Sir Robert, on entering the room along with the squire, found the Cooleen Bawn at the spinnet. Taking his place at the end of it, so as that he could, gain a full view of her countenance, he thought he could observe her complexion considerably heightened in color, and from her his glance was directed to Reilly. The squire, on the other hand, sat dull, silent, and unsociable, unless when addressing himself to the baronet, and immediately his genial manner returned to him.

With his usual impetuosity, however, when laboring under what he supposed to be a sense of injury, he soon brought matters to a crisis.

“Sir Robert,” said he, “are the Papists quiet now?”

“They are quiet, sir,” replied the other, “because they dare not be otherwise.”

“By the great Deliverer, that saved us from Pope and Popery, brass money and wooden shoes, I think the country will never be quiet till they are banished out of it.”

“Indeed, Mr. Folliard, I agree with you.”

“And so do I, Sir Robert,” said Reilly. “I wish from my soul there was not a Papist, as you call them, in this unfortunate country! In any other country beyond the bounds of the British dominions they could enjoy freedom. But I wish it for another reason, gentlemen; if they were gone, you would then be taught to your cost the value of your estates and the source of your incomes. And now, Mr. Folliard, I am not conscious of having given you any earthly offence, but I cannot possibly pretend to misunderstand the object of your altered conduct and language. I am your guest, at your own express invitation. You know I am a Roman Catholic—Papist, if you will—yet, with the knowledge of this, you have not only insulted me personally, but also in the creed to which I belong. As for that gentleman, I can only say that this roof and the presence of those who are under it constitute his protection. But I envy not the man who could avail himself of such a position, for the purpose of insinuating an insult which he dare not offer under other circumstances. I will not apologize for taking my departure, for I feel that I have been too long here.”

Cooleen Bawn arose in deep agitation. “Dear papa, what is this?” she exclaimed. “What can be the cause of it? Why forget the laws of hospitality? Why, above all things, deliberately insult the man to whom you and I both owe so much? Oh, I cannot understand it. Some demon, equally cowardly and malignant, must have poisoned your own naturally generous mind. Some villain, equally profligate and hypocritical, has, for some dark purpose, given this unworthy bias to your mind.”

“You know nothing of it, Helen. You\'re altogether in the dark, girl; but in a day or two it will all be made clear to you.”

“Do not be discomposed, my dear Miss Folliard,” said Sir Robert, striding over to her. “Allow me to prevail upon you to suspend your judgment for a little, and to return to the beautiful air you were enchanting us with.”

As he spoke he attempted to take her hand. Reilly, in the meantime, was waiting for an opportunity to bid his love goodnight.

Page 35-- Touch Me Not, Sir

“Touch me not, sir,” she replied, her glorious eyes flashing with indignation. “I charge you as the base cause of drawing down the disgrace of shame, the sin of ingratitude, on my father\'s head. But here that father stands, and there you, sir, stand; and sooner than become the wife of Sir Robert Whitecraft I would dash myself from the battlements of this castle. William Reilly, brave and generous young man, goodnight! It matters not who may forget the debt of gratitude which this family owe you—I will not. No cowardly slanderer shall instil his poisonous calumnies against you into my ear. My opinion of you is unchanged and unchangeable. Farewell! William Relly!”

We shall not attempt to describe the commotions of love, of happiness, of rapture, which filled Reilly\'s bosom as he took his departure. As for Cooleen Bawn, she had now passed the Rubicon, and there remained nothing for her but constancy to the truth of her affection, be the result what it might. She had, indeed, much of the vehemence of her father\'s character in her; much of his unchangeable purpose, when she felt or thought she was right; but not one of his unfounded whims or prejudices; for she was too noble-minded and sensible to be influenced by unbecoming or inadequate motives. With an indignant but beautiful scorn, that gave grace to resentment, she bowed to the baronet, then kissed her father affectionately and retired.

The old man, after she had gone, sat for a considerable time silent. In fact, the superior force of his daughter\'s character had not only surprised, but overpowered him for the moment. The baronet attempted to resume the conversation, but he found not his intended father-in-law in the mood for it. The light of truth, as it flashed from the spirit of his daughter, seemed to dispel the darkness of his recent suspicions; he dwelt upon the possibility of ingratitude with a temporary remorse.

“I cannot speak to you, Sir Robert,” he said; “I am confused, disturbed, distressed. If I have treated that young man ungratefully, God may forgive me, but I will never forgive myself.”

