Reilly, in the meantime, was not insensible to his danger. About eleven o\'clock the next day, as he was walking in his garden, Tom Steeple made his appearance, and approached him with a look of caution and significance.

“Well, Tom,” said he, “what\'s the news?”

Tom made no reply, but catching him gently by the sleeve of his coat, said, “Come wid Tom; Tom has news for you. Here it is, in de paper;” and as he spoke, he handed him a letter, the contents of which we give:

“Dearest Reilly: The dreadful discovery I have made, the danger and treachery and vengeance by which you are surrounded, but, above all, my inexpressible love for you, will surely justify me in not losing a moment to write to you; and I select this poor creature as my messenger because he is least likely to be suspected. It is through him that the discovery of the accursed plot against you has been made. It appears that he slept in the castle last night, as he often does, and having observed Sir Thomas Whitecraft and that terrible man, the Red Rapparee, coming into the house, and going along with papa into his study, evidently upon some private business, he resolved to listen. He did so, and overheard the Rapparee stating to papa that every thing which took place on the evening you saved his life and frustrated his other designs upon the castle, was a plan preconceived by you for the purpose of making papa\'s acquaintance and getting introduced to the family in order to gain my affections. Alas! if you have resorted to such a plan, you have but too well succeeded. Do not, however, for one moment imagine that I yield any credit to this atrocious falsehood. It has been concocted by your base and unmanly rival, Whitecraft, by whom all the proceedings against you are to be conducted. Some violation of the penal laws, in connection with carrying or keeping arms, is to be brought against you, and unless you are on your guard you will be arrested and thrown into prison, and if not convicted of a capital offence and executed like a felon, you will at least be sent forever out of the country. What is to be done? If you have arms in or about your house let them be forthwith removed to some place of concealment. The Rapparee is to get a pardon from government, at least he is promised it by Sir Robert, if he turns against you. In one word, dearest Reilly, you cannot, with safety to your life, remain in this country. You must fly from it, and immediately too. I wish to see you. Come this night, at half-past ten, to the back gate of our garden, which you will find shut, but unlocked. Something—is it my heart?—tells me that our fates are henceforth inseparable, whether for joy or sorrow. I ought to tell you that I confessed my affection for you to papa on the evening you dined here, and he was not angry; but this morning he insisted that I should never think of you more, nor mention your name; and he says that if the laws can do it he will lose ten thousand pounds or he will have you sent out of the country. Lanigan, our cook, from what motive I know not, mentioned to me the substance of what I have now written. He is, it seems, a cousin to the bearer of this, and got the information from him after having had much difficulty, he says, in putting it together. I know not how it is, but I can assure you that every servant in the castle seems to know that I am attached to you.

“Ever, my dearest Reilly, yours, and yours only, until death,

“Helen Folliard.”

We need not attempt to describe the sensations of love and indignation produced by this letter. But we shall state the facts.

“Here, Tom,” said Reilly, “is the reward for your fidelity,” as he handed him some silver; “and mark me, Tom, don\'t breathe to a human being that you have brought me a letter from the Cooleen Bawn. Go into the house and get something to eat; there now—go and get one of your bully dinners.”

“It is true,” said he, “too true I am doomed-devoted. If I remain in this country I am lost. Yes, my life, my love, my more than life—I feel as you do, that our fates, whether for good or evil, are inseparable. Yes, I shall see you this night if I have life.”

He had scarcely concluded this soliloquy when his namesake, Fergus Reiliy, disguised in such a way as prevented him from being recognized, approached him, in the lowly garb of a baccah or mendicant.

“Well, my good fellow,” said he, “what do you want? Go up to the house and you will get food.”

“Keep quiet,” replied the other, disclosing himself, “keep quiet; get all your money into one purse, settle your affairs as quickly as you can, and fly the country this night, or otherwise sit down and make your will and your peace with God Almighty, for if you are found here by to-morrow night you sleep in Sligo jail. Throw me a few halfpence, making as it were charity. Whitecraft has spies among your own laborers, and you know the danger I run in comin\' to you by daylight. Indeed, I could not do it without this disguise. To-morrow night you are to be taken upon a warrant from Sir Robert Whitecraft; but never mind; as to Whitecraft, leave him to me—I have a crow to pluck with him.”

