“Sure it’s all wan sheet of flame, none of us could get near it,” cried one, pointing to the rick.  “What good would a bucket or two of wather do on that?”

“Well, do something can’t yez?” cried Roseen.  “There’s no good in standin’ there, lookin’ at it.  I’ll run off an’ fetch Mike Clancy; he has more sense nor the whole o’ yez put together.”

Off she sped, finding her way easily, even in the dark, along the familiar path; but when she reached the cabin, and after much knocking succeeded in arousing Mrs. Clancy, disappointment awaited her—­Mike was nowhere to be found.

The news went round the country next morning, first that old Peter Rorke’s famous hayrick and two of the neighbouring cornstacks were burnt to the ground, and secondly that Michael Clancy had mysteriously disappeared.  By-and-by certain additional circumstances were reported which caused people to connect the one fact with the other, and to comment thereon in whispers, with divers nods and winks, and mysterious jerks of the thumb.  Michael was after havin’ words with the ould fellow, it was rumoured, on account of his bein’ sweet on Roseen, an’ him and his ould father and mother were goin’ to be put out o’ their little place.  Sure no wonder the poor boy—­Well, well, he’d have had the time to get far enough off by this, an’ it was nobody’s business, on’y his own, poor fellow!

It was whispered that Jack McEvoy had seen Mike on the evening before, standing in the corner of the haggard lookin’ about him “rale distracted, ye’d say.”  “What are ye doin’ there at all, this time o’ night?” said Jack.  “Och, nothin’ much,” says Mike, “just streelin’ about.”  “Well,” says Jack, “I’m afeard ye are after gettin’ poor Roseen into throuble; there’s the great blow-up entirely goin’ on beyant there at the house.  The masther’s murdherin’ Roseen for the way the two of yez has been goin’ on.  He had her crying, the poor little girl,” says Jack; “I h’ard her through the windy,” says he. “’Oh, grandfather,’ she says, ’I’ll never spake to Mike agin, I give ye me word,’ she says.  ‘I’ll never ax to look at him,’ says she.  Well,” Jack said, “if ye’d seen the look that come over Mike’s face!  He staggered back, so he did.  ‘The ould devil,’ says he, ‘he’s afther gettin’ round her an’ turnin’ her agin me.’” “Och, to be sure,” says Jack, “he’s a rale ould villain!  Is it true that he’s puttin’ yez all out in the road?” “He is,” says Mike, “but he’ll be sorry for it yet?”

“Mind that now,” some one would say, and the nods and the shakings of the heads would become more mysterious than ever, and then the gossips would begin to chuckle over Peter’s discomfiture; the universal verdict being that “It sarved him right, the covetious ould blackguard!” Mrs. Clancy had told Roseen, weeping, that Mike was gone off wid himself.  He had come in late, very near distracted, the poor boy, an’ he had said “good-bye” to his father an’ mother, an’ had told them he was goin’ to England to try an’ make a bit o’ money at the potato-harvest, the way they wouldn’t have to go to the workhouse when Mr. Rorke turned them out.