“Well,” said Phil, “all I can say is, that upon my honor, my worthy father, I don’t think you shine at the pathetic.  Damn it, be a man, and don’t snivel in that manner, just like a furious drunken woman, when she can’t get at another drunken woman who is her enemy.  Surely if we failed, it wasn’t our faults; but I think I can console you so far as to say we did not fail.  It’s not such an easy thing to suppress scandal, especially if it happens to be a lie, as it is in the present case.”

“Ah,” said the father with bitterness, “it was all your fault, you ill-looking Bubber-lien. (An ignorant, awkward booby.) At your age, your grandfather would not have had to complain of want of success.”

“Come, M’Clutchy—­I’ll not bear this—­it’s cursed ungenerous in you, when you know devilish well how successful I have been on the property.”

“Ay,” said Val, “and what was the cause of that?  Was it not merely among those who were under our thumb—­the poor and the struggling, who fell in consequence of your threats, and therefore through fear of us only; but when higher game and vengeful purposes were in view, see what a miserable hand you made of it.  I tell you, Phil, if I were to live through a whole eternity, I could never forgive M’Loughlin the triumph that his eye had over me in Castle Cumber Fair.  I felt that he looked through me—­that he saw as clearly into my very heart, as you would of a summer day into a glass beehive.  My eye quailed before him—­my brow fell; but then—­well—­no matter; I have him now—­ho, ho, I have him now!”

“I wonder the cars and carts are not coming before now,” observed Phil, “to take away the furniture, and other valuables.”

“I am surprised myself,” replied Val; “they ought certainly to have been here before now.  Darby got clear instructions to summon them.”

“Perhaps they won’t come,” observed the other, “until—­Gad, there’s his rascally knock, at all events.  Perhaps he has sent them up.”

“No,” said Val; “I gave him positive instructions to order them here in the first instance.”

Darby now entered.

“Well, Darby,” said Val, who, on account of certain misgivings, treated the embryo gaoler with more civility than usual; “what news?  How many cars and carts have von got?”

Darby sat down and compressed his lips, blew out his cheeks, and after looking about the apartment for a considerable time, let out his breath gradually until the puff died away.

“What’s the matter with you, Darby?” again inquired Val.

Darby went over to him, and looking seriously into his face—­then suddenly laying down his hat—­said, as he almost wrung his hands—­

“There’s a Spy, sir, on the Estate; a Popish Spy, as sure as Idolathry is rank in this benighted land.”

“A Spy!” exclaimed Phil, “we know there is.”

“Be quiet, Phil—­who is he, Darby?”

“Why, sir, a fellow—­of the name of Weasand—­may Satan open a gusset in his own for him this day!  Sure, one Counsellor Browbeater, at the Castle, sir—­they say he’s the Lord o’ the Black Trot—­Lord save us—­ whatever that is—­”