feel the joy that 's s\rellin' id 
 np this minute as big as Slievenamon ? Glory be to God 
 for all His mercies ! Wondhers will never cease. But, 
 my darlin' Ellie, will I ever again kneel down on the green 
 grave in the ould churchyard where my own darlin' is sleepin' 
 at home in beautiful Ireland 1" 
 
 " You will," Phil Lahy answered, emphatically. " There 
 are bright days in store for beautiful Ireland, as you call 
 her, and as she deserves to be called. There is a spirit grow- 
 ing up among the outcast children of beautiful Ireland that 
 will yet cause another English monarch to exclaim, ' Cursed 
 be the laws that deprived me of such subjects.' The long 
 night of her sorrow is drawing to a close. And, with God's 
 blessing, we '11 all be in beautiful Ireland again." 
 
 " You are right, father," returned the fine young Irish- 
 American. " We will never forget old Ireland." 
 
 But, however glad we are to have to record these happy 
 events, we have not the least notion of attempting a descrip- 
 tion of them. To our mind, Ned Brophy's wedding was 
 worth them all put together including the bishop, whose 
 presence so turned Mrs. Kearney's head that she all but cut 
 the O'Shaughnessys for a whole month after. To be sure, 
 Father Hannigan was at Ellie's wedding, and did some- 
 thing to make it like a wedding. For, if the truth must 
 be told, the "grandeur" of the whole affair weighed heavily 
 on the spirits of all present. Father Hannigan came 
 all the way from his mountain parish where he was looked 
 upon by his flock as an oracle in all matters, whether spiritual 
 or temporal and gave them the news of the week, with his 
 own comments, from the altar every Sunday, after the last 
 gospel. Not one newspaper, except his own and a single 
 copy of the Weekly Catholic Illuminator, which two police- 
 men and a process-server jointly subscribed for ever found 
 its way into Father Hannigan's parish. And yet, we grieve 
 to say, his parish supplied the London Times with more than 
 one text for an article upon the well-worn theme of agrarian 
 crime in Ireland. But Father Hannigan had a habit of 
 addressing any member of his flock, against whom he hap- 
 pened to have a complaint to make, by name, in a manner 
 that was very trying to the nerves of the congregation, and
 
 OB, THE HOMES OP TIPl'EKARY. 609 
 
 kept them upon the rack until he had come down from the 
 altar, each dreading to hear his or her own name bfurted out 
 by the preacher at any moment. Hugh Kearney, who visited 
 Father Hannigan the Sunday before his marriage, had an 
 opportunity of witnessing this, when, as he rose from his 
 knees at the conclusion of the Mass, he was startled by the 
 words : 
 
 "Mrs. Morrissy, why don't you send your daughter to the 
 chapel to teach the children their catechism ? 'Twould be- 
 come her better than dancing 'Follow me down to Carlo w,' 
 over there at Bosheenacorriga." 
 
 " She '11 come every other Sunday, sir," returned Mrs. 
 Morrissy, with a reproachful look at a young girl who knelf 
 next Hugh, and whose burning cheeks told all too plainly that 
 she was the delinquent who preferred the dance at Bosheena- 
 corriga to teaching the catechism to the children in the 
 chapel. 
 
 " If ever a man died of a broken heart it was poor Father 
 M'Mahon !" was Father Hannigan's remark, as he and Hugh 
 came to the turn of the road near Mat Donovan's. "Knock- 
 nagow killed him. He never raised his head after. And 
 'tis a terrible change, sure enough," he added, as he turned 
 round in the gig, and looked down the hill. " 'Tis a terrible 
 change. And 'tis hard to know where 'twill stop, or what 
 will be the end of it. Ye had a narrow escape yourselves. 
 Only for the new lease Sir Garrett gave you before the pro- 
 perty was sold ye 'd be in a bad way. There 's nothing like 
 security." 
 
 "That 's true," Hugh observed. "And those new land- 
 lords are raising the rents to the last shilling the land will 
 make. They look upon their purchases solely from a com- 
 mercial point of view, and I fear many of them will prove 
 harder masters than their predecessors." 
 
 "How is Edmund Kiely getting on with Woodlands?" 
 Father Hannigan asked. 
 
 " Oh, first-rate," returned Hugh. " He is becoming a capital 
 farmer. But he may thank Mat Donovan, who is his right- 
 hand man." 
 
 " Twas a great consolation to the old baronet to die in 
 the home of his ancestors," the priest observed. " But I be- 
 lieve he could not have saved it from the wreck, only for the
 
 610 KNOCKNAGOW; 
 
 doctor's money. But I believe the doctor had the best of 
 the bargain after all. What is he going to give yourself?" 
 
 " Oh, I never spoke of such a thing," Hugh replied, looking 
 displeased. 
 
 " Oh, when the money is there, I don't see why you 
 shouldn't get it," returned Father Hannigan. " I '11 talk to 
 Kiely about it." 
 
 "I request that you will not," said Hugh. " It would be 
 most disagreeable to me." 
 
 " Well, very well I won't mind it. And, indeed, I believe 
 there 's no occasion. He won't forget Grace, I '11 be bound. 
 But are we going to have Flaherty?" 
 
 " Yes," Hugh answered, laughing at the abruptness with 
 which his reverend friend changed the subject ; " he pro- 
 mised to come." 
 
 And Mr. Flaherty kept his promise. And, though the 
 crimson-velvet bag was somewhat faded, not so was his 
 music, which was as brilliant as ever. Indeed, when, at 
 Father Hannigan's request, he commenced to play the 
 "Coulin," there was a little scene which surprised many 
 persons present. Mrs. Edmund Kiely could not control her 
 emotion; and, pressing her face against her husband's breast, 
 she sobbed aloud, and was so overcome by her feelings, that 
 Mrs. O'Connor, who was, perhaps, as deeply moved as her- 
 self though you would never guess it by looking at her 
 led her impulsive friend from the room; the blind musician, 
 as they glided by, raising his head with that listening 
 expression, as if an invisible spirit were whispering to him 
 what was going on. 
 