“How is that, Fergus?”

“My sister, man; did you not hear of it?”

“No, Fergus, nor I don\'t wish to hear of it, for your sake; spare your feelings, my poor fellow; I know perfectly well what a hypocritical scoundrel he is.”

“Well,” replied Fergus, “it was only yesterday I heard of it myself; and are we to bear this?—we that have hands and eyes and limbs and hearts and courage to stand nobly upon the gallows-tree for striking down the villain who does whatever he likes, and then threatens us with the laws of the land if we murmur? Do you think this is to be borne?”

“Take not vengeance into your own hand, Fergus,” replied Reilly, “for that is contrary to the laws of God and man. As for me, I agree with you that I cannot remain in this country. I know the vast influence which Whitecraft possesses with the government. Against such a man I have no chance; this, taken in connection with my education abroad, is quite sufficient to make me a marked and suspected man. I will therefore leave the country, and ere to-morrow night, I trust, I shall be beyond his reach. But, Fergus, listen: leave Whitecraft to God; do not stain your soul with human blood; keep a pure heart, and whatever may happen be able to look up to the Almighty with a clear conscience.”

Fergus then left him, but with a resolution, nevertheless, to have vengeance upon the baronet very unequivocally expressed on his countenance.

Having seriously considered his position and all the circumstances\' of danger connected with it, Reilly resolved that his interview that night with his beloved Cooleen Bawn should be his last. He accordingly communicated his apprehensions to an aged uncle of his who resided with him, and entrusted the management of his property to him until some change for the better might take place. Having heard from Fergus Reilly that there were spies among his own laborers, he kept moving about and. making such observations as he could for the remainder of the day. When the night came he prepared himself for his appointment, and at, or rather before, the hour of half-past ten, he had reached the back gate, or rather door of the garden attached to Corbo Castle. Having ascertained that it was unlocked, he entered with no difficulty, and traversed the garden without being able to perceive her whose love was now, it might be said, all that life had left him. After having satisfied himself that she was not in the garden, he withdrew to an arbor or summer-house of evergreens, where he resolved to await until she should come. He did not wait long. The latch of the entrance gate from the front made a noise; ah, how his heart beat! what a commotion agitated his whole frame! In a few moments she was with him.

“Reilly,” said Cooleen Bawn, “I have dreadful news to communicate.”

“I know all,” said he; “I am to be arrested to-morrow night.”

“To-night, dearest Reilly, to-night. Papa told me this evening, in one of his moods of anger, that before to-morrow morning you would be in Sligo jail.”

“Well, dearest Helen,” he replied, “that is certainly making quick work of it. But, even so, I am prepared this moment to escape. I have settled my affairs, left the management of them to my uncle, and this interview with you, my beloved girl, must be our last.”

As he uttered these melancholy words the tears came to his eyes.

“The last!” she exclaimed. “Oh, no; it must not be the last. You shall not go alone, dearest William. My mind is made up. Be it for life or for death, I shall accompany you.”

“Dearest life,” he replied, “think of the consequences.”

“I think of nothing,” said Cooleen Bawn, “but my love for you. If you were not surrounded by danger as you are, if the whoop of vengeance were not on your trail, if death and a gibbet were not in the background, I could part with you; but now that danger, vengeance, and death, are hovering about you, I shall and must partake of them with you. And listen, Reilly; after all it is the best plan. Papa, if I accompany you—supposing that we are taken—will relent for my sake. I know his love for me. His affection for me will overcome all his prejudices against you. Then let us fly. To-night you will be taken. Your rival will triumph over both of us; and I—I, oh! I shall not survive it. Save me, then, Reilly, and let me fly with you.”

“God knows,” replied Reilly, with deep emotion, “if I suffered myself to be guided by the impulse of my heart, I would yield to wishes at once so noble and disinterested. I cannot, however, suffer my affection, absorbing and inexpressible as it is, to precipitate your ruin. I speak not of myself, nor of what I may suffer. When we reflect, however, my beloved girl, upon the state of the country, and of the law, as it operates against the liberty and property of Catholics, we must both admit the present impossibility of an elopement without involving you in disgrace. You know that until some relaxation of the laws affecting marriage between Catholics and Protestants takes place, an union between us is impossible; and this fact it is which would attach disgrace to you, and a want of honor, principle, and gratitude to me. We should necessarily lead the lives of the guilty, and seek the wildest fastnesses of the mountain solitudes and the oozy caverns of the bleak and solitary hills.”

