“Miss Joolia,” he exclaimed, with what was intended for a polite bow, “I hope you will pardon me for this third liberty I teek in offering to spake to you.  I see,” he proceeded, observing her rising indignation, “that you are not inclined to hear me, but I kim here to give you a bit of advice as a friend—­listen to my proposals, if you’re wise—­and don’t make me the enemy of yourself or your family, for so sure as you reject me, so certainly will you bring ruin upon both yourself and them.  I say this as a friend, and merk me, the day may come when you will oll remember my words too late.”

There was a vehemence in his language, which could admit of no mistake as to the fixed determination of his purpose; his lips were compressed, his eyebrows severely knit, and his unfeeling, hyena eye scintillated with a fire that proceeded as much from an inclination to revenge as affection.  Julia Purcel, however, though a women, possessed no whit of her sex’s cowardice; on the contrary, her bosom heaved with indignant scorn, and her eye gave him back glance for glance, in a spirit that disdained to quail before his violence.

“Do you dare to threaten me or my family, sir?” she replied; “I think you should know us better than to imagine that the threats of a ruffian, for such I now perceive you to be, could for a moment intimidate either them or me.  Begone, sir, I despise and detest you—­until this moment, I looked upon and treated you as a fool, but I now find you are a villain—­begone, I say; I scorn and defy you.”

“You defy me, do you?”

“Yes, I have said it, I defy you.”

“Well, then, so be it,” he replied, “you must take the consequences, that’s all, and let your favorite, M’Carthy, look to himself too.”

Having uttered these significant words, ha reentered the double ditch, along which a