 Arthur and Edmund followed them out after a little while. 
 
 " Really, Annie, you surprise me," said Edmund. 
 
 "I couldn't help it, Edmund. It brought poor papa so 
 vividly to my mind. The night is very fine. Let us walk 
 for awhile " 
 
 " I object," said Arthur, touching her shoulder with 
 the tips of his fingers. So they remained standing at the 
 window. 
 
 "I believe," said Mary, after a silence of several minutes, 
 as she raised her blue eyes to the clear sky, " I believe there 
 is no happiness in this world without a shadow upon it." 
 
 "And what shadow do you see now?" Arthur asked.
 
 OR, THE HOMES OP TIPL'ERARY. 611 
 
 c Poor Ellie, so far away," she replied sadly. 
 
 ' She is a happy girl," returned Arthur. 
 
 ' Yes, I hope and believe so." 
 
 'And surely Grace is happy," Edmund observed. 
 
 ' Ye 'd be talking of happiness," exclaimed Maurice Kear- 
 ney, who had come into the room unobserved, and some- 
 what startled them by the abruptness of his address. " Ye 'd 
 be talking of happiness. Wattletoes and Peg Whack" Mr. 
 Kearney had a genius for nicknames " are the happiest 
 pair in Europe. Come, Mrs. Kiely ; you must come in and 
 give us a song." 
 
 CHAPTER LXYII. 
 
 GOOD-BYE. THE OLD ROOM. MRS. HEFFERNAN*S TROUBLES. 
 "MAGNIFICENT TIPPERARY." A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE. BUT 
 KNOCKNAGOW IS GONE. 
 
 WE have not counted the years as they stole away like visions 
 of the night. What need to count them 1 They were here, 
 and they are gone ! And now we must say good-bye and 
 sad enough it is to be obliged to say it. God be praised ! 
 we see truth, and trust, and thankfulness in the eyes raised 
 to ours, and no shadow of reproach at all. And, God be 
 praised again, there are tears in those eyes, and we feel the 
 clasp of a slender hand ! But with this the reader has not 
 much to do; so we shall only add may his or her good-byes, 
 when they must be said, be all like this one. 
 
 But, whatever other changes the years have brought, 
 the little room up in the steep roof of the old cottage is 
 much the same as when Barney Brodherick threw Arthur 
 O'Connor's letter into the window in the ivied gable long 
 ago. It is still called "Mary's room," and sometimes 
 "mamma's room" by two lovely little ladies, who live almost 
 entirely at the cottage, and for whose behoof the little room 
 has been turned into a nursery. There is an old straw-chair 
 there, which the little ladies regard with something like 
 awe, as they talk in whispers of the poor sick girl who was
 
 612 KNOCKNAGOW; 
 
 so good and so patient, and who gave the straw-chair to 
 their mamma when she was dying. These two little ladies 
 are their grandmamma's pets ; and even "dressing dinners" 
 is not half so important a matter now in Mrs. Kearney's eyes 
 as it used to be. But they have been observed, latterly, 
 feeling their noses carefully, and climbing upon chairs to look 
 at them in the glass; for people are continually telling 
 them that the said noses are "out of joint; and they wonder 
 much how that can be, seeing that the plump little stranger 
 since the arrival of the plump little stranger in the cradle; 
 never touched their noses at all, but, on the contrary, seems 
 to devote most of his waking hours to vigorously thumping 
 his own nose with his dimpled little fist, which, fortunately 
 for him, has no knuckles, and therefore cannot hurt him 
 very much. The nose, his grandmother avers, is her uncle 
 Dan's; and the rose-bud of a mouth that is never done 
 blowing bubbles his aunt Mary's; and the double chin, his 
 grandfather's " all over." " And," Mrs. Kearney would con- 
 tinue, " he'll have his father's eye-brows." "And his mother's 
 cheek" Hugh added, one day. At which Grace laughed, and 
 shook her fist at him. 
 
 And who so happy as Grace ! For a while there was one 
 little vexation that used to put her into a scolding humour. 
 Hugh was as great a stay-at-home as ever ; and Grace was 
 as fond of a dance as ever. There was a round of very plea- 
 sant little parties at Christmas-time among their acquaint- 
 ances, to not one of which Hugh could be induced to go 
 except to Woodlands. He was ready enough to go there, 
 Grace said. And when her father was at Woodlands on these 
 occasions, and he and Hugh and Edmund discussed literary 
 or political subjects with Dr. Arthur O'Connor to contra- 
 dict everybody and object to everything for Arthur was 
 nothing if not critical Grace used to say it came fully up 
 to her idea of what refined and intellectual society ought to 
 be. And the old mansion, and the ancestral trees outside 
 for the timber at Woodlands was not all cut down and a 
 certain high-born air in the hostess, were not altogether lost 
 sight of; though Grace's notions about the "upper ten" were 
 considerably modified since the time she used to edify Mary 
 with her views as to what an aristocracy ought to be. 
 
 But though Hugh would go nowhere but to. Woodlands,
 
 OR, THE HOMBS OF TIPPERARY. 613 
 
 he wished her to go, saying that her account of all that hap- 
 pened would be better than being there himself. And this 
 was quite true. But equally true was it that Hugh Kearney 
 found it very pleasant to be alone with his books of an even- 
 ing, reading and thinking. Yet, let the page or the vision 
 be never so fascinating, the moment he heard her voice or 
 her footstep, his heart leaped to welcome her. 
 