“Take care, sir,” said the baronet, “that you are not under the spell of the Jesuit and your daughter too. Perhaps you will find, when it is too late, that she is the more spellbound of the two. If I don\'t mistake, the spell begins to work already. In the meantime, as Miss Folliard will have it, I withdraw all claims upon her hand and affections. Good-night, sir;” and as he spoke he took his departure.

For a long time the old man sat looking into the fire, where he began gradually to picture to himself strange forms and objects in the glowing embers, one of whom he thought resembled the Red Rapparee about to shoot him; another, Willy Reilly making love to his daughter; and behind all, a high gallows, on which he beheld the said Reilly hanging for his crime.

In about an hour afterwards Miss Folliard returned to the drawing-room, where she found her father asleep in his arm-chair. Having awakened him gently from what appeared a disturbed dream, he looked about him, and, forgetting for a moment all that had happened, inquired in his usual eager manner where Reilly and Whitecraft were, and if they had gone. In a few moments, however, he recollected the circumstances that had taken place, and after heaving a deep sigh, he opened his arms for his daughter, and as he embraced her burst into tears.

“Helen,” said he, “I am unhappy; I am distressed; I know not what to do!—may God forgive me if I have treated this young man with ingratitude. But, at all events, a few days will clear it all up.”

His daughter was melted by the depth of his sorrow, and the more so as it was seldom she had seen him shed tears before.

“I would do every thing—anything to make you happy, my dear treasure,” said he, “if I only knew how.”

“Dear papa,” she replied, “of that I am conscious; and as a proof that the heart of your daughter is incapable of veiling a single thought that passes in it from a parent who loves her so well, I will place its most cherished secret in your own keeping. I shall not be outdone even by you, dear papa, in generosity, in confidence, in affection. Papa,” she added, placing her head upon his bosom, whilst the tears flowed fast down her cheeks, “papa, I love William Reilly—love him with a pure and disinterested passion!—with a passion which I feel constitutes my destiny in this life—either for happiness or misery. That passion is irrevocable. It is useless to ask me to control or suppress it, for I feel that the task is beyond my power. My love, however, is not base nor selfish, papa, but founded on virtue and honor. It may seem strange that I should make such a confession to you, for I know it is un—usual in young persons like me to do so; but remember, dear papa, that except yourself I have no friend. If I had a mother, or a sister, or a cousin of my own sex, to whom I might confide and unburden my feelings, then indeed it is not probable I would make to you the confession which I have made; but we are alone, and you are the only being left me on whom can rest my sorrow—for indeed my heart is full of sorrow.”

“Well, well, I know not what to say. You are a true girl, Helen, and the very error, if it be one, is diminished by the magnanimity and truth which prompted you to disclose it to me. I will go to bed, dearest, and sleep if I can. I trust in God there is no calamity about to overshadow our house or destroy our happiness.”

He then sought his own chamber; and Cooleen Bawn, after attending him thither, left him to the care of his attendant and retired herself to her apartment.

On reaching home Reilly found Fergus, one of his own relatives, as we have said, the same who, warned by his remonstrances, had abandoned the gang of the Red Rapparee, waiting to see him.

“Well, Fergus,” said he, “I am glad that you have followed my advice. You have left the lawless employment of that blood-stained man?”

“I have,” replied the other, “and I\'m here to tell you that you can now secure him if you like. I don\'t look upon sayin\' this as treachery to him, nor would I mention it only that Pavideen, the smith, who shoes and doctors his horses, tould me something that you ought to know.”

“Well, Fergus, what is it?”

“There\'s a plot laid, sir, to send you out o\' the country, and the Red Rapparee has a hand in it. He is promised a pardon from government, and some kind of a place as thief-taker, if he\'ll engage in it against you. Now, you know, there\'s a price upon his head, and, if you like, you can have it, and get an enemy put out of your way at the same time.”

“No, Fergus,” replied Keilly; “in a moment of indignation I threatened him in order to save the life of a fellow-creature. But let the laws deal with him. As for me, you know what he deserves at my hands, but I shall never become the hound of a government which oppresses me unjustly. No, no, it is precisely because a price is laid upon the unfortunate miscreant\'s head that I would not betray him.”

“He will betray you, then.”

“And let him. I have never violated any law, and even though he should betray me, Fergus, he cannot make me guilty. To the laws, to God, and his own conscience, I leave him. No, Fergus, all sympathy between me and the laws that oppress us is gone. Let them vindicate themselves against thieves and robbers and murderers, with as much vigilance and energy as they do against the harmless forms of religion and the rights of conscience, and the country will soon be free from such licentious pests as the Red Rapparee and his gang.”

