was no other than Mrs. M’Bride, wife of the man who had abandoned her for the French girl, as had been mentioned by the stranger to Father M’Mahon, and who had, as was supposed, eloped with her to America.  Such certainly was M’Bride’s intention, and there is no doubt that the New World would have been edified by the admirable example of these two moralists, were it not for the fact that Mrs. M’Bride, herself as shrewd as the Frenchwoman, and burdened with as little honesty as the husband, had traced them to the place of rendezvous on the very first night of their disappearance; where, whilst they lay overcome with sleep and the influence of the rosy god, she contrived to lessen her husband of the pocketbook which he had helped himself to from his master’s escritoire, with the exception, simply, of the papers in question, which, not being money, possessed in her eyes but little value to her.  She had read them, however; and as she had through her husband become acquainted with their object, she determined on leaving them in his hands, with a hope that they might become the means of compromising matters with his master, and probably of gaining a reward for their restoration.  Unfortunately, however, it so happened, that that gentleman did not miss them until some time after his arrival in Ireland; but, on putting matters together, and comparing the flight of M’Bride with the loss of his property, he concluded, with everything short of certainty, that the latter was the thief.

Old Corbet and this woman were seated in the little back parlor whilst Mrs. Corbet kept the shop, so that their conversation could take a freer range in her absence.

“And so you tell me, Kate,” said the former, “that the vagabond has come back to the country?”

“I seen him with my own eyes,” she replied; “there can be no mistake about it.”

“And he doesn’t suspect you of takin’ the money from him?”

“No more than he does you; so far from that, I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s the Frenchwoman he suspects.”

“But hadn’t you better call on him? that is, if you know where he lives.  Maybe he’s sorry for leavin’ you.”

“He, the villain!  No; you don’t know the life he led me.  If he was my husband—­as unfortunately he is—­a thousand times over, a single day I’ll never live with him.  This lameness, that I’ll carry to my grave, is his work.  Oh, no; death any time sooner than that.”

“Well,” said the old man, after a lung pause, “it’s a strange story you’ve tould me; and I’m sorry, for Lord Cullamore’s sake, to hear it.  He’s one o’ the good ould gentlemen that’s now so scarce in the country.  But, tell me, do you know where M’Bride lives?”

“No,” she replied, “I do not, neither do I care much; but I’d be glad that his old master had back his papers.  There’s a woman supposed to be livin’ in this country that could prove this stranger’s case, and he came over here to find her out if he could.”