“It couldn’t be expected you would, Bartle; but you must grant, after all, that he was only recoverin’ his own.  Still, when you know what my feeling is upon the business, I don’t think it’s generous in you to bring it up between us.”

“I could bear his harrishin’ us out of house an’ home,” proceeded the other, “only for one thought that still crasses in an me.”

“What is that, Bartle?—­God knows I can’t help feelin’ for you,” he added, smote with the desolation which his father had brought upon the family.

“He lent us forty pounds,” proceeded the young man; “and when he found that Tom Grehan, our security, went to America, he came down upon us the minute the note was due, canted all we had at half price, and turned us to starve upon the world; now, I could bear that, but there’s one thing——­”

“That’s twice you spoke about that one thing,” said Connor, somewhat sharply, for he felt hurt at the obstinacy of the other, in continuing a subject so distressing to him; “but,” he continued, in a milder tone, “tell me, Bartle, for goodness’ sake, what it is, an’ let us put an’ end to the discoorse.  I’m sure it must be unpleasant to both of us.”

“It doesn’t signify,” replied the young man, in a desponding voice—­“she’s gone; it’s all over wid me there; I’m a beggar—­I’m a beggar!”

“Bartle,” said Connor, taking his hand, “you’re too much downhearted; come to us, but first go to my father; I know you’ll find it hard to deal with him.  Never mind that; whatever he offers you, close wid him, an’ take my word for it that my mother and I between us will make you up dacent wages; an’ sorry I am that it’s come to this wid you, poor fellow!”

Bartle’s cheek grew pale as ashes; he wrung Connor’s hand with all his force, and fixed an unshrinking eye on him as he replied—­

“Thank you Connor, now—­but I hope I’ll live to thank you better yet, and if I do, you needn’t thank me for any return I may make you or yours.  I will close wid your father, an’ take whatsomever he’ll order me; for, Connor,” and he wrung his hand again—­“Connor O’Donovan, I haven’t a house or home this day, nor a place under God’s canopy where to lay my head, except upon the damp floor of my father’s naked cabin.  Think of that, Connor, an’ think if I can forget it; still,” he added, “you’ll see, Connor—­Connor, you’ll see how I’ll forgive it.”

“It’s a credit to yourself to spake as you do,” replied Connor; “call this way, an’ let me know what’s done, an’ I hope, Bartle, you an’ I will have some pleasant days together.”

“Ay, an’ pleasant nights, too, I hope,” replied the other:  “to be sure I’ll call; but if you take my advice, you’d tie a handkerchy about your head; it’s mad hot, an’ enough to give one a fever bareheaded.”

Having made this last observation, he loaped across a small drain that bounded the meadow, and proceeded up the fields to Fardorougha’s house.