The overjoyed wife soon heaped fresh turf on the fire, and partly blowing, partly fanning it into a flame, hung a large iron pot I over it, from a hook firmly fixed in the wall.  While these preparations were going forward, Owen laid aside his rough outside coat, and going to the door, looked out, as if in irresolution.

“Ellen,” at length said he, turning suddenly round, “I’m thinkin’ that I’d betther go to the poliss barrack an’ surrindher—­or rather, see what they have to say agin me; as I’m an innocent man, I’ve no dhread; an’ if I wait till they come an’ take me, it’ll look as iv I was afeard.”

“Thrue for you, agra,” she answered; “bud it’s time enough yit a bit—­no one knows ov yer bein’ here.  You look slaved, an’ had betther rest yerself, an’ ate a pratee or two.  I have no milk ov my own to offer you now, but I’ll go an’ thry an’ get a dhrop from a neighbor.”

When Ellen returned with a little wooden noggin full, her husband was sitting warming his hands over the fire; and it was then she recollected that he had not brought back the gun with him; besides, when she cast a glance at his clothes, they were all soiled with mud and clay, and torn in many places.  But these circumstances did not for a moment operate in her mind against him, for she knew from the very manner of his first question, and the innocence of his exclamation, that the accusations and suspicions were all false.  Even though he had not attempted to explain the cause of his protracted absence, she felt conscious that it was not guilt, and forbore to ask any question about it.  It was he first opened the subject, as they sat together over their frugal meal.

“Ellen,” said he, “sence I saw you last, I wint through a dale ov hardship; an’ I little thought, on my return, that I’d be accused ov so black a crime.”

“Och, shure enough, Owen darlint; but I hope it ’ill be all for the best.  I little thought I’d see the day that you’d be suspected ov murdher.”

“Well, Ellen aroon, all’s in it is, it can’t be helped.  Bud as I was sayin’—­whin I left this, I cut acrass by Sheemus Doyle’s, an’ so up into the mountain, where I knew the hares were coorsin’ about in plenty.  I shot two or three ov thim; an’ as night began to fall, I was thinkin’ ov comin’ home, whin I heerd the barkin’ ov a dog a little farther up, in the wild part, where I never ventured afore.  I dunna what prompted me to folly id bud, any how, I did, an’ wint on farther an’ farther.  Well, Ellen agra, I at last come to a deep valley, full up a’most of furze an’ brambles, an’ I seen a black thing runnin’ down the edge ov id.  It was so far off, I thought it was a hare, an’ so I lets fly, an’ it rowled over an’ over.  Whin I dhrew near, what was it bud a purty black spaniel; an’ you may be shure I was sorry for shootin’ it, an’ makin’ such a mistake.  I lays down the gun, an’ takes id in my arms, an’ the poor crathur licked the hand that shot id.  Thin suddenly there comes up three sthrange min, an’ sazin’ me as if I wor a child, they carrid me down wid them, cursin’ an’ abusin’ me all the way.  As they made me take a solemn oath not to revale what I saw there, I can’t tell you any more:  but they thrated me badly, an’ it was only yestherday I escaped.”