“But I care not. I am willing to endure it all for your sake.”

“What!—the shame, the misinterpretation, the imputed guilt?”

“Neither care I for shame or imputed guilt, so long as I am innocent, and you safe.”

“Concealment, my dearest girl, would be impossible. Such a hue and cry would be raised after us as would render nothing short of positive invisibility capable of protecting us from our enemies. Then your father!—such a step might possibly break his heart; a calamity which would fill your mind with remorse to the last day of your life!”

She burst again into tears, and replied, “But as for you, what can be done to save you from the toils of your unscrupulous and powerful enemies?”

“To that, my beloved Helen, I must forthwith look. In the meantime, let me gather patience and await some more favorable relaxation in the penal code. At present, the step you propose would be utter destruction to us both, and an irretrievable stain upon our reputation. You will return to your father\'s house, and I shall seek some secure place of concealment until I can safely reach the continent, from whence I shall contrive to let you hear from me, and in due time may possibly be able to propose some mode of meeting in a country where the oppressive laws that separate us here shall not stand in the way of our happiness. In the meanwhile let our hearts be guided by hope and constancy.” After a mournful and tender embrace they separated.

It would be impossible to describe the agony of the lovers after a separation which might probably be their last. Our readers, however, may very well conceive it, and it is not our intention to describe it here. At this stage of our story, Reilly, who was, as we have said, in consequence of his gentlemanly manners and liberal principles, a favorite with all classes and all parties, and entertained no apprehensions from the dominant party, took his way homewards deeply impressed with the generous affections which his Cooleen Bawn had expressed for him. He consequently looked upon himself as perfectly safe in his own house. The state of society in Ireland, however, was at that melancholy period so uncertain that no Roman Catholic, however popular, or however innocent, could for one week calculate upon safety either to his property or person, if he happened to have an enemy who possessed any influence in the opposing Church. Religion thus was made the stalking-horse, not only of power, but of persecution, rapacity, and selfishness, and the unfortunate Roman Catholic who considered himself safe to-day might find himself ruined tomorrow, owing to the cupidity of some man who turned a lustful eye upon his property, or who may have entertained a feeling of personal ill-will against him. Be this as it may, Reilly wended his melancholy way homewards, and had got within less than a quarter of a mile of his own house when he was met by Fergus in his mendicant habit, who startled him by the information he disclosed.

“Where are you bound for, Mr. Reilly?” said the latter.

“For home,” replied Reilly, “in order to secure my money and the papers connected with the family property.”

“Well, then,” said the other, “if you go home now you are a lost man.”

“How is that?” asked Reilly.

“Your house at this moment is filled with sogers, and surrounded by them too. You know that no human being could make me out in this disguise; I had heard that they were on their way to your place, and afeered that they might catch you at home, I was goin\' to let you know, in ordher that you might escape them, but I was too late; the villains were there before me. I took heart o\' grace, however, and went up to beg a little charity for the love and honor of God. Seem\' the kind of creature I was, they took no notice of me; for to tell you the truth, they were too much bent on searchin\' for, and findin\' you. God protect us from such men, Mr. Reilly,” and the name he uttered in alow and cautious voice; “but at all events this is no country for you to live in now. But who do you think was the busiest and the bittherest man among them?”

“Why Whitecraft, I suppose.”

“No; he wasn\'t there himself—no; but that double distilled traitor and villain, the Red Rapparee, and bad luck to him. You see, then, that if you attempt to go near your own house you\'re a lost man, as I said.”

“I feel the truth of what you say,” replied Reilly, “but are you aware that they committed any acts of violence? Are you aware that they disturbed my property or ransacked my house?”

“Well, that\'s more than I can say,” replied Fergus, “for to tell you the truth, I was afraid to trust myself inside, in regard of that scoundrel the Rapparee, who, bein\' himself accustomed to all sorts of disguises, I dreaded might find me out.”