“You speak warmly, Mr. Reilly.”

“Yes,” replied Keilly, “I am warm, I am indignant at my degradation. Fergus, Fergus, I never felt that degradation and its consequences so deeply as I do this unhappy night.”\'

“Well, will you listen to me?”

“I will strive to do so; but you know not the—you know not—alas! I have no language to express what I feel. Proceed, however,” he added, attempting to calm the tumult that agitated his heart; “what about this plot or plan for putting me out of the country?”

“Well, sir, it\'s determined on to send you, by the means of the same laws you speak of, out of the country. The red villain is to come in with a charge against you and surrender himself to government as a penitent man, and the person who is to protect him is Sir Robert Whitecraft.”

“It\'s all time, Fergus,” said Reilly; “I see it at a glance, and understand it a great deal better than you do. They may, however, be disappointed. Fergus, I have a friend—friend—oh, such a friend! and it will go hard with that friend, or I shall hear of their proceedings. In the meantime, what do you intend to do?”

“I scarcely know,” replied the other. “I must lie quiet for a while, at any rate.”

“Do so,” said Reilly; “and listen, Fergus. See Paudeen, the smith, from time to time, and get whatever he knows out of him. His father was a tenant of ours, and he ought to remember our kindness to him and his.”

“Ay,” said Fergus, “and he does too.”

“Well, it is clear he does. Get from him all the information you can, and let me hear it. I would give you shelter in my house, but that now would be dangerous both to you and me. Do you want money to support you?”

“Well, indeed, Mr. Reilly, I do and I do not. I can—”

“That\'s enough,” said Reilly; “you want it. Here, take this. I would recommend you, as I did before, to leave this unhappy country; but as circumstances have turned out, you may for some time yet be useful to me. Good-night, then, Fergus. Serve me in this matter as far as you can, for I stand in need of it.”

As nothing like an organized police existed in Ireland at the period of which we speak, an outlaw or Rapparee might have a price laid upon his head for months—nay, for years—and yet continue his outrages and defy the executive. Sometimes it happened that the authorities, feeling the weakness of their resources and the inadequacy of their power, did not hesitate to propose terms to the leaders of these banditti, and, by affording them personal protection, succeeded in inducing them to betray their former associates. Now Reilly was well aware of this, and our readers need not be surprised that the communication made to him by his kinsman filled him not only with anxiety but alarm. A very slight charge indeed brought forward by a man of rank and property—such a charge, for instance, as the possession of firearms—was quite sufficient to get a Roman Catholic banished the country.

On the third evening after this our friend Tom Steeple was met by its proprietor in the avenue leading to Corbo Castle.

“Well, Tom,” said the squire, “are you for the Big House?” for such is the general term applied to all the ancestral mansions of the country.

Tom stopped and looked at him—for we need scarcely observe here that with poor Tom there was no respect of persons; he then shook his head and replied, “Me don\'t know whether you tall or not. Tom tall—will Tom go to Big House—get bully dinnel—and Tom sleep under the stairs—eh? Say aye, an\' you be tall too.”

“To be sure, Tom; go into the house, and your cousin Larry Lanigan, the cook, will give you a bully dinner; and sleep where you like.”

The squire walked up and down the avenue in a thoughtful mood for some moments until another of our characters met him on his way towards the entrance gate. This person was no other than Molly Mahon.

“Ha!” said he, “here is another of them—well, poor devils, they must live. This, though, is the great fortune-teller. I will try her.”

“God save your honor,” said Molly, as she approached him and dropped a courtesy.

“Ah, Molly,” said he, “you can see into the future, they say. Well, come now, tell me my fortune; but they say one must cross your palm with silver before you can manage the fates; here\'s a shilling for you, and let us hear what you have to say.”

“No, sir,” replied Molly, putting back his hand, “imposthors may do that, because they secure themselves first and tell you nothing worth knowin\' afterwards. I take no money till I first tell the fortune.”

“Well, Molly, that\'s honest at all events; let me hear what you have to tell me.”

“Show me your hand, sir,” said she, and taking it, she looked into it with a solemn aspect. “There, sir,” she said, “that will do. I am sorry I met you this evening.”

“Why so, Molly?”

“Because I read in your hand a great deal of sorrow.”

“Pooh, you foolish woman—nonsense!”