 One night Grace was home earlier than usual. She drew 
 a chair close to his, and Hugh shut his boQk, prepared to 
 listen to a lively description of Mrs. O'Shaughnessy's party. 
 But to his surprise Grace remained silent and thoughtful. 
 He looked anxiously at her, fearing that she might be ill. 
 But there was no sign of illness in that bright, bewitching 
 face ; for, though thoughtful, it was bright, and to him, at 
 least, it was bewitching in all moods. It was pleasant, too, 
 to look at her dressed in such perfect taste. 
 
 "But why does she not begin to talk?" Hugh asked him- 
 self. 
 
 Not a word ; she only leant against his arm, and gazed 
 into the fire. 
 
 "Do you remember the time when Mr. Lowe was here ?" 
 she said at last, without moving, and still gazing into the fire. 
 
 " I remember it quite well," he replied. " Indeed, I have 
 been thinking of him and Richard to-night. It is a strange 
 coincidence that they should be together again in another 
 quarter of the globe." 
 
 " This very night," continued Grace, still gazing into the 
 fire "I can't think of the year just now, but it was this 
 very night they were in this room. Richard sat in the 
 old arm-chair, and Mr. Lowe was standing there with his 
 elbow on the chimney-piece. Do you remember?" 
 
 " Yes ; they used to come in here to smoke." 
 
 " Richard asked you whether you thought a person could 
 love more than once." Here Grace seemed lost in thought 
 for some minutes. " And you said yes," she continued, as if 
 unconscious of the pause ; " that a person might really love 
 more than once ; but that you believed it was the fate of 
 ome to love one as they never could love another. Do you 
 remember ?" 
 
 " Not exactly. But I dare say I said *, for I Lave always 
 thought so."
 
 614 KNOCKNAGOW; 
 
 "Do you think so still?" 
 
 "Yes, I certainly do." 
 
 " And you said, if it ever happened that a man or a woman 
 jould never love but once, it was when two spirits rushed 
 together in this way, and were parted by death or some other 
 cause that did not involve blame to either. 
 
 " That has been a theory of mine," Hugh replied. 
 
 "Is it still?" 
 
 " "Well, yes. It is," he answered, thoughtfully. 
 
 She was silent again, gazing into the fire. 
 
 "Hugh." 
 
 He bent over her, and looked into her eyes. 
 
 "Tell me " 
 
 " What am I to tell you?" he asked, smiling; for she had 
 relapsed into silence. 
 
 " Was it of me you were thinking when you said that? ' 
 She bent back her head, and raised her eyes to his with ;i 
 confident smile. 
 
 He was on the point of answering seriously " Yes," 
 when he recollected himself, and, leaning back in his chair, 
 laughed heartily. 
 
 She looked up in surprise, and even appeared troubled. 
 
 "Why do you laugh ?" she asked. 
 
 "Just remember how old were you at that time," he 
 replied. 
 
 "Ah, no matter," said Grace; "can't you say it was of me 
 you were thinking ?" 
 
 "Well, perhaps I had some sort of a prevision of what 
 was to come 
 
 ' And now I find the fancy true, 
 And fairer than the vision made it.* 
 
 But how did you remember all this?" 
 
 " I don't know. I was passing the door while you were 
 saying it. I didn't mind it at all at the time, but it occurred 
 to me afterwards. That and Bessy Morris's story about the 
 Beauty Kace, and Fionn Macool, and 'the one little girl that 
 he 'd rather have than any of them,' were constantly in my 
 mind." 
 
 " How much I owe Bessy Morris," said Hugh, half laugh- 
 ingly, half dreamily, laying his hand upon her head. " She
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 615 
 
 and Mat Donovan are the happiest couple in all Tipperary 
 this moment." 
 
 "No ; not the happiest," said Grace. " I sometimes fear 
 we are too happy, Hugh." 
 
 " Not too happy, so long as we do not forget the Giver." 
 
 She made no reply, but continued gazing into the fire. 
 
 " Now, Grace, do you think I can allow this ? Where is 
 the use in your being home early if you stay up this way ? 
 Here, drink this while 'tis hot. I thought you were in bed 
 an hour ago." 
 
 It was Mrs. Kearney, who roused them from their dream- 
 ing a full half-hour after Hugh had last spoken. She came 
 into the room with a posset for Grace; who, Mrs. Kearney 
 would have it, required all sorts of nursing just then. 
 
 This was in the winter the "dreary winter" some people 
 call it. But no one in that old cottage ever thought of call- 
 ing it " dreary." 
 
 It is now autumn, towards the end of September. 
 
 "I can't help feeling a little discontented," said Grace. 
 " Whenever Edmund makes his appearance Hugh is never 
 home till long after nightfall. And if they chance to go 
 near Woodlands, I may give him up till eleven o'clock or 
 later." 
 
 "What would you do if you were like me?" Mary asked. 
 
 " Well, I suppose," Grace replied, " I 'd console myself 
 with the idea that we were getting rich. Arthur seems to 
 have great practice." 
 
 " Practice enough," returned Mary. " But scarlet-runners 
 are more plenty than fees." 
 
 "What are they?" 
 
 " I thought you knew everything. They are the red dis- 
 pensary tickets which require the medical officer to attend at 
 the residence of the patient. Arthur said this morning, when 
 he saw those young ladies in the garden, that if times did not 
 mend, he did not know what to do with them. But I told 
 him he need not give them fortunes at any rate." And 
 Mary's mild eyes beamed with all a mother's pride as she 
 looked into the garden where her two lovely little girls were 
 playing among the formal flower-beds. 
 
 " You meant that, like their mother, they would require 
 no fortune."
 
 616 KKOOKNAGOW; 
 
 " Yes," Mary replied innocently. But seeing Grace begin- 
 ning to laugh, she added with spirit "I am proud that I 
 had no fortune. But, on the other hand," she continued, 
 somewhat sadly, " I wish I had ten thousand pounds." 
 