“Well, at all events,” said Reilly, “with respect to that I disregard them. The family papers and other available property are too well secreted for them to secure them. On discovering Whitecraft\'s jealousy, and knowing, as I did before, his vindictive spirit and power in the country, I lost no time in putting them in a safe place. Unless they burn the house they could never come at them. But as this fact is not at all an improbable one—so long as Whitecraft is my unscrupulous and relentless enemy—I shall seize upon the first opportunity of placing them elsewhere.”

“You ought to do so,” said Fergus, “for it is not merely Whitecraft you have to deal wid, but ould Folliard himself, who now swears that if he should lose half his fortune he will either hang or transport you.”

“Ah! Fergus,” replied the other, “there is an essential difference between the characters of these two men. The father of Cooleen Bawn is, when he thinks himself injured, impetuous and unsparing in his resentment; but then he is an open foe, and the man whom he looks upon as his enemy always knows what he has to expect from him. Not so the other; he is secret, cautious, cowardly, and consequently doubly vindictive. He is a combination of the fox and the tiger, with all the treacherous cunning of the one, and the indomitable ferocity of the other, when he finds that he can make his spring with safety.”

This conversation took place as Reilly and his companion bent their steps towards one of those antiquated and obsolete roads which we have described in the opening portion of this narrative.

“But now,” asked Fergus, “where do you intend to go, or what do you intend to do with yourself?”

“I scarcely know,” replied Reilly, “but on one thing my mind is determined—that I will not leave this country until I know the ultimate fate of the Cooleen Bawn. Rather than see her become the wife of that diabolical scoundrel, whom she detests as she does hell, I would lose my life. Let the consequences then be what they may, I will not for the present leave Ireland. This resolution I have come to since I saw her to-night. I am her only friend, and, so help me God, I shall not suffer her to be sacrificed—murdered. In the course of the night we shall return to my house and look about us. If the coast be clear I will secure my cash and papers as I said. It is possible that a few stragglers may lurk behind, under the expectation of securing me while making a stolen visit. However, we shall try. We are under the scourge of irresponsible power, Fergus; and if Whitecraft should burn my house to-night or to-morrow, who is to bring him to an account for it? or if they should, who is to convict him?”

The night had now become very dark, but they knew the country well, and soon found themselves upon the old road they were seeking.

“I will go up,” said Reilly, “to the cabin of poor widow Buckley, where we will stop until we think those blood-hounds have gone home. She has a free cottage and garden from me, and has besides been a pensioner of mine for some time back, and I know I can depend upon her discretion and fidelity. Her little place is remote and solitary, and not more than three quarters of a mile from us.”

They accordingly kept the old road for some time, until they reached a point of it where there was an abrupt angle, when, to their utter alarm and consternation, they found themselves within about twenty or thirty yards of a military party.

“Fly,” whispered Fergus, “and leave me to deal with them—if you don\'t it\'s all up with you. They won\'t know me from Adam, but they\'ll know you at a glance.”

“I cannot leave you in danger,” said Reilly.

“You\'re mad,” replied the other. “Is it an ould beggar man they\'d meddle with? Off with you, unless you wish to sleep in Sligo jail before mornin.”

Reilly, who felt too deeply the truth of what he said, bounded across the bank which enclosed the road on the right-hand side, and which, by the way, was a tolerably high one, but fortunately without bushes. In the meantime a voice cried out, “Who goes there? Stand at your peril, or you will have a dozen bullets in your carcass.”

Fergus advanced towards them, whilst they themselves approached him at a rapid pace, until they met. In a moment they were all about him.

“Come, my customer,” said their leader, “who and what are you? Quick—give an account of yourself.”

“A poor creature that\'s lookin\' for my bit, sir, God help me.”

“What\'s your name?”

“One Paddy Brennan, sir, please your honor.”

“Ay—one Paddy Brennan (hiccough), and—and—one Paddy Brennan, where do you go of a Sunday?”

“I don\'t go out at all, sir, of a Sunda\'; whenever I stop of a Saturday night I always stop until Monday mornin\'.”

“I mean, are you a Papish?”