“There\'s a misfortune likely to happen to one of your family; but I think it may be prevented.”

“How will it be prevented?”

“By a gentleman that has a title and great wealth, and that loves the member of your family that the misfortune is likely to happen to.”

The squire paused and looked at the woman, who seemed to speak seriously, and even with pain.

“I don\'t believe a word of it, Molly; but granting that it be true, how do you know it?”

“That\'s more than I can tell myself, sir,” she replied. “A feelin\' comes over me, and I can\'t help speakin\' the words as they rise to my lips.”

“Well, Molly, here\'s a shilling for you now; but I want you to see my daughter\'s hand till I hear what you have to say for her. Are you a Papist, Molly?”

“No, your honor, I was one wanst; but the moment we take to this way of life we mustn\'t belong to any religion, otherwise we couldn\'t tell the future.”

“Sell yourself to the devil, eh?”

“Oh, no, sir; but—”

“But what? Out with it.”

“I can\'t, sir; if I did, I never could tell a fortune agin.”

“Well—well; come up; I have taken a fancy that you shall tell my daughter\'s for all that.”

“Surely there can be nothing but happiness before her, sir; she that is so good to the poor and distressed; she that has all the world admirin\' her wonderful beauty. Sure, they say, her health was drunk in the Lord Lieutenant\'s house in the great Castle of Dublin, as the Lily of the Plains of Boyle and the Star of Ireland.”

“And so it was, Molly, and so it was; there\'s another shilling for you. Come now, come up to the house, and tell her fortune; and mark me, Molly, no flattery now—nothing but the truth, if you know it.”

“Did I flatter you, sir?”

“Upon my honor, any thing but that, Molly; and all I ask is that you won\'t flatter her. Speak the truth, as I said before, if you know it.”

Miss Folliard, on being called down by her father to have her fortune told, on seeing Molly, drew back and said, “Do not ask me to come in direct contact with this woman, papa. How can you, for one moment, imagine that a person of her life and habits could be gifted with that which has never yet been communicated to mortal (the holy prophets excepted)—a knowledge of futurity?”

“No matter, my darling, no matter; give her your hand; you will oblige and gratify me.”

“Here, then, dear papa, to please you—certainly.”

Molly took her lovely hand, and having looked into it, said, turning to the squire, “It\'s very odd, sir, but here\'s nearly the same thing that I tould to you awhile ago.”

“Well, Molly,” said he, “let us hear it.”

Miss Folliard stood with her snowy hand in that of the fortune-teller, perfectly indifferent to her art, but not without strong feelings of disgust at the ordeal to which she submitted.

“Now, Molly,” said the squire, “what have you to say?”

“Here\'s love,” she replied, “love in the wrong direction—a false step is made that will end in misery—and—and—and—”

“And what, woman?” asked Miss Folliard, with an indignant glance at the fortune-teller. “What have you to add?”

“No!” said she, “I needn\'t speak it, for it won\'t come to pass. I see a man of wealth and title who will just come in in time to save you from shame and destruction, and with him you will be happy.”

“I could prove to you,” replied the Cooleen Dawn, her face mantling with blushes of indignation, “that I am a better prophetess than you are. Ask her, papa, where she last came from.”

“Where did you come from last, Molly?” he asked.

“Why, then,” she replied, “from Jemmy Hamilton\'s at the foot of Cullaniore.”

“False prophetess,” replied the Cooleen Bawn, “you have told an untruth. I know where you came from last.”

“Then where did I come from, Miss Folliard?” said the woman, with unexpected effrontery.

“From Sir Robert Whitecraft,” replied Miss Folliard, “and the wages of your dishonesty and his corruption are the sources of your inspiration. Take the woman away, papa.”

“That will do, Molly—that will do,” exclaimed the squire, “there is something\' additional for you. What you have told us is very odd—very odd, indeed. Go and get your dinner in the kitchen.”

Miss Folliard then withdrew to her own room.

Between eleven and twelve o\'clock that night a carriage drew up at the grand entrance of Corbo Castle, out of which stepped Sir Robert Whitecraft and no less a personage than the Red Rapparee. They approached the hall door, and after giving a single knock, it was opened to them by the squire himself, who it would seem had been waiting to receive them privately. They followed him in silence to his study.

