“Well, well,” replied Caterine, “I never thought he was such a fool as all that comes to.  Devil’s cure to him, if she laves it to some one else! that’s my compassion for him.”

“Well, but, Caterine, what’s the news?  When will the sky fall, you that knows so much about futurity?”

“The news is anything but good, Barney.  The sky will fall some Sunday in the middle of next week, and then for the lark-catching.  But tell me, Barney, is Mr. Harry within? because, if he is, I’d thank you to let him know that I wish to see him.  I have a bit of favor to ask of him about my uncle Solomon’s cabin; the masther’s threatnin’ to pull it down.”

Now, Barney knew the assertion to be a lie, because it was only a day or two previous to the conversation that he had heard Mr. Lindsay express his intention of building the old herbalist a new one.  He kept his knowledge of this to himself, however.

“And so you want him to change the masther’s mind upon the subject.  Faith and you’re just in luck after this mornin’s skirmish—­skirmish! no bedad, but a field day itself; the masther could refuse him nothing.  Will I say what you want him for?”

“You may or you may not; but, on second thoughts, I think it will be enough to say simply that I wish to spake to him particularly.”

“Very well, Caterine,” replied Barney, “I’ll tell him so.”

In a few minutes Harry joined her on the lawn, where she awaited him, and the following dialogue took place between them: 

“Well, Caterine, Casey tells me that you have something particular to say to me.”

“And very particular indeed, it is, Mr. Harry.”

“Well, then, the sooner we have it the better; pray, what is it?”

“I’m afeard, Mr. Woodward, that unless you have some good body’s blessin’ about you, your life isn’t worth a week’s purchase.”

“Some good body’s blessing!” he replied ironically; “well, never mind that, but let me know the danger, if danger there be; at all events, I am well prepared for it.”

“The danger then is this—­and terrible it is—­that born devil, Shawn-na-Middogue, has got hold of what’s goin’ on between you and Grace Davoren.”

“Between me and Grace Davoren!” he exclaimed, in a voice of well-feigned astonishment.  “You mean my brother Charles.  Why, Caterine, that soft-hearted and softheaded idiot, for I can call him nothing else, has made himself a perfect fool about her, and what is worst of all, I am afraid he will break his engagement with Miss Goodwin, and marry this wench.  Me! why, except that he sent me once or twice to meet her, and apologize for his not being able to keep his appointment with her, I know nothing whatsoever of the unfortunate girl, unless that, like a fool, as she is, it seems to me that she is as fond of him as he, the fool, on the other hand, is of her.  As for my part, I shall deliver his messages to her no more—­and, indeed, it was wrong of me ever to do so.”