“Troth, I oughtn\'t to say I am, your honor—or at least a very bad one.”

“But you are, a Papish.”

“A kind of one, sir.”

“Curse me, the fellow\'s humbug-gin\' you, sergeant,” said one of the men; “to be sure he\'s a Papish.”

“To be sure,” replied several of the others—“doesn\'t he admit he\'s a Papish?”

“Blow me, if—if—I\'ll bear this,” replied the sergeant. “I\'m a senior off—off—officer conductin\' the examination, and I\'ll suffer no—no—man to intherfare. I must have subor—or—ordination, or I\'ll know what for. Leave him to me, then, and I\'ll work him up, never fear. George Johnston isn\'t the blessed babe to be imposed upon—that\'s what I say. Come, my good fellow, mark—mark me now. If you let but a quarter of—of—an inch of a lie out of your lips, I you\'re a dead man. Are you all charged, gentlemen?”

“All charged, sergeant, with loyalty and poteen at any rate; hang the Pope.”

“Shoulder arms—well done. Present arms. Where is—is—this rascal? Oh, yes, here he is. Well, you are there—are you?”

“I\'m here, captain.”

“Well blow me, that\'s not—not—bad, my good fellow; if I\'m not a captain, worse men have been so (hiccough); that\'s what I say.”

“Hadn\'t we better make a prisoner of him at once, and bring him to Sir Robert\'s?” observed another.

“Simpson, hold—old—your tongue, I say. Curse me if I\'ll suffer any man to in—intherfere with me in the discharge of my duty.”

“How do we know,” said another, “but I he\'s a Rapparee in disguise?—for that matter, he may be Reilly himself.”

“Captain and gentlemen,” said Fergus, “if you have any suspicion of me, I\'m willin\' to go anywhere you like; and, above all things, I\'d like to go to Sir Robert\'s, bekaise they know me there—many a good bit and sup I got in his kitchen.”

“Ho, ho!” exclaimed the sergeant; “now I have you—now I know whether you can tell truth or not. Answer me this. Did ever Sir Robert himself give you charity? Come, now.”

Fergus perceived the drift of the question at once. The penurious character of the baronet was so well known throughout the whole barony that if he had replied in the affirmative every man of them would have felt that the assertion was a lie, and he would consequently have been detected. He was prepared, however.

“Throth then, gintlemen,” he replied, “since you must have the truth, and although maybe what I\'m goin\' to say won\'t be plaisin\' to you, as Sir Robert\'s friends, I must come out wid it; devil resave the color of his money ever I seen yet, and it isn\'t but I often axed him for it. No—but the sarvints often sind me up a bit from the kitchen below.”

“Well, come,” said the sergeant, “if you have been lyin\' all your life, you\'ve spoke the truth now. I think we may let him go.”

“I don\'t think we ought,” said one of them, named Steen, a man of about fifty years of age, and of Dutch descent; “as Bamet said, \'we don\'t know what he is,\' and I agree with him. He may be a Rapparee in disguise, or, what is worse, Reilly himself.”

“What Reilly do yez mane, gintlemen, wid submission?” asked Fergus.

“Why, Willy Reilly, the famous Papish,” replied the sergeant. (We don\'t wish to fatigue the reader with his drunken stutterings.) “It has been sworn that he\'s training the Papishes every night to prepare them for rebellion, and there\'s a warrant out for his apprehension. Do you know him?”

“Throth I do, well; and to tell yez the truth, he doesn\'t stand very high wid his own sort.”

“Why so, my good fellow?”

“Bekaise they think that he keeps too much company wid Prodestans, an\' that he\'s half a Prodestan himself, and that it\'s only the shame that prevents him from goin\' over to them altogether. Indeed, it\'s the general opinion among the Catholics—”

“Papishes! you old dog.”

“Well, then, Papishes—that he will—an\' throth, I don\'t think the Papishes would put much trust in the same man.”

“Where are you bound for now? and what brings you out at an illegal hour on this lonely road?” asked Steen.

“Troth, then, I\'m on my way to Mr. Graham\'s above; for sure, whenever I\'m near him, poor Paddy Brennan never wants for the good bit and sup, and the comfortable straw bed in the barn. May God reward him and his for it!”