Mr. Folliard, though a healthy-looking man, was, in point of fact, by no means so. Of a nervous and plethoric habit, though brave, and even intrepid, yet he was easily affected by anything or any person that was disagreeable to him. On seeing the man whose hand had been raised against his life, and what was still more atrocious, whose criminal designs upon the honor of his daughter had been proved by his violent irruption into her chamber, he felt a suffocating sensation of rage and horror that nearly overcame him.

“Sir Robert,” he said, “excuse me; the sight of this man has sickened me. I got your note, and in your society and at your request I have suffered him to come here; under your protection, too. May God forgive me for it! The room is too close—I feel unwell—pray open the door.”

“Will there be no risk, sir, in leaving the door open?” said the baronet.

“None in the world! I have sent the servants all to bed nearly an hour ago. Indeed, the fact is, they are seldom up so late, unless when I have company.”

Sir Robert then opened the door—that is to say, he left it a little more than ajar, and returning again took his seat.

“Don\'t let the sight of me frighten you, sir,” said the Rapparee. “I never was your enemy nor intended you harm.”

“Frighten me!” replied the courageous old squire; “no, sir, I am not a man very easily frightened; but I will confess that the sight of you has sickened me and filled me with horror.”

“Well, now, Mr. Folliard,” said the baronet, “let this matter, this misunderstanding, this mistake, or rather this deep and diabolical plot on the part of the Jesuit, Reilly, be at once cleared up. We wish, that is to say I wish, to prevent your good nature from being played upon by a designing villain. Now, O\'Donnel, relate, or rather disclose, candidly and truly, all that took place with respect to this damnable plot between you and Reilly.”

“Why, the thing, sir,” said the Rapparee, addressing himself to the squire, “is very plain and simple; but, Sir Robert, it was not a plot between me and Reilly—the plot was his own. It appears that he saw your daughter and fell desperately in love with her, and knowin\' your strong feeling against Catholics, he gave up all hopes of being made acquainted with Miss Folliard, or of getting into her company. Well, sir, aware that you were often in the habit of goin\' to the town of Boyle, he comes to me and says in the early part of the day, \'Randal, I will give you fifty goolden guineas if you help me in a plan I have in my head.\' Now, fifty goolden guineas isn\'t easily earned; so I, not knowing what the plan was at the time, tould him I could not say nothing till I heard it. He then tould me that he was over head and ears in love with your daughter, and that have her he should if it cost him his life. \'Well,\' says I, \'and how can I help you?\' \'Why,\' said he, \'I\'ll show you that: her ould persecuting scoundrel of a father\'—excuse me, sir—I\'m givin\' his own words—”

“I believe it, Mr. Folliard,” said the baronet, “for these are the identical terms in which he told me the story before; proceed, O\'Donnel.”

“\'The ould scoundrel of a father,\' says he, \'on his return from Boyle, generally comes by the ould road, because it is the shortest cut. Do you and your men lie in wait in the ruins of the ould chapel, near Loch na Garran\'—it is called so, sir, because they say there\'s a wild horse in it that comes out of moonlight nights to feed on the patches of green that are here and there among the moors—\'near Loch na Gaitan,\' says he; \'and when he gets that far turn out upon him, charge him with transportin\' your uncle, and when you are levellin\' your gun at him, I will come, by the way, and save him. You and I must speak angry to one another, you know; then, of course, I must see him home, and he can\'t do less than ask me to dine with him. At all events, thinkin\' that I saved his life, we will become acquainted.\'”

The squire paused and mused for some time, and then asked, “Was there no more than this between you and him?”

“Nothing more, sir.”

“And tell me, did he pay you the money?”

“Here it is,” replied the Rapparee, pulling out a rag in which were the precise number of guineas mentioned.

“But,” said the squire, “we lost our way in the fog.”

“Yes, sir,” said the Rapparee. “Everything turned out in his favor. That made very little difference. You would have been attacked in or about that place, whether or not.”

“Yes, but did you not attack my house that night? Did not you yourself come down by the skylight, and enter, by violence, into my daughter\'s apartment?”

“Well, when I heard of that, sir, I said, \'I give Reilly up for ingenuity.\' No, sir, that was his own trick; but afther all it was a bad one, and tells aginst itself. Why, sir, neither I nor any of my men have the power of makin\' ourselves invisible. Do you think, sir—I put it to your own common-sense—that if we had been there no one would have seen us? Wasn\'t the whole country for miles round searched and scoured, and I ask you, sir, was there hilt or hair of me or any one of my men seen or even heard of? Sir Robert, I must be going now,” he added. “I hope Squire Folliard understands what kind of a man Reilly is. As for myself, I have nothing more to say.”