 " Well," returned Grace, thoughtfully, " I have not that 
 to be proud of. But I think I may be quite sure my fortune 
 did not influence Hugh, even in the slightest degree. On 
 the contrary, the very fortune I was always wishing to have 
 might have been a bar to my happiness. I think if I were poor 
 Hugh would not have concealed his love for me as he did. 
 It is appalling to think I might never have known it only 
 for an accident. And it would have been a just judgment 
 to punish me for my mercenary notions." 
 
 " I remember I used to be shocked at your notions," re- 
 turned Mary. " But I knew you would see things in a different 
 light, if once your heart was touched. But look at mamma 
 with the children. Oh, here is Arthur !" she exclaimed with a 
 start of delight. "I did not think he 'd be back for hours." 
 
 " Yes, he knows that stile behind the laurels," Grace ob- 
 served. " But where are those shots from ? If we could 
 intercept the sportsmen before they get to Woodlands it 
 would be well." 
 
 " I see them," said Mary. " They are in Billy Heffernan's 
 turnips. Let us all walk round by the village, and they 
 will see us when we reach the bridge." 
 
 Dr. O'Connor agreed to this arrangement ; and, after a 
 glass of wine, and a kiss from each of his little daughters, 
 went with Mary and Grace to prevent Hugh's escape to 
 Woodlands. 
 
 Old Mrs. Donovan was among her bee-hives; and it 
 was pleasant to catch a glimpse of her white cap and 
 her sad tranquil face through an opening in the clipped 
 hedge. Mary always liked to see old Mrs. Donovan when- 
 ever she passed by the neat little thatched house. Grace 
 liked a chat with young Mrs. Donovan ; they were con- 
 genial spirits. And so, perhaps, were Mary and old Mrs. 
 Donovan. 
 
 "Aren't you afraid to have the child so near the bees?" 
 Grace asked. 
 
 " I am, then, and very uneasy," Bessy replied. " But his 
 grandmother only laughs at me."
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 
 
 " Oh, he 's a tremendous big fellow," Grace exclaimed, as 
 she lifted Mat the Thrasher's son and heir up in her arms. 
 " I thought my young Maurice was a ' bully,' as Barney calb 
 him. But this lad is once and a half as heavy." 
 
 " Mat says he '11 be a stone-thrower," returned Bessy, 
 laughing, as s"he took the infant athlete from Grace's arms, 
 and laid him upon the ground ; to roll and tumble, or lie 
 still upon his chest, or his back, or to make short excursions 
 upon all-fours ever and anon stopping suddenly, propped 
 up by his fat arms, to stare at a white head of cabbage with 
 all his eyes at his own sweet will. 
 
 "Do you ever wish to live at the Three Trees now?" 
 Grace asked. " Oh, never," returned Bessy. " Mat wanted 
 to take the farm when my father sent us some money; but 
 I would not let him." 
 
 "Is it the same place?" said Mary, sadly, as she looked 
 down the hill. There was a low stone wall at each side of 
 the road, the mortar of which looked very new and un- 
 pleasant to the eye. Perhaps the mortar looked all the more 
 fresh because of the dark stones that seemed to thrust them- 
 selves through it here and there, in order that the traveller 
 might read the story of quenched hearths and scattered 
 households in their soot-browned faces. An odd tree, a 
 perch or two in from the road, marked the boundary of a 
 "haggart;" for where an ash or an elm sheltered the peasant's 
 cabin the tree was allowed to stand. The beech-tree escaped 
 in this way; and the pointed gable of Phil Lahy's old house, 
 now roofless and crumbling to decay, seemed to regard the 
 change wrought by the rule of the Stranger with a grim 
 smile such as Phil himself might have worn while empty- 
 ing the vials of his sarcasm upon the head of "that poor 
 crawler," Tom Hogan. No smiling faces now as they went 
 on ; no children's voices ; no ringing of the anvil. Mary 
 even regretted Kit Cummins's shrewish tongue, and the 
 next-door neighbour's " G-ir-r-r-out, you bla'guard" of 
 which she was reminded by seeing a cat run across the road, 
 and over the wall at the other side, pursued by a small red 
 terrier that always accompanied Grace in her walks. 
 
 " It is an awful change," Mary observed. 
 
 " It really is," returned Grace. " I thought of it when 
 you said we would go through the milage." 
 
 SB
 
 618 KNOCKNAGOW; 
 
 " And think of the happy crowd that used to follow the 
 big drum to the Bush," continued Mary. " And where are 
 they all now ? Not one, I may say, left." 
 
 " There is one melancholy relic of the crowd you speak 
 of," Grace observed, pointing to a man in the field a little 
 further down. 
 
 " And what a handsome young fellow he was !" 
 
 " And for what is he rolling that stone from the wall into 
 the field?" Arthur asked. 
 
 "Surely," said Mary, "it cannot be that he is in Mr. 
 Cummins's employment? Though it was not he ruined 
 them." 
 
 She alluded to the purchaser of a portion of Sir Garrett 
 Butler's property a brother of the redoubtable Eat Cum 
 mins, who had made a fortune by a peculiar mode of deal- 
 ing with the struggling farmers in hard times. And it may 
 be mentioned that Mr. Cummins's conduct as a landlord 
 completely upset Maurice Kearney's favourite theory about 
 " good Catholics," for Mr. Cummins was a most exemplary 
 Catholic. And Billy Heffernan was hopelessly bewildered 
 on the subject of " gentlemen," when he remembered that 
 Kit Cummins's brother was a magistrate and a landlord, and, 
 in fact, as great a man as ever Sam Somerfield was, to say 
 nothing of Bob Lloyd, or Beresford Fender. 
 
 " There they are," Grace exclaimed ; " and if you don't 
 stop them before they cross the road, we won't see them 
 again for the day." 
 