Now, the truth was, that Graham, a wealthy and respectable Protestant farmer, was uncle to the sergeant; a fact which Fergus well knew, in consequence of having been a house servant with him for two or three years.

“Sergeant,” said the Williamite settler, “I think this matter may be easily settled. Let two of the men go back to your uncle\'s with him, and see whether they know him there or not.”

“Very well,” replied the sergeant, “let you and Simpson go back with him—I have no objection. If my uncle\'s people don\'t know him, why then bring him down to Sir Roberts\'.”

“It\'s not fair to put such a task upon a man of my age,” replied Steen, “when you know that you have younger men here.”

“It was you proposed it, then,” said the sergeant, “and I say, Steen, if you be a true man you have a right to go, and no right at all to shirk your duty. But stop—I\'ll settle it in a word\'s speaking: here you—you old Papish, where are you?—oh, I see—you\'re there, are you? Come now, gentlemen, shoulder arms—all right—present anns. Now, you confounded Papish, you say that you have often slept in my uncle\'s barn?”

“Is Mr. Graham your uncle, sir?—bekaise, if he is, I know that I\'m in the hands of a respectable man.”

“Come now—was there anything particular in the inside of that barn?—Gentlemen, are you ready to slap into him if we find him to be an imposther?”

“All ready, sergeant.”

“Come now, you blasted Papish, answer me—”

“Troth, and I can do that, sargin\'. You say Mr. Graham\'s your uncle, an\' of coorse you have often been in that barn yourself. Very well, sir, don\'t you know that there\'s a prop on one side to keep up one of the cupples that gave way one stormy night, and there\'s a round hole in the lower part of the door to let the cats in to settle accounts wid the mice and rats.”

“Come, come, boys, it\'s all right. He has described the barn to a hair. That will do, my Papish old cock. Come, I say, as every man must have a religion, and since the Papishes won\'t have ours, why the devil shouldn\'t they have one of their own?”

“That\'s dangerous talk,” said Steen, “to proceed from your lips, sergeant. It smells of treason, I tell you; and if you had spoken these words in the days of the great and good King William, you might have felt the consequences.”

“Treason and King William be hanged!” replied the sergeant, who was naturally a good-natured, but out-spoken fellow—“sooner than I\'d take up a poor devil of a beggar that has enough to do to make out his bit and sup. Go on about your business, poor devil; you shan\'t be molested. Go to my uncle\'s, where you\'ll get a bellyfull, and a comfortable bed of straw, and a winnow-cloth in the barn. Zounds!—it would be a nice night\'s work to go out for Willy Reilly and to bring home a beggar man in his place.”

This was a narrow escape upon the part of Fergus, who knew that if they had made\' a prisoner of him, and produced him before Sir Robert Whitecraft, who was a notorious persecutor, and with whom the Red Rapparee was now located, he would unquestionably have been hanged like a dog. The officer of the party, however—to wit, the worthy sergeant—was one of those men who love a drop of the native, and whose heart besides it expands into a sort of surly kindness that has something comical and not disagreeable in it. In addition to this, he never felt a confidence in his own authority with half the swagger which he did when three quarters gone. Steen and he were never friends, nor indeed was Steen ever a popular man among his acquaintances. In matters of trade and business he was notoriously dishonest, and in the moral and social relations of life, selfish, uncandid, and treacherous. The sergeant, on the other hand, though an out-spoken and flaming anti-Papist in theory, was, in point of fact, a good friend to his Roman Catholic neighbors, who used to say of him that his bark was worse than his bite.

When his party had passed on, Fergus stood for a moment uncertain as to where he should direct his steps. He had not long to wait, however. Reilly, who had no thoughts of abandoning him to the mercy of the military, without at least knowing his fate, nor, we may add, without a firm determination to raising his tenantry, and rescuing the generous fellow at every risk, immediately sprung across the ditch and joined him.

“Well, Fergus,” said he, clasping his hand, “I heard everything, and I can tell you that every nerve in my body trembled whilst you were among them.”

“Why,” said Fergus, “I knew them at once by their voices, and only that I changed my own as I did I won\'t say but they\'d have nabbed me.”

