“You said you were sorry.”

“Oh, ay!” returned the other, interrupting him; “but I didn’ mind what I was sayin’:  ‘twas thinkin’ o’ somethin’ else I was—­of home, Bartle, an’ what we’re brought to; but the best way’s to dhrop all discoorse about that forever.”

“You’ll be my friend if you do,” said Connor.

“I will, then,” replied Bartle; “we’ll change it.  Connor, were you ever in love?”

O’Donovan turned quickly about, and, with a keen glance at Bartle, replied,

“Why, I don’t know; I believe I might, once or so.”

“I am,” said Flanagan, bitterly; “I am Connor.”

“An’ who’s the happy crature, will you tell us?”

“No,” returned the other; “but if there’s a wish that I’d make against my worst enemy, ’twould be, that he might love a girl above his means; or if he was her aquil, or even near her aquil, that he might be brought”——­he paused, but immediately proceeded, “Well, no matter, I am, indeed, Connor.”

“An’ is the girl fond o’ you?”

“I don’t know; my mind was made up to tell her but it’s past that now; I know she’s wealthy and proud both, and so is all her family.”

“How do you know she’s proud when you never put the subject to her?”

“I’m not sayin’ she’s proud, in one sinse; wid respect to herself, I believe; she’s humble enough; I mane, she doesn’t give herself many airs, but her people’s as proud as the very sarra, an’ never match below them; still, if I’d opportunities of bain’ often in her company, I’d not fear to trust to a sweet tongue for comin’ round her.”

“Never despair, Bartle,” said Connor; “you know the ould proverb,’a faintheart;’ however, settin’ the purty crature aside, whoever she is, I think if we divided ourselves—­you to that side, an’ me to this—­we’d get this hay lapped in half the time; or do you take which side you plase.”

“It’s a bargain,” said Bartle; “I don’t care a trawneen; I’ll stay where I am, thin, an’ do you go beyant; let us hurry, too, for, if I’m not mistaken, it’s too sultry to be long without rain, the sky, too, is gettin’ dark.”

“I observed as much myself,” said Connor; “an’ that was what made me spake.”

Both then continued their labor with redoubled energy, nor ceased for a moment until the task was executed, and the business of the day concluded.

Flanagan’s observation was indeed correct, as to the change in the day and the appearance of the sky.  From the hour of five o’clock the darkness gradually deepened, until a dead black shadow, fearfully still and solemn, wrapped the whole horizon.  The sun had altogether disappeared, and nothing was visible in the sky but one unbroken mass of darkness, unrelieved even by a single pile of clouds.  The animals, where they could, had betaken themselves to shelter; the fowls of the air sought the covert of the hedges, and ceased their songs; the larks fled