 Arthur hurried on in pursuit of the two sportsmen, fol- 
 lowed more slowly by Mary and Grace. He got within 
 hailing distance on the bog-road, and when they heard his 
 shout to them, they changed their course and came towards 
 him. 
 
 Grace could see nothing but Hugh for some time, but 
 Mary had eyes for other objects. Observing a goodly crowd 
 around a stack of oats in the next field, and hearing the 
 words, " Norah, throw up fhat bruckish to me," she laughed 
 and made her way to them. It was Nelly Donovan, or 
 we should rather say, Mrs. Billy Heffernau, and her whole 
 family from Norah, a black-eyed gipsy of nine years, to 
 the "bruckish," of about the same number of months. Their 
 mother, who was kneeling on the stack, the top of which
 
 OB, THE HOME3 OF TIPPERARY. 619 
 
 Billy Heffernan had just taken to the barn in his mule's car, 
 wanted to give the "bruckish" his afternoon draught, while 
 waiting till his father returned for the next load. But Norah 
 found some difficulty in lifting him so high, and Mrs. O'Con- 
 nor laughingly came to her assistance. 
 
 " This is the third fat hoy I have taken in my arms 
 to-day," she observed, as she pressed the bruckish against 
 her bosom. " I '11 begin to feel quite jealous and discon- 
 tented ; everybody has boys except myself." 
 
 " Faith, then, maybe 'tis too many uv 'em you '11 have yet, 
 ma'am," replied Nelly, pulling up the child with one hand. 
 " There 's more bother wud wan uv 'em than a house-full of 
 girls. Look at that fellow beyand now, an' nothin' will do 
 him but to ketch a hoult uv that heifer be the tail ; an' 
 wan kick from her would knock the daylights out uv him. 
 Bun, Norah, an' brin' him over here. Oh !" cried Mrs. Billy 
 Heffernan, at> the top of her voice, " look at him, look at 
 him !" 
 
 The heifer had set off at full speed, the young hopeful 
 holding on to the tail, till, the pace becoming too fast for 
 him, he was flung headlong upon his face and hands the 
 stubbles scarifying his sun-burnt visage till it looked like a 
 tulip. 
 
 " Lord help us !" exclaimed his mother, flinging the infant 
 on the oat sheaves, and tumbling herself off the stack. But 
 remembering, before she had run many yards, that the olive 
 branch on the stack would be sure to creep out to the edge 
 and fall down directly on his skull, thereby breaking his 
 neck or causing concussion of the brain, Nelly ran back and 
 pulled him from his couch; letting him drop upon the 
 stubbles almost with as much violence as if he had descended 
 on his own hook, but in a less dangerous position than upon 
 the crown of his head. She was starting off again, when a 
 great flock of geese, coming along the car-track, gabbling and 
 picking up the oats that had been shaken from the load, at 
 tracted her attention ; and as it occurred to her that the old 
 gander, who was of a vicious and misanthropic turn of mind, 
 might take a fancy to the bruckish's eyes, Mrs. Heffernan 
 looked wildly from one to the other of her olive-branches, 
 quite at a loss how to proceed ; but, seeing that the elder 
 had got upon his legs, and was now swinging from the tail of
 
 620 
 
 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 the mule's car, never minding his scratched countenance, 
 Mrs. Heffernan heaved a sigh of relief. 
 
 "'Tis little you know what bother they are, ma'am, "said 
 she, twisting up her abundant black hair, which had fallen 
 about her shoulders. "When Misther Hugh an' Misther 
 Kiely fired at the birds in the turnips a while ago, that fellow 
 was makin' off over the ditch to get himse'f shot. An' there 
 he is now, an' if the rope chances to get round his neck, he '11 
 get himse'f hung. An' look at his father walkin' on, an' 
 never lookin' back, or throublin' his head about him. This 
 is the way my heart do be broke from mornin' till night. 
 No, ma'am ; 'tis harder to rear wan boy than twenty girls." 
 
 " You '11 have twenty barrels to the acre here, Bill," Hugh 
 Kearney observed, looking round at the stacks, after feeling 
 the weight of a sheaf of the oats. 
 
 " About that, sir," returned Billy, in his old solemn way. 
 
 " You 're a wonderful man," continued Hugh. " This is 
 the very spot Richard stood in the day he left the leg of his 
 trousers in the bog-hole ; and look at that crop of oats !" 
 
 " And all because the land is his own for ever," observed 
 Dr. O'Connor. 
 
 " While grass grows an' wather runs, sir," rejoined Billy 
 Heffernan. " Misther Lloyd laughed at me whin I axed a 
 lase for ever of such a spot. But Sam Somerfield wanted 
 him to go to law wud me an' break the lase whin he see the 
 good I was gettin' uv id. He said 'twas a bad example to 
 the counthry, an' that 'twould put dangerous notions into 
 the people's minds. An' there is Sam himse'f wudout a sod 
 of ground now ; an' Misther Bob is there yet." 
 
 "'Tis really remarkable," Hugh observed, "that Bob Lloyd 
 is the only landlord for miles around here who has escaped 
 the Incumbered Estates Court." 
 
 " Because his tinants had the land for the value, an' long 
 lases," returned Billy. " An' they wor always able to meet 
 their pints, and to make up money for him whin he was in 
 a hoult. An' there is Yallow Sam, that hunted every tinant 
 he had, an' I 'm tould his property was sould agin' t'other 
 day for three times as much as it was bought for the first 
 time." 
 
 " That 's a fact," said Edmund. " And it does look a little 
 hard, that, after all their devotion to England, this law
 
 OR, THE HOMES OP TIPPERARY. 621 
 
 should have been introduced just when the value of landed 
 property was at the lowest ebb. In fact, it looks very like 
 robbery." 
 