“The test of the barn was frightful; I thought you were gone; but you must explain that.”

“Ay, but before I do,” replied Fergus, “where are we to go? Do you still stand for widow Buckley\'s?”

“Certainly, that woman may be useful to me.”

“Well, then, we may as well jog on in that direction, and as we go I will tell you.”

“How then did you come to describe the barn—or rather, was your description correct?”

“Ay, as Gospel. You don\'t know that by the best of luck and providence of God, I was two years and a half an inside laborer with Mr. Graham. As is usual, all the inside men-servants slept, wintrier and summer, in the barn; and that accounts for our good fortune this night. Only for that scoundrel, Steen, however, the whole thing would not have signified much; but he\'s a black and deep villain that. Nobody likes him but his brother scoundrel, Whitecraft, and he\'s a favorite with him, bekaise he\'s an active and unscrupulous tool in his hands. Many a time, when these men—military-militia-yeomen, or whatever they call them, are sent out by this same Sir Robert, the poor fellows don\'t wish to catch what they call the unfortunate Papish-es, and before they come to the house they\'ll fire off their guns, pretinding to be in a big passion, but only to give their poor neighbors notice to escape as soon as they can.”

In a short time they reached widow Buckley\'s cabin, who, on understanding that it was Reilly who sought admittance, lost not a moment in opening the door and letting them in. There was no candle lit when they entered, but there was a bright turf fire “blinkin\' bonnilie” in the fireplace, from which a mellow light emanated that danced upon the few plain plates that were neatly ranged upon her humble dresser, but which fell still more strongly upon a clean and well-swept hearth, on one side of which was an humble armchair of straw, and on the other a grave, but placid-looking cat, purring, with half-closed eyes, her usual song for the evening.

“Lord bless us! Mr. Reilly, is this you? Sure it\'s little I expected you, any way; but come when you will, you\'re welcome. And who ought to be welcome to the poor ould widow if you wouldn\'t?”

“Take a stool and sit down, honest man,” she said, addressing Fergus; “and you, Mr. Reilly, take my chair; it\'s the one you sent me yourself, and if anybody is entitled to a sate in it, surely you are. I must light a rush.”

“No, Molly,” replied Reilly, “I would be too heavy for your frail chair. I will take one of those stout stools, which will answer me better.”

She then lit a rush-light, which she pressed against a small cleft of iron that was driven into a wooden shaft, about three feet long, which stood upon a bottom that resembled the head of a churn-staff. Such are the lights, and such the candlesticks, that are to be found in the cabins and cottages of Ireland. “I suppose, Molly,” said Reilly, “you are surprised at a visit from me just now?”

“You know, Mr. Reilly,” she replied, “that if you came in the deadest hours of the night you\'d be welcome, as I said—and this poor man is welcome too—sit over to the fire, poor man, and warm yourself. Maybe you\'re hungry; if you are I\'ll get you something to eat.”

“Many thanks to you, ma\'am,” replied Fergus, “I\'m not a taste hungry, and could ait nothing now; I\'m much obliged to you at the same time.”

“Mr. Reilly, maybe you\'d like to ait a bit. I can give you a farrel of bread, and a sup o\' nice goat\'s milk. God preserve him from evil that gave me the same goats, and that\'s your four quarthers, Mr. Reilly. But sure every thing I have either came or comes from your hand; and if I can\'t thank you, God will do it for me, and that\'s betther still.”

“No more about that, Molly—not a word more. Your long residence with my poor mother, and your affection for her in all her trials and troubles, entitle you to more than that at the hands of her son.”

“Mrs. Buckley,” observed Fergus, “this is a quiet-looking little place you have here.”

“And it is for that I like it,” she replied. “I have pace here, and the noise of the wicked world seldom reaches me in it. My only friend and companion here is the Almighty—praise and glory be to his name!”—and here she devoutly crossed herself—“bar-rin\', indeed, when the light-hearted girshas (young girls) comes a kailyee* wid their wheels, to keep the poor ould woman company, and rise her ould heart by their light and merry songs, the cratures.”

     *This means to spend a portion of the day, or a few hours of
     the night, in a neighbor\'s house, in agreeable and amusing
     conversation.

