“The Clancys is an ould ancient family,” chimed in Roseen.  Her grandfather turned to her, almost beside himself with exasperation.

“Get in wid ye to the house this instant, as I bid ye, miss; or it’ll be the worse for ye.  Be off, now, before I come over the hedge to you.”

“If you dar’ lay a finger,” began Mike; but Roseen interrupted him with a little defiant laugh.

“Sure, I am not afeard of him, Mike.  I am more afeard of his hurting himself nor me; but I’m goin’ now, anyway, an’ I am glad ye know the truth, grandfather, so that ye needn’t be botherin’ me about Mr. Quinn.”

She went away, moving slowly and carrying her curly head very high.

Peter watched her till she was out of sight and hearing, and then turned to Mike.

“Now then,” he cried, “we’ll have this matter settled.  You’ll go out o’ this, me lad, an’ so will your father an’ mother.  They’re owin’ me a year’s rent an’ more.”

“Didn’t I tell ye I would work it off, little by little?” said Mike, who had suddenly become very pale.  “It was me poor mother bein’ sick last year that thrun us back, an’ you said ye would have patience wid us.”

“Then ye had a right to behave better,” returned Rorke.  “How dar’ ye go make up to my granddaughter, you young villain?  I’d have ye to know that Miss Rorke is not for the likes of you.”

All poor Mike’s pride and valour seemed to have deserted him since Peter’s threat.

“Sure, Roseen an’ me was always fond of one another,” he said pleadingly.  “I couldn’t remember a time when we wasn’t.  Her an’ me was ould playfellows, and she used to be as much at our place as at home.”

“It won’t be your place much longer,” retorted Peter curtly.  “Out o’ this ye may all go, bag an’ baggage, the whole pack of yous.”

“Me father hasn’t stirred out o’ that chimley corner for years an’ years,” urged Mike; “an’ me mother, God help her! she’s near as bad as him wid the weakness an’ the terrible cough she has this while back.  It ‘ud be the death of her out an’ out—­sure, where could the cratur’s go?”

“Let them go to the poor-house, unless you can make a livin’ for them somewhere out o’ this.  I’ll not have ye here, mind.  Ye needn’t come an’ work to-morrow, an’ ye may tell your father an’ mother to be gettin’ ready to march, for they’ll be havin’ the bailiff in on them as soon as I can get him.”

A deep flush replaced Mike’s pallor and a shiver of indignation shook him from head to foot.

“Mr. Rorke,” he cried, “ye don’t mane what ye are sayin’.  Ye’d never have the heart to turn them two ould craturs out on the roadside to die?”

“Wouldn’t I though?” retorted Peter; “ye’ll soon find out for yourselves whether I would or not.”

He turned and was hastening homewards, when Mike called after him.  The old man faced him, still sneering.

“This will not bring you luck,” cried Mike, his young voice quivering, his face working with emotion, his usually merry eyes ablaze with passion.  “I tell you it’ll bring a curse on you.  You’ll live to rue the day you turned on us that way—­an’ maybe it won’t be long before ye are sorry.”