 1 The Irish landlords were encouraged to exterminate the 
 people," said Dr. O'Connor, " and when the work was done, 
 many of themselves were exterminated. England cares just 
 as little for them as for the people." 
 
 "Mr. Somerfield's friends, however," Hugh remarked, "did 
 not quite forget his services. You know he is a stipendiary 
 magistrate." 
 
 " He whined frightfully," said Edmund, " at being obliged 
 to give up Woodlands. It is strange that the most callous 
 and merciless tyrants are the most abject hounds when it 
 comes to their own turn to meet the fate which it was their 
 glory to inflict on others. Poor Sir Garrett might have been 
 moved to give him a lease only for those gables." And 
 Edmund pointed to several gables that stood like large head- 
 stones, scattered over a great sheep-walk along the side of a 
 hill within view of where they stood. Mr. Somerfield had 
 left a solitary gable standing, of every roof-tree he had swept 
 from the face of the land, and these he was won't to point 
 to with the pride of an Indian warrior displaying the scalps 
 of his foes. 
 
 " If we had the bogs itse'f," said Billy Heffernan, " some 
 UY us at any rate might do some good. But they 'd rather 
 lave 'em to the cranes than give 'em to the Christians. What 
 have I but the fag-end uv a bog? An' begor, I wouldn't 
 give id this minute for the best farm in the parish wudout 
 security." 
 
 " You are are right," said Hugh Kearney. 
 
 " 'Tis ofen I thought uv ould Phil Morris's words," con- 
 tinued Billy Heffernan, " that there was nothin' like security 
 to give a man courage. Look at Mat Donovan, an' becase 
 he had them few perches that his grandfather fenced in 
 betune the two roads, when 'twas on'y a hape uv stones an' 
 a lough uv wather, an' see how he kep' his grip. An' Tom 
 Hogan an' the rest uv 'em swep' away like that," added Billy, 
 taking a handful of chaff from the bottom of his cart and 
 letting it fly with the wind. " Wo ! Kit ! Come, Nelly, up 
 wud you on that butt uv a stack an' throw me the shavea. 
 'Twill be tight enough on us to have id all in afore nightfall."
 
 622 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 " No more shooting to-day," said Grace, putting her arm 
 in her husband's. "Arthur and Mary are staying for dinner; 
 so, march ! " 
 
 Two gentlemen on horseback pulled up suddenly as they 
 were passing " Tom Hogan's gate," as it was still called. 
 
 " That is Mr. Lloyd," said Grace. " But who is that with 
 him?" 
 
 "I don't know," Hugh replied. "They are calling to 
 some one." 
 
 It was to the man who had rolled the stone into the field. 
 He raised his head listlessly, on hearing Mr. Lloyd's voice, 
 and looked towards the gate, as if waiting to know what he 
 wanted. He had been sitting on the stone with his face 
 buried in his hands, and must have remained motionless for 
 some time, as the sheep were grazing quite close to him, one 
 or two looking curiously at him, and almost touching him 
 with their noses. But the moment he observed Mr. Lloyd's 
 companion, he stood up quickly, and, after touching his cap, 
 dropped his arms by his side and stood at attention. 
 
 "How are you, Hogan?" said the gentleman. 
 
 " I hope you 're well, captain," was the reply. 
 
 " What fancy have you taken to sitting there 1" Mr. Lloyd 
 asked. " We saw you from the top of the hill, and didn't 
 know what to make of you till we came to the gate here." 
 
 Jemmy Hogan's eyes moistened; but his cheek flushed, and 
 he seemed ashamed of being detected in giving way to such 
 weakness. 
 
 "Twas a foolish notion," he replied at last, smiling some- 
 what grimly. 
 
 " I was going to ask you why you rolled that heavy stone 
 into the field," said Dr. O'Connor, for they had all come up 
 by this time, and were shaking hands with the two horse- 
 men. 
 
 Jemmy Hogan walked, or rather stumped, to the gate 
 for he had a wooden leg before he replied. He grasped the 
 top of the gate, and rested his forehead upon his hands, just 
 as his father had done the night he told Phil Lahy that "his 
 heart was stuck" in that little farm. 
 
 " He is fainting," Mary observed in an anxious whisper to 
 her husband, who approached the gate, and asked the young 
 man if he were ill.
 
 OB, THE HOMES OP TIPPERARY. 623 
 
 " No, sir," he answered, recovering himself ; " I 'm not to 
 say very strong, but I 'm not ill." 
 
 His lips were quite pale, and his yellow cheeks looked 
 hollow and worn. What a contrast to the handsome youth 
 who leaped to Mat Donovan's side at the words, "Come 
 here, Jemmy Hogan," that Sunday long ago in Maurice 
 Kearney's kiln-field, when Tom Cuddehy's desertion of his 
 party changed the hurling of the " two sides" into what Phil 
 Lahy called a " promiscuous match" ! 
 
 " You exerted yourself too much rolling that heavy stone," 
 said the doctor. 
 
 "No, sir, no; 'twasn't that," returned Jemmy Hogan. "I 
 was tryin' could I make out the exact spot where the ould 
 house stood. An' then I took a fancy to sit down where I 
 used to sit when I was a little boy, in the corner inside my 
 mother. So I rowled over that stone an' sot on id, till I 
 thought I felt the hate uv the fire an' my mother's hand on 
 ray head. I b'lieve 'twas the breath uv the sheep that made 
 me think I felt the hate ; for I was someway half asleep. 
 An' when the thruth came back sudden on me, an' I see the 
 grass an' the sheep, instead uv the blazin' fire an' my 
 mother's smile, id gave me a change, I b'lieve," said Jemmy 
 Hogan, as he took off his cap and wiped the drops of perspi- 
 ration from his forehead. 
 
