This conversation took place in Fardorougha’s barn, where Flanagan always slept, and kept his small deal trunk.

He paused a moment when this good—­natured offer was made to him; but as it was dark no particular expression could be discovered on his countenance,

“No!” said he vehemently; “may I go to perdition if I ought!—­Connor—­Connor O’ Donovan—­you’d turn the div—­”

“Halt, Bartle, don’t be angry—­whin I offered them, I didn’t mane to give you the slightest offence; it’s enough for you to tell me you won’t have them without gettin’ into a passion.”

“Have what? what are you spakin’ about?”

“Why—­about the shoes; what else?”

“Yes, faith, sure enough—­well, ay, the shoes!—­don’t think of it, Connor—­I’m hasty; too much so, indeed, an’ that’s my fault.  I’m like all good-natured people in that respect; however, I’ll borry them for a day or two, till I get my own patched up some way.  But, death alive, why did you get at this season o’ the year three rows of sparables in the soles o’ them?”

“Bekase they last longer, of coorse; and now, Bartle, be off, and don’t let the grass grow under your feet till I see you again.”

Connor’s patience, or rather his impatience, that night, was severely taxed.  Hour after hour elapsed, and yet Bartle did not return.  At length he went to his father’s sleeping-room, and informed him of the message he had sent through Flanagan to Una.

“I will sleep in the barn to-night, father,” he added; “an’ never fear, let us talk as we may, but we’ll be up early enough in the morning, plase God.  I couldn’t sleep, or go to sleep, till I hear what news he brings back to us; so do you rise and secure the door, an’ I’ll make my shakedown wid Bartle this night.”

The father who never refused him anything unpecuniary (if we may be allowed the word), did as the son requested him, and again went to bed, unconscious of the thundercloud which was so soon to burst upon them both.

Bartle, however, at length returned, and Connor had the satisfaction of hearing that his faithful Una would meet him the next night, if possible, at the hour of twelve o’clock, in her father’s haggard.  Her parents, it appeared, had laid an injunction upon her never to see him again; she was watched, too, and, unless when the household were asleep, she found it altogether impracticable to effect any appointment whatsoever with her lover.  She could not even promise with certainty to meet him on that night, but she desired him to come, and if she failed to be punctual, not to leave the place of appointment for an hour.  After that, if she appeared not, then he was to wait no longer.  Such was the purport of the message which Flanagan delivered him.