“Shure it is, Ned,” said Battersleigh calmly.  “But it’s chape in England at fifty dollars.”

“Well, but—­”

“An’ that’s not all.  I wrote to thim to send me a mere matter of tin dollars an acre, as ivvidence a’ good faith.  They did so, an’ it was most convaynient for settlin’ the little bill o’ three dollars an acre which the railroad had against me, Batty the Fool.”

“It’s robbery!” reiterated Franklin.

“It wud ‘av’ been robbery,” said Battersleigh, “had they sint no more than that, for I’d ‘av’ been defrauded of me just jues.  But whut do you think?  The murdherin’ ould fool, me revered Aunt, the Leddy Wiggit, she grows ’feard there is some intint to rob her of her bargain, so what does she do but sind the entire amount at wance—­not knowin’, bless me heart an’ soul, that she’s thus doin’ a distinguished kindness to the missin’ relative she’s long ago forgot!  Man, would ye call that robbery?  It’s Divine Providince, no less!  It’s justice.  I know of no one more deservin’ o’ such fortune than Battersleigh, late of the Rile Irish, an’ now a Citizen o’ the World.  Gad, but I’ve a’most a mind to buy a bit of land me own silf, an’ marry the Maid o’ the Mill, fer the sake o’ roundin’ out the play.  Man, man, it’s happy I am to-day!”

“It looks a good deal like taking advantage of another’s ignorance,” said Franklin argumentatively.

“Sir,” said Battersleigh, “it’s takin’ advantage o’ their Wisdom.  The land’s worth it, as you’ll see yoursilf in time.  The price is naught.  The great fact is that they who own the land own the earth and its people.  ‘Tis out of the land an’ the sea an’ the air that all the wilth must come.  Thus saith Batty the Fool.  Annyhow, the money’s in the bank, an’ it’s proper dhrunk’ll be Batty the Fool this night, an’ likewise the Hon. Cubberd Allen Wiggit-Galt, Etcetera.  There’s two of me now, an’ it’s twice the amount I must be dhrinkin’.  I swear, I feel a thirst risin’ that minds me o’ Ingy in the hills, an’ the mess o’ the Rile Irish wance again.”

“You’ll be going away,” said Franklin, sadly, as he rose and took Battersleigh by the hand.  “You’ll be going away and leaving me here alone—­awfully alone.”

“Ned,” said the tall Irishman, rising and laying, a hand upon his shoulder, “don’t ye belave I’ll be lavin’ ye.  I’ve seen the worrld, an’ I must see it again, but wance in a while I’ll be comin’ around here to see the best man’s country on the globe, an’ to meet agin the best man I ivver knew.  I’ll not till why I belave it, for that I can not do, but shure I do belave it, this is the land for you.  There’ll be workin’ an’ thinkin’ here afther you an’ Batty are gone, an’ maybe they’ll work out the joy an’ sorrow of ut here.  Don’t be restless, but abide, an’ take ye root here.  For Batty, it’s no odds.  He’s seen the worrld.”

Battersleigh’s words caused Franklin’s face to grow still more grave, and his friend saw and suspected the real cause.  “Tut, tut! me boy,” he said, “I well know how your wishes lie.  It’s a noble gyurl ye’ve chosen, as a noble man should do.  She may change her thought to-morrow.  It’s change is the wan thing shure about a woman.”