 " Arthur ! " Mary exclaimed, as, overcome by her emo- 
 tion, she rested her forehead against his shoulder, " it is 
 awful !" 
 
 Grace grasped Hugh's arm with both her hands, and fixed 
 her eyes pityingly on Jemmy Hogan's face, but did not 
 speak. 
 
 Captain French's horse, at the moment, began to plunge 
 riolently, and the ladies were about running down the road 
 in their terror, when they saw a wild-looking cow running 
 towards them. 
 
 " Stop her !" was shouted in a loud voice, but in a manner 
 which would lead to the belief that the speaker considered 
 the party at Tom Hogan's gate were there for the special 
 purpose of stopping runaway cows. Hugh disengaged him- 
 self from the little hands that clutched his arm so firmly, 
 and, going a few yards to meet the cow, brought her to a 
 stand with little difficulty.
 
 624 KNOOKNAQOW ; 
 
 "I'm afther buyin' her from Mat Donovan," said Wat 
 Murphy the butcher, in a quiet way. " an' she turned at the 
 cross and med off for home. I was thryin' to buy another 
 from him, but he 's axin' too much." 
 
 " She 's a nice cow," Hugh remarked, " and in good con- 
 dition." 
 
 Mat himself appeared at this juncture, and at the same 
 time his wife was seen running down the hill to meet him. 
 But, on seeing the gentlemen on horseback, she stopped short 
 and turned back again. She had been wondering what was 
 keeping Mat out so long beyond his usual dinner-hour, but 
 Wat Murphy and the cow was a sufficient explanation, and 
 she hastened home, blushing at being observed by the gen- 
 tlemen. 
 
 " Why," said the captain, " that is the girl poor Sergeant 
 Baxter lost his senses about." 
 
 " She is Mat Donovan's wife now," returned Mr. Lloyd. 
 
 " Well, Mat," said the captain, " I can never have a cast 
 of a sledge with you again." 
 
 " I 'm sorry for id, sir," Mat replied ; and his heart smote 
 him for having beaten the captain that day in the kiln-field. 
 "I'm sorry for id, sir," he repeated, looking at him, almost 
 with the tears in his eyes. For Captain French had only 
 one arm now. 
 
 " Do you have a hurling still ?" he asked. " We got some 
 smart fellows from about here." 
 
 " The hurlers are gone," replied Mat, looking around upon 
 the great pasture fields with scarcely a house within view. 
 
 " By George," said the captain, " if this sort of thing goes 
 on, there will be an end of 'magnificent Tipperary' in the 
 English army." 
 
 " I was just going to remark," Edmund Kiely observed, 
 41 that you and J emmy Hogan would make a very suggestive 
 picture in illustration of that same ' magnificent Tipperary.'" 
 
 " How is that V Captain French asked. 
 
 "Why," Edmund replied, "he has come home with one leg, 
 after shedding his blood in the service of England, to find 
 the sheep grazing on his father's heath. And you come 
 home with one arm, to find a stranger in yonr father's halls'" 
 
 " An' his property sowld for one-sixth u v the value," added 
 Wat Murphy, who was a privileged person. " The divil's
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 625 
 
 cure to the landlords. An Irish Parliament wouldn't thrate 
 'em that way. An' still they 're agin their counthry." 
 
 " By G ," the captain muttered, absently, as if he were 
 talking to himself, "that's just what they tell me my poor 
 father said when he was dying of a broken heart." 
 
 " Come and dine with us," said Bob Lloyd to Edmund 
 for the rest of the party had moved on towards home. " We 
 have a leg of mutton, and everything elegant." 
 
 " I 'm after promising Mrs. Kearney to take an early dinner 
 with her," returned Edmund. " And, by the way, I must 
 send a messenger to tell my wife, or she will think I have 
 been swallowed up in a bog-hole." 
 
 "Not shot from behind a hedge 1 ?" the captain observed. 
 
 " No," Edmund answered, as he walked on to overtake his 
 friends. " She is too long now in Tipperary for nonsense of 
 that sort." 
 
 They had stopped to wait for him at Mat Donovan's clipped 
 hedge. 
 
 " What is the matter with you?" Arthur O'Connor asked, 
 seeing the tears in his wife's mild eyes. 
 
 " It is such a sad picture," she replied, looking along the 
 lonely road. " So different from what it used to be." 
 
 " There are gleams of sunshine in it," he answered. 
 
 "Where are they?" 
 
 He pointed to Billy Heffernan and his wife and children, 
 in the cornfield, which, a few years before, was a profitless 
 moor. 
 
 " It is an omen," said Hugh Kearney. " The Irish people 
 will never be rooted out of Ireland. Cromwell could iiot do 
 it ; the butchers of Elizabeth could not do it." 
 
 " But there is a more deadly system at work now," returned 
 the doctor. " The country is silently bleeding to death." 
 
 " Not to death," rejoined Hugh Kearney. " Those of her 
 people who are forced to fly are not lost to Ireland. And 
 those who cling to her are advancing in knowledge and 
 intelligence. The people are becoming an educated and a 
 thinking people. When Billy Heffernan's sons grow to 
 manhood, they will in many respects be different men from 
 their father." 
 
 " And woujd you say he will be a superior man to his 
 father \" Grace asked, pointing over the clipped hedge.
 
 626 KNOCKNAGOW ; 
 
 Mat Donovan stood under the cherry-tree, holding the 
 young "stone-thrower" high up among the branches, while 
 his mother glanced up at him with the identical smile of 
 the little Bessy Morris of old, when she used to glance at the 
 cherries on her way from school; and his grandmother 
 clapped her hands to attract the attention of the delighted 
 youngster, who crowed and kicked and plunged so vigorously 
 that Mat declared 'twas like holding a little bull. 
 
