“Pat,” said Alley, after he had brought her up to a little back-room on the second story, “I know that your family ever and always has been an honest family, and that a stain of thraichery or disgrace was never upon one of their name.”

“Thank God, and you, Alley; I am proud to know that what you say is right and true.”

“Well, then,” she replied, “it is, and every one knows it.  Now, then, can you keep a secret, for the sake of truth and conscience, ay, and religion; and if all will not do, for the sake of her that paid back to your family, out of her own private purse, what her father robbed them of?”

“By all that’s lovely,” replied Pat, “if there’s a livin’ bein’ I’d sacrifice my life for, it’s her.”

“Listen; I want you to secure two seats in the ‘Fly,’ for this night; inside seats, or if you can’t get insides, then outsides will do.”

“Stop where you are,” replied Pat, about to start downstairs; “the thing will be done in five minutes.”

“Are you mad, Pat?” said she; “take the money with you before you go.”

“Begad,” said Pat, “my heart was in my mouth—­here, let us have it.  And so the darling young lady is forced to fly from the tyrant?”

“Oh, Pat,” said Alice, solemnly, “for the sake of the living God, don’t breathe that you know anything about it; we’re lost if you do.”

“If Dandy was here, Alley,” he replied, “I’d make him swear it upon your lips; but, hand us the money, for there’s little time to be lost; I hope all the seats aren’t taken.”

He was just in time, however; and in a few minutes returned, having secured for two the only inside seats that were left untaken at the moment, although there were many claimants for them in a few minutes afterwards.

“Now, Alley,” said he, after he had returned from the coach-office, which, by the way, was connected with the inn, “what does all this mane?  I think I could guess something about it.  A runaway, eh?”

“What do you mean by a runaway?” she replied; “of course she is running away from her brute of a father, and I am goin’ with her.”

“But isn’t she goin’ wid somebody else?” he inquired.

“No,” replied Alley; “I know where she is goin’; but she is goin’ wid nobody but myself.”

“Ah, Alley,” replied Pat, shrewdly, “I see she has kept you in the dark; but I don’t blame her.  Only, if you can keep a secret, so can I.”

“Pat,” said she, “desire the coachman to stop at the white gate, where two faymales will be waitin’ for it, and let the guard come down and open the door for us; so that we won’t have occasion to spake.  It’s aisy to know one’s voice, Pat.”

“I’ll manage it all,” said Pat; “make your mind aisy—­and what is more, I’ll not breathe a syllable to mortual man, woman, or child about it.  That would be an ungrateful return for her kindness to our family.  May God bless her, and grant her happiness, and that’s the worst I wish her.”