“And you must assist us, father,” said Ginty, rising up, and pacing to and fro the room in a state of great agitation.  “You, the first cause, the original author of my shame; you, to whose iniquitous avarice and vulgar ambition I fell a sacrifice, as much as I did to the profligacy and villany of Thomas Gourlay.  But I care not—­I have my ambition; it is a mother’s, and more natural on that account.  I have also my vengeance to gratify; for, father, we are your children, and vengeance is the family principle.  Father, you must assist us—­you must join us—­you must lend us your perjury—­supply us with false oaths, with deceitful accounts, with all that is necessary; for, father, it is to work out your own principles—­that I may be able to die smiling—­smiling that I have overreached and punished him at last.  That, you know, will be a receipt in full for my shame and madness.  Now, I say, father, you must do this, or I will kneel down and curse you.”

The old man, as she proceeded, kept his eyes fixed upon her, first with a look of indifference; this, however, became agreeable and complacent; gradually his eye kindled as he caught her spirit, and when she had concluded, he ground his black old stumps of teeth together with a vindictive energy that was revolting, or at least would have been so to any others unless those that were present.

“Well, Ginty,” he replied, “I have turned it over in my mind, and as helpin’ you now will be givin’ the black fellow an additional stab, I’ll do it.  Yes, my lad,” he added, grinning rather maliciously, by the way, at the object of his promised support, “I will make a present of you to your father; and a thankful man he ought to be to have the like of you.  I was sometimes for you, and sometimes against you; but, at all events, the old fellow must have you—­for the present at least.”

This was accompanied by another grin, which was, as usual, perfectly inexplicable to the others.  But as he had expressed his assent and promised his assistance, they were glad to accept it on his own terms and in his own way.

“Well, then,” he proceeded, “now that we’ve made up our minds to go through with it, I’ll think over what’s to be done—­what’s the best steps to take, and the best time and place to break it to him.  This will require some time to think of it, and to put things together properly; so let us have a drop of something to drink, and we can meet again in few days.”

Having partaken of the refreshment which was ordered in, they soon afterwards separated until another opportunity.

Ambrose Gray, with whose real name the reader is already acquainted, took but little part, as may have been perceived, in the discussion of a project which so deeply affected his own interests.  When it was first discovered to him by his mother and uncle, he was much struck even at the bare probability of such an event.  Subsequent reflection, however, induced him to look upon the whole scheme as an empty bubble,