other considerations, that she cared little, now, whether her friends perceived it or not.  On one thing, she was fixed, and that was, to prevent Lamh Laudher from encountering the Dead Boxer.  With this purpose she wrapped herself in a cloak about ten o’clock, and careless whether she was observed or not, went directly towards his aunt’s house.  About two-thirds of the way had probably been traversed, when a man, wrapped up in a cloak, like herself, accosted her in a low voice, not much above a whisper.

“Miss Neil,” said he, “I don’t think it would be hard to guess where you are going.”

“Who are you that asks?” said Ellen.  “No matter; but if you happen to see young O’Rorke to-night, I have a message to send him that may serve him.”

“Who are you?” again inquired Ellen.  “One that cautions you to beware of the Dead Boxer; one that pities and respects his unfortunate wife; and one who, as I said, can serve O’Rorke.”

“For God’s sake, then, if you can, be quick; for there’s little time to be lost,” said Ellen.

“Give him this message,” replied the man, and he whispered half a dozen words into her ear.

“Is that true?” she asked him; “and may he depend upon it?”

“He may, as there’s a God above me.  Good night!” He passed on at a rapid pace.  When Ellen entered his aunt’s humble cabin, Lamh Laudher had just risen from his knees.  Devotion, or piety if you will, as it is in many cases, though undirected by knowledge, may be frequently found among the peasantry associated with objects that would appear to have little connection with it.  When he saw her he exclaimed with something like disappointment:—­

“Ah!  Ellen dear, why did you come?  I would rather you hadn’t crossed me now, darling.”

His manner was marked by the same melancholy sedateness which we have already described.  He knew the position in which he stood, and did not attempt to disguise what he felt.  His apparent depression, however, had a dreadful effect upon Ellen, who sat down on a stool, and threw back the hood of her cloak; but the aunt placed a little circular arm-chair for her somewhat nearer the fire.  She declined it in a manner that argued something like incoherence, which occasioned O’Rorke to, glance at her most earnestly.  He started, on observing the wild lustre of her eye, and the woebegone paleness of her cheek.

“Ellen,” said he, “how is this?  Has any thing frightened you?  Merciful mother! aunt, look at her!”

The distracted girl sank before him on her knees, locked her hands together, and while her eyes sparkled with an unsettled light, exclaimed—­

“John!—­John!—­Lamh Laudher Oge—­forgive me, before you die!  I have murdered you!”

“Ellen love, Ellen”—­

“Do you forgive me? do you?  Your blood is upon me, Lamh Laudher Oge!”

“Heavens above!  Aunt, she’s turned!  Do I forgive you, my heart’s own treasure?  How did you ever offend me, my darling?  You. know you never did.  But if you ever did, my own Ellen, I do forgive you.”