“That must be a relief to you, Molly,” observed Reilly, who, however, could with difficulty take any part in this little dialogue.

“And so indeed it is,” she replied; “and, poor things, sure if their sweethearts do come at the dusk to help them to carry home their spinning-wheels, who can be angry with them? It\'s the way of life, sure, and of the world.”

She then went into another little room—for the cabin was divided into two—in order to find a ball of woollen thread, her principal occupation being the knitting of mittens and stockings, and while bustling about Fergus observed with a smile,

“Poor Molly! little she thinks that it\'s the bachelors, rather than any particular love for her company, that brings the thieves here.”

“Yes, but,” said Reilly, “you know it\'s the custom of the country.”

“Mrs. Buckley,” asked Fergus, “did the sogers ever pay you a visit?”

“They did once,” she replied, “about six months ago or more.”

“What in the name of wondher,” he repeated, “could bring them to you?”

“They were out huntin\' a priest,” she replied, “that had done something contrary to the law.”

“What did they say, Mrs. Buckley, and how did they behave themselves?”

“Why,” she answered, “they axed me if I had seen about the country a tight-looking fat little man, wid black twinklin\' eyes and a rosy face, wid a pair o\' priest\'s boots upon him, greased wid hog\'s lard? I said no, but to the revarse. They then searched the cabin, tossed the two beds about—poor Jemmy\'s—God rest my boy\'s sowl!—an\'—afterwards my own. There was one that seemed to hould authority over the rest, and he axed who was my landlord? I said I had no landlord. They then said that surely I must pay rent to some one, but I said that I paid rent to nobody; that Mr. Reilly here, God bless him, gave me this house and garden free.”

“And what did they say when you named Mr. Reilly?”

“Why, they said he was a dacent Papish, I think they called it; and that there wasn\'t sich another among them. They then lighted their pipes, had a smoke, went about their business, and I saw no more of them from that day to this.”

Reilly felt that this conversation was significant, and that the widow\'s cabin was any thing but a safe place of refuge, even for a few hours. We have already said that he had been popular with all parties, which was the fact, until his acquaintance with the old squire and his lovely daughter. In the meantime the loves of Willy Reilly and the far-famed Cooleen Bawn had gone abroad over the whole country; and the natural result was that a large majority among those who were anxious to exterminate the Catholic Church by the rigor of bigoted and inhuman laws, looked upon the fact of a tolerated Papist daring to love a Protestant heiress, and the daughter of a man who was considered such a stout prop of the Establishment, as an act that deserved death itself. Reilly\'s affection for the Cooleen Bawn was considered, therefore, not only daring but treasonable. Those men, then, he reflected, who had called upon her while in pursuit of the unfortunate priest, had become acquainted with the fact of her dependence upon his bounty; and he took it for granted, very naturally and very properly, as the event will show, that now, while “on his keeping,” it would not be at all extraordinary if they occasionally searched her remote and solitary cabin, as a place where he might be likely to conceal himself. For this night, however, he experienced no apprehension of a visit from them, but with what correctness of calculation we shall soon see.

“Molly,” said he, this poor man and I must sit with you for a couple of hours, after which we will leave you to your rest.”

“Indeed, Mr. Reilly,” she replied, “from what I heard this day I can make a party good guess at the raison why you are here now, instead of bein\' in your own comfortable house. You have bitther enemies; but God—blessed be his name—is stronger than any of them. However, I wish you\'d let me get you and that poor man something to eat.”

This kind offer they declined, and as the short rush-light was nearly burned out, and as she had not another ready, she got what is called a cam or grisset, put it on the hearth-stone, with a portion of hog\'s lard in it; she then placed the lower end of the tongs in the fire, until the broad portion of them, with which the turf is gripped, became red hot; she then placed the lard in the grisset between them, and squeezed it until nothing remained but pure oil; through this she slowly drew the peeled rushes, which were instantly saturated with the grease, after which she left them on a little table to cool. Among the poorer classes—small farmers and others—this process is performed every evening a little before dusk. Having thus supplied them with these lights, the pious widow left them to their own conversation and retired to the little room in order to repeat her rosary. We also will leave them to entertain themselves as best they can, and request our readers to follow us to a different scene.