“Don\'t go yet, O\'Donnel,” said Whitecraft; “let us determine what is to be done with him. You see clearly it is necessary, Mr. Folliard, that this deep-designing Jesuit should be sent out of the country.”

“I would give half my estate he was fairly out of it,” said the squire. “He has brought calamity and misery into my family. Created world! how I and mine have been deceived and imposed upon! Away with him—a thousand leagues away with him! And that quickly too! Oh, the plausible, deceitful villain! My child! my child!” and here the old man burst into tears of the bitterest indignation. “Sir Robert, that cursed villain was born, I fear, to be the shame and destruction of my house and name.”

“Don\'t dream of such a thing,” said the baronet. “On the day he dined here—and you cannot forget my strong disinclination to meet him—but even on that day you will recollect the treasonable language he used against the laws of the realm. After my return home I took a note of them, and I trust that you, sir, will corroborate, with respect to this fact, the testimony which it is my purpose to give against him. I say this the rather, Mr. Folliard, because it might seriously compromise your own character with the Government, and as a magistrate, too, to hear treasonable and seditious language at your own table, from a Papist Jesuit, and yet decline to report it to the authorities.”

“The laws, the authorities, and you be hanged, sir!” replied the squire; “my table is, and has been, and ever shall be, the altar of confidence to my guests; I shall never violate the laws of hospitality. Treat the man fairly, I say, concoct no plot against him, bribe no false witnesses, and if he is justly amenable to the law I will spend ten thousand pounds to have him sent anywhere out of the country.”

“He keeps arms,” observed Sir Robert, “contrary to the penal enactments.”

“I think not,” said the squire; “he told me he was on a duck-shooting expedition that night, and when I asked him where he got his arms, he said that his neighbor, Bob Gosford, always lent him his gun whenever he felt disposed to shoot, and, to my own knowledge, so did many other Protestant magistrates in the neighborhood, for this wily Jesuit is a favorite with most of them.”

“But I know where he has arms concealed,” said the Rapparee, looking significantly at the baronet, “and I will be able to find them, too, when the proper time comes.”

“Ha! indeed, O\'Donnel,” said Sir Robert, with well-feigned surprise; “then there will be no lack of proof against him, you may rest assured, Mr. Folliard; I charge myself with the management of the whole affair. I trust, sir, you will leave it to me, and I have only one favor to ask, and that is the hand of your fair daughter when he is disposed of.”

“She shall be yours, Sir Robert, the moment that this treacherous villain can be removed by the fair operation of the laws; but I will never sanction any dishonorable treatment towards him. By the laws of the land let him stand or fall.”

At this moment a sneeze of tremendous strength and loudness was heard immediately outside the door; a sneeze which made the hair of the baronet almost stand on end.

“What the devil is that?” asked the squire. “By the great Boyne, I fear some one has been listening after all.”

The Rapparee, always apprehensive of the “authorities,” started behind a screen, and the baronet, although unconscious of any cause for terror, stood rather undecided. The sneeze, however, was repeated, and this time it was a double one.

“Curse it, Sir Robert,” said the squire, “have you not the use of your legs? Go and see whether there has been an eavesdropper”

“Yes, Mr. Folliard,” replied the doughty baronet, “but your house has the character of being haunted; and I have a terror of ghosts.”

The squire himself got up, and, seizing a candle, went outside the door, but nothing in human shape was visible.

“Come here, Sir Robert,” said he, “that sneeze came from no ghost, I\'ll swear. Who ever heard of a ghost sneezing? Never mind, though; for the curiosity of the thing I will examine for myself, and return to you in a few minutes.”

He accordingly left them, and in a short time came back, assuring them that every one in the house was in a state of the most profound repose, and that it was his opinion it must have been a cat.

“I might think so myself,” observed the baronet, “were it not for the double sneeze. I am afraid, Mr. Folliard, that the report is too true—and that the house is haunted. O\'Donnel, you must come home with me to-night.”

O\'Donnel, who entertained no apprehension of ghosts, finding that the “authorities” were not in question, agreed to go with him, although he had a small matter on hand which required his presence in another part of the country.

The baronet, however, had gained his point. The heart of the hasty and unreflecting squire had been poisoned, and not one shadow of doubt remained on his mind of Reilly\'s treachery. And that which convinced him beyond all arguments or assertions was the fact that on the night of the premeditated attack on his house not one of the Red Rapparee\'s gang was seen, or any trace of them discovered.