“Torley, did you hear me?  What news of that unfortunate boy?”

“No news, Bridget, at least no good news; the boy’s an outlaw, and will be an outlaw—­or rather he won’t be an outlaw long; they’ll get him soon.”

“But why would they get him? hasn’t he sense enough to keep from them?”

“That’s just what he has not, Bridget; he has left the mountains and come down somewhere to the Infield country; but where, I cannot make out.”

“Well, asthore, he’ll only bring on his own punishment.  Troth, I’m not a bit sorry that Granua missed him.  I never was to say, for the match, but you should have your way, and force the girl there to it, over and above.  Of what use is his land and wealth to him now?”

“God’s will be done,” replied her husband, sorrowfully.  “As for me, I can do no more in it, nor I won’t.  I was doing the best for my child.  He’ll be guided by no one’s advice but his own.”

“That’s true,” replied his wife, “you did.  But here’s Barney Casey, from the big house, comin’ to warn the tenantry to a bonfire that’s to be made to-night in Rathfillan, out of rejoicin’ for the misthress’s son that’s come home to them.”

Here Barney once more repeated the message, with which the reader is already acquainted.

“You are all to come,” he proceeded, “ould and young; and to bring every one a backload of sticks and brusna to help to make the bonfire.”

“Is this message from the masther or misthress, Barney?” asked Davoren.

“O, straight from himself,” he replied.  “I have it from his own lips.  Troth he’s ready to leap out of his skin wid delight.”

“Bekaise,” added Davoren, “if it came from the misthress, the sorrow foot either I or any one of my family would set near her; but from himself, that’s a horse of another color.  Tell him, Barney, we’ll be there, and bring what we can to help the bonfire.”

Until this moment the young fellow at the fire never uttered a syllable, nor seemed in the slightest degree conscious that there was any person in the house but himself.  He was now engaged in masticating the potatoes, and eggs, the latter of which he ate with a thin splinter of bog deal, which served as a substitute for an egg-spoon, and which is to-this day used among the poor for the same purpose in the remoter parts of Ireland.  At length he spoke: 

“This won’t be a good night for a bonfire anyhow.”

“Why, Andy, abouchal?” (my boy.)

“Bekaise, mudher, the storm was in the fire* last night when I was rakin’ it.”

* This is a singular phenomenon, which, so far as I am aware, has never yet been noticed by any Irish or Scotch writers when describing the habits and usages of the people in either country.  When stirring the greeshaugh, or red- hot ashes, at night at the settling, or mending, or Taking of the fire, a blue, phosphoric-looking light is distinctly visible in the embers, and