“Heavenly Father! my good man, where did you come from?  I thought I left Mr. —­” here she stopped, afraid to mention Reilly’s name.

“Don’t be alarmed, Mrs. Buckley,” said Reilly; “I am only changed in outward appearance; I am your true friend still; and now accept this for your kindness,” placing money in her hand.

“I can’t, Mr. Reilly; you are under the persecutions, and will want all the money you have to support yourself.  Didn’t the thieves of the devil burn you out and rob you, and how can you get through this wicked world without money—­keep it yourself, for I don’t want it.”

“Come, come, Mrs. Buckley, I have money enough; you must take this; I only ask you to conceal these clothes in some place where the hell-hounds of the law can’t find them.  And now, good-by, Mrs. Buckley; I shall take care that, whatever may happen me, you shall not be disturbed out of your little cabin and your garden.”

The tears ran down the poor old woman’s cheeks, and Reilly left her sobbing and crying behind him.  This indeed was an eventful day to him, Strong in the confidence of his disguise, he took the public road, and had not gone far when he met a party of Sir Robert Whitecraft’s.  To fly would have been instant ruin; he accordingly commenced an old Irish song at the very top of his lungs.  Sir Robert Whitecraft was not himself of the party, but scarcely any individual was met by them whom they did not cross-examine.

“Hallo, my good fellow,” said the leader of the party, “what is that you’re singin’?”

Reilly stared at him like a man who was sorely puzzled; “Ha neil bearla agum;” that is, “I have no English.”

“Here, Connor, you can speak Irish; sift this able-bodied tyke.”

A conversation in that language then took place between them which reflected everlasting honor upon Connor, who, by the way, was one of Reilly’s tenants, but himself and his progenitors were Protestants for three generations.  He was a sharp, keen man, but generous and honorable, and after two or three glances at our hero, at once recognized him.  This he could only intimate by a wink, for he knew that there were other persons there who spoke Irish as well as either of them.  The dialogue, however, was not long, neither was it kind-hearted Connor’s wish that it should be so.  He was asked, however, if he knew any thing about Willy Reilly, to which he replied that he did not, only by all accounts he had left the country.  This, indeed, was the general opinion.

“This blockhead,” said Connor, “knows nothing about him, only what he has heard; he’s a pig dealer, and is now on his way to the fair of Sligo; come on.”

They passed onwards, and Reilly resumed his journey and his song.

On reaching the farmer’s house where he and the bishop lodged, the unhappy prelate felt rather annoyed, at the appearance of a stranger, and was about to reprove their host for his carelessness in admitting such persons.