 " Yes," said Hugh, in reply to Grace's question, " he, too, 
 will be ahead of his father at least of what his father was 
 in his early youth. For Mat is now a really intelligent man, 
 and is adding to his stock of knowledge every day." 
 
 " That is another gleam of sunshine," said Mary, her face 
 lighted up now, and her eyes almost dancing with pleasure, 
 as she contemplated the group under the cherry tree. 
 
 And when she turned to the dear old cottage, and saw the 
 blue smoke gliding up above its sheltering trees, and her 
 father, hale and ruddy, coming to meet them, and her mother 
 at the door, " wondering" what was keeping them so long, 
 and her own fair children gamboling upon the soft grass, 
 and her generous brother with his bright little wife clinging 
 so lovingly to him that was a gleam nay, a very flood 
 of sunshine too. And in Mary's home and in her heart there 
 was sunshine, bright, warm, and unclouded. 
 
 "Whack! "Maurice Kearney called out, "didn't I tell you 
 never to milk that cow without putting the spancelonher?" 
 
 "0 father, why don't you call her by her right name?" 
 said Mary, appearing a little shocked. 
 
 "You may call her Mrs. Barney Brodherick if you like," 
 returned Maurice Kearney, " but I '11 call her Whack." 
 
 Grace and Mary sat in the drawing-room, feeling some- 
 what lonely, they could not tell why, when they were startled 
 by a ringing knock at the hall-door, which was quickly fol- 
 lowed by a ringing laugh, and Mrs. Edmund Kiely had 
 administered a kiss and a hug to each, before they could 
 recover from their surprise. Of course it was just like her to 
 set off for Ballinaclash, when Barney announced to her that 
 Edmund was staying there for dinner. She flung her cloak 
 on one chair, and her hat on another; and not a^oul under 
 the old cottage roof from Barney sucking his "dudheen" 
 in the kitchen .chiinuey -corner, to young Maurice, blowing
 
 OR, THE HOMES OF TIPPERARY. 627 
 
 bubbles and thumping uncle Dan's nose in his cradle in the 
 nursery that did not feel the influence of her presence. 
 Old Maurice rubbed his hands and shrugged his shoulders in 
 a perfect ecstasy of delight, and lost no time in asking her 
 to play his favourite tunes and sing his favourite songs 
 which she did till the tears ran down his cheeks. 
 
 And the old cottage was "filled with music;" and their 
 hearts overflowed with deep and tranquil happiness. 
 
 Mary saw the light shine out from Mat Donovan's little 
 window, and thought of the dream of the Past from which it 
 had awakened her long ago, as she sat there in the cold 
 moonlight. And what a bright future was in store for her 
 after all ! 
 
 There was another dreamer awakened by the light from 
 Mat Donovan's window that same moonlight night. And 
 now, almost from the very spot where he lay in the black, 
 lonesome moor, the light from Mat Donovan's window is seen 
 by a happy household, basking in the ruddy glow of a bog- 
 wood fire. The change is like what we read of in fairy tales. 
 If poor Mick Brien could revisit the glimpses of the moon, 
 he could scarcely believe that it was the dreary spot where 
 he lay for hours meditating a deed of blood. 
 
 " Come," says Nelly, " I promised Bessy we 'd go up to- 
 night. An' brin' the flute/' 
 
 Billy Heffernan took down his hat from the elk's horns 
 and meekly obeyed. 
 
 " I '11 go," exclaimed young Matty Heffernan, indepen- 
 dently. 
 
 ".No, you won't," returned his mother. "Stay wud 
 Norab, an' help her to mind your little brothers. Give 
 him the fife," she added, on seeing Matty showing symptoms 
 of rebellion. 
 
 " I '11 go see grandmother," he persisted. "She '11 give me 
 honey." 
 
 " You can stay all day o' Sunday at your grandmother's," 
 said Nelly. " But you must stop an' mind the house to- 
 night. An' there is the fife, an' you can play till you 're 
 tired." 
 
 "Well, Billy," said Mat Donovan, "did you hear any 
 sth range news yestherday ? " 
 
 " Not a word," he replied. " But I never see a town that's
 
 628 
 
 gone like Clo'mel. I remember when I could hardly get 
 through the streets wud loads uv corn ; an* now there 's 
 nothin' doin' there. The mills nearly all idle, an' the stores 
 an' half the shops shut up. 'Twas Avell Phil Morris used to 
 say 'twas the corn made a town uv Clo'mel." 
 
 " Nelly, you must bring in the kettle and fill out the tea," 
 said Bessy. " This fellow won't go to sleep for me." 
 
 Nelly prepared the tea, of which all present partook, ex- 
 cept Billy Heffernan, before whom his mother-in-law placed 
 a huge mug of milk. 
 
 "Have you the flute?" Mat asked, as the American clock 
 on the chimney-piece struck eight. 
 
 " Let us come out to the kitchen," returned Billy Heffer- 
 nan. 
 
 "Arthur, stop for a moment," said Mary, an hour later, 
 as they reached the top of the hill on their way home. 
 " Can it be that Annie's voice could reach this 1 The draw- 
 ing-room windows are open, and I really think I can hear 
 her singing." 
 
 Dr. O'Connor reined in the horse, and listened with some 
 curiosity. 
 
 " Oh, it is from Mat Donovan's," Mary observed. " And 
 I am much mistaken if it is not Billy Heffernan's old flute." 
 
 "Why," said Arthur, when they had driven on a little 
 further, " there is nothing but music to-night. Do you hear 
 the fife from Billy Hetfernan's own house, too ?" 
 
 " It is very pleasant," returned Mary. "Thank God, there 
 are happy homes in Tipperary still ! But " she added, 
 sadly, as she turned round, and looked along the two low 
 whitish walls that reached from "the cross" to Mat Dono- 
 van's " but KNOCKNAGOW is GONB 1" 
 
 ZTbe Enfc,
 
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