“Why, Connor,” said he, “surely, if you go to that, we can have no ill-will against the d—­n villain; an’ as you don’t wish it, we’ll dhrop—­the thing; so now make your mind aisy, for another word you or any one else won’t ever hear about it.”

“And you won’t injure the man?”

“Hut! no,” replied Nogher, with a gravity whose irony was barely perceptible, “what would we murdher him for, now that you don’t wish it?  I never had any particular wish to see my own funeral.”

“And, Nogher, you will do all you can to prevent him from being murdhered?”

“To be sure, Connor—­to be sure.  By He that made me, we won’t give pain to a single hair of his head.  Are you satisfied now?”

“I am,” replied the ingenuous young man, who was himself too candid to see through the sophistry of Nogher’s oath.

“And now, Nogher,” he replied, “many a day have we spent together—­you are one of my oldest friends.  I suppose this is the last time you will ever see Connor O.’Donovan; however, don’t, man—­don’t be cast down; you will hear from me, I hope, and hear that I am well too.”

He uttered this with a smile which cost him an effort; for, on looking into the face of his faithful old friend, he saw his muscles working under the influence of strong feeling—­or, I should rather say, deep sorrow—­which he felt anxious, by a show of cheerfulness, to remove.  The fountains, however, of the old servant’s heart were opened, and, after some ineffectual attempts to repress his grief, he fell upon Connor’s neck, and wept aloud.

“Tut, Nogher,” said Connor, “surely it’s—­glad you ought to be, instead of sorry.  What would you have done if my first sentence had been acted upon?”

“I’m glad for your sake,” replied the other, “but I’m now sorry for my own.  You will live, Connor, and you may yet be happy; but he that often held you in his arms—­that often played with you, and that, next to your father and mother, you loved betther than any other livin’—­he, poor Nogher, will never see his boy more.”

On uttering these words, he threw himself again upon Connor’s neck, and we are not ashamed to say that their tears flowed together.

“I’ll miss you, Connor, dear; I’ll not see your face at fair or market, nor on the chapel—­green of a Sunday.  Your poor father will break his heart, and the mother’s eye will never more have an opportunity of being proud out of her son.  It’s hard upon me to part wid you, Connor, but it can’t be helped; I only ax you to remember Nogher, that, you know, loved you as if you wor his own; remimber me, Connor, of an odd time.  I never thought—­oh, Grod, I never thought to see this day!  No wondher—­oh, no wondher that the fair young crature should be pale and worn, an’ sick at heart!  I love her now, an’ ever will, as well as I did yourself.  I’ll never see her, Connor, widout thinkin’ heavily of him that her heart was set upon, an’ that will then be far away from her an’ from all that ever loved him.”