cloak, Peggy gazed with scrutiny at her visitor's face, while the latter entered into some explanations respecting the cause of her apparition at that late hour.

"Father's away still," she said, "an' the house above's so lonesome, I thought I'd come down and sleep with you, Peggy. Granny Dunn was at our house last-night, an' I never slept a wink, I was so much afraid ov her. She's a terrible woman!"

"Take care how ye spake," said Peggy, warningly; "for the same woman's beyant there in the corner.'

The girl checked a frightened exclamation, and then laughed.

"Well there's no use talkin', but I'm in dread of Granny," she said; "she hates my 'father so much; an' she says she could tell me what 'id make my hair stand up on my head." "If she'd tell ye something that 'id make ye turn it up the way it ought to be," said Peggy, drily,it id be well done. You're growin' too big, Weeny, to have it hangin' about ye; an' ye ought to larn to stay quiet at home, instead of runnin' through the counthry."

"Oh, musha, Peggy, I wish I never was born!" said Weeny, flinging herself on a seat. "Fie! fie!" cried Peggy.

Ay, indeed, Peggy; it's frightful lonesome up in the ould house beyant, an' I've quare thoughts in my head about sperits, an' ghosts, an' the like. Last night, when Granny an' I were sittin' our lone at the kitchen fire, there kem a sound like moanin' down from the room where mother died, an' Granny said it was no wondher we'd hear the like, for there were two deaths in that room; but I couldn't get her to tell me who the other person that died was; she said, maybe I'd know soon enough to my cost."

"Never heed Granny an' her talk!" exclaimed Peggy, "she's forever grumblin' an' ravin'."

Oh, she puts terror in my heart!" cried poor Weeny, clasping her hands. "Was it thrue, Peggy dear, that the fear ov my father killed my mother?"

"Them questions isn't right," said Peggy, snuffing the candle.

"I'm only askin' ye, because Granny said she lived and died in mortal terrer ov him.

"Never mind her; yer father was a good husband; an' don't you know he's a good father?"

Weeny held her peace. She knew her father rarely spoke a kind word to her. "I'm of very little use, Peggy," she said; after a pause; "look at my hands, shure they're not fit to do any thing! If I was bigger an' stronger, maybe father 'id like me betther."

"Why don't ye stop at home an' work like

Weeny said nothing.

"Come, now," added Peggy, "if you an' Bat have quarrelled, tell me all about it, an' I'll be the one to make it up between ye; for I noticed him lookin' downcast like this very night."

"We didn't quarrel," said Weeny, looking very pale.

"Anyhow there's something over ye, Weeny. What is it?"

Many's the thing," replied the girl, sadly. "Where did ye get the money ye gave Father Gilligan, for sayin' a prayer over little John Connor's remains?" asked Peggy, suddenly.

66

It was the money for the week's housekeepin'," replied Weeny. "It was ov a Monday, an' I had it all in my pocket at the funeral; so when I seen the grief o' the mother, and the shame o' the poor father, I just slipped it out an' laid it on the coffin-lid."

"An' now, what about the housekeepin'?" said Peggy.

"As good luck 'id have it, father's away ever since, an' I don't care a pin what I ate myself. See here's what I have for the morrow;" she added, smiling, as she drew from her pocket a small oaten cake.

"An' won't yer father want an account ov the money when he comes back?" asked Peggy.

"Yes," said the girl, sadly; "but I can't help that."

"How much was it?"

Weeny specified the sum, and then Peggy, after considerable rummaging among various articles on the dresser, such as handless mugs and a spoutless teapot, succeeded in gathering together as many shillings as her young friend had parted with.

"Here, child,” she said, affecting an air of pleasantry, "you can take these, an' when you and Bat's married, you'll pay me. There now, don't be thankin' me; I set no value on money, though them that thinks themselves better may."

"It's not the first time you've done me a kindness, Peggy Cross," said Weeny, "an' I'm afeard I'll be in your debt forever."

It rather puzzled Peggy to see that Weeny's spirits scarcely rose at all, even after she got the money. It was plain that something more than common was upon her mind.

People oughtn't ever to fret for nothin'," she said at length, "it's a great sin, Weeny. I onst knew a young woman about your age, that used to have the lowness o' sperits ahead when she was safe and comfortable at home; but it wasn't till she went out to sarvice among black strangers that she knew right what it was to have sorrow at her heart."

Who was she?" asked Weeny, perhaps regarding the individual as of mythological origin.

Oh, she was a rale woman," said Peggy, gravely; "I could tell ye more about her than that."

"Well tell me something to pass the time anyhow," urged the girl; "ye know you're great for tellin' stories, Peggy, an' I don't feel as if I could sleep a wink."

Peggy looked fixedly at the fire, as was her custom when thinking, and then she spoke: "Many's the time, Weeny, I tould ye stories when ye were so small I could hould ye ondher my arm; but I never tould one like what I'll tell ye now. More than a score o' years ago, there was two sisters livin' with their father an' mother, in a snug farm-house not far from Carrick; and it kem to pass that misfortune overtook them, an' they were obliged to lave home an' earn money to keep a house over their parents' heads. Instead "ov orderin' here an' there servants o' their own, they had to do the biddin' ov others, an' they felt it sorely, especially the youngest one, for she wasn't used to doin' a hand's turn, an' she was as beautiful to look at as ever a lady in the country. We'll call them Joan and Mary, though that wasn't their rale names; but it doesn't signify. Well, Joan used often to be vexed with Mary, for the talk she'd have about marryin' in a grand way, thinkin' nothin' was too high for her; an' she'd say, maybe it's a jauntin' car she'd be dhrivin' to mass on yet; but Joan thought such fancies was nonsense, an' she'd tell her sister to put them out ov her head entirely. Howsomever they were scattered in the long run, an' Joan hardly ever saw her sister, at all, except when they'd get lave at Christmas, maybe to go home; at Last Joan went down to live with a priest, Father Michael, we'll call him, for convayniency; but his riverence was over fond of a sup now an' again, an' half his time he'd be tipsy, an' as cross as ever ye seen, so that in all the places Joan was, this was the worst o' them. Well, she hadn't heard a word ov her sister for many's the long day, when one night

late, a rap comes to the door, an' who should step in but Mary, lookin' more like a corpse than a livin' woman. What in the worl' brings ye here at this hour?' said Joan, quite sharp, for she had that unfeelin' way ov spakin' at times. It's not for myself I'm comed,' said Mary, but for another;' an' with that she opens her cloak an' shows Joan an infant lyin' across her arm asleep. 'Oh murther!' cried Joan, clappin' her hands, what disgrace is this you've brought on our mother an' father!' an' she was goin' on in a frantic manner, for she thought the life 'id lave her, when Mary caught her by the arm an' said,- Quit, Joan, ye don't know what you're sayin'there's no disgrace at all, I'm a married woman; but I can't tell ye no more at present.' Now Joan thought this was all a made up story, an' she ordhered Mary to lave her sight at onst, an' Mary begged her to have mercy on the poor innocent child, and give her some money, for she hadn't a half-penny. Go to you're husband,' says Joan, as bitther as ever ye seen. 'He's not in the counthry,' says. Mary; he went to Englan' to thry to get somethin' to do, an' I thought to have heerd from him afore this; but I'm afeerd he's dead, an' ye see the child's born, an' I had to lave my place, an' I'm fairly starvin' wid hunger an' want.' It's a likely story from beginnin' to end!' said Joan; away with ye out o' that!' Well, Mary just turned on her heel that minnit, with her eyes flashin' like two coals, an' without spakin' another syllable she was off in a jiffy. When she was gone Joan's heart softened, an' she ran to the door to call her back, but she couldn't see a stime ov her anywhere, though there was a fine moon shinin'. It wasn't for more than a fortnight after that, that Joan heard ov her sister again, an' all the time she was cryin' for shame an' grief, till one evenin', at dusk, a poor woman from the mountains, beyant Father Michael's house, kem runnin' for his riverence in all haste to attend a dyin' woman that was lyin' above at her cabin. I'm just goin' to my dinner,' says the priest, an' I'll have ye to know that I can't be disthurbed this a way every minnit.' I'll keep the dinner hot an' nice till ye come back,' says Joan. It doesn't do,' says his riverence, to encourage these sort o' people; let the woman wait till I'm done, I'll go up in an hour maybe.' Come yerself, an' see the crathur,' says the woman to Joan, for she axed me to sen' ye to her.' With that Joan thought it was maybe Mary that was dyin', and she put on her cloak, an' away with her; and sure enough it was her sister that lay nearly in the last agonies; but she knew Joan, an' she tould the woman o' the house to let her an' Joan spake a few words together by themselves. Joan,' says she, when they were together, 'ye see a murdherer for

mother's charity to the beggar woman, whose gratitude was sincere. Like many people of weak intellect, Mrs. Wafe felt more pleasure in the friendship of an inferior than in that of an equal, and Granny's obsequiousness flattered her while some of her neighbors looked upon her familiarity with the wanderer as something decidedly reprehensible. Para Bawn was generally considered a successful farmer; and renting twelve acres of land, he reared every year a goodly number of young cattle, buying or selling at every fair within thirty miles of his own neighborhood, and thus being frequently absent from home for days together. Often he had gone even as far as Ballinasloe, to make purchases; and upon one occasion he stayed away there a whole week, enjoying the gayeties of the great October fair. On his return from this excursion he found his wife alarmingly ill-almost delirious—with no attendant but Granny Dunn, whom she would not permit out of her sight, while she also insisted upon having her chamber darkened so gloomily that no object was distinctly visible in it. Alarmed at this extraordinary state of things, Wafe called in the aid of a doctor and the priest, both of whom advised him to let his wife do as she liked, as she was evidently suffering from a severe nervous attack, and opposition would only make her worse. Agreeing to this advice, Wafe permitted Granny Dunn to hold her place at his wife's bed-side-never entering her room himself-as Granny told him his presence made her worse; while the child was also kept in confinement never leaving that gloomy chamber, to the great dismay of all the matrons about the place, who were of opinion that the "poor wee thing 'id be lost entirely." It was dreary to see the strange figure of Granny Dunn in the costume of her class, going in and out of that dark room, several times a day, and often at night too for the old woman never seemed to require sleep; while the heavy moaning of the unfortunate woman, lying incarcerated there, ever and anon broke the silence, varied at times by the feeble wail of the infant in the cradle. A month-nay more passed away, and then death came to release Mrs. Wafe from sufferings which none knew the extent of save, perhaps, Granny Dunn. Before her departure the woman asked to see her husband; but for reasons of her own, Granny delayed bringing him the message till it was too late. Wafe only entered the room to witness the final struggle between life and death, and his wife went to her grave with a secret of an important nature unrevealed.

Para Bawn did all honor to his wife in the matter of the funeral; he buried her "dacent," ·and his neighbors were satisfied. But all his

love for his infant daughter vanished from that day, for on desiring Granny to bring it to him, he was shocked to behold how emaciated and pale the child seemed, while to add to his dissatisfaction, it turned away from him with shrieks and cries of a most unflattering nature.

"Take it out o' that, entirely!" he cried, angrily, as Granny hid its face on her shoulder; "the child has been desthroyed between ye!"

And so Granny retired with it, and laid it with a grim face in the cradle once more. But she was speedily dismissed the house, and strangers were hired to take charge of the baby. More than one person was of opinion that Weeny had been bewitched in her infancy. Yet, she attracted a good deal of interest in the neighborhood, and Peggy Cross, in particular, made a pet of her, keeping her often for days and nights in her cosy little cabin when Para Bawn was rambling away at fairs and markets.

Wafe was avaricious, and a speculator; but whether he lost or gained, he kept his doings always to himself. The wet harvest, alluded to by Jane Mullins, had indeed been injurious to him, and everybody knew it; whole fields of corn having been spoiled, as far as any thing catable was concerned, by heavy and incessant rains. This circumstance induced him to form a design of illicit distillation, which he imparted to some neighbors, who, being in the same strait as himself, entered fully into the scheme; and soon a body of confederates was formed, all joined together by oaths which it would have been considered most heinous to break.

CHAPTER IV.

THE STILL-OWNERS.

THE autumn moon shone brightly in the sky; the winds were hushed; nothing broke the stillness but the rush of a distant millstream sounding clearly from afar. In a deep hollow, surrounded by rocks, sat the band of distillers grouped round several turf fires, not bright, but warm. Nearly a dozen stills were at work, while their owners smoked and chatted together.

About sixteen individuals were present, and all were armed more or less; some being provided with pistols, others with stout shillelaghs, and one or two with weapons even more deadly. Many of these men presented striking contrasts: there were gaunt, anxiouslooking creatures, watching their stills as though life and death were concerned in them; wild looking fellows of harum scarum aspect, who merely liked any thing of a lawless character; grave men who had convinced themselves they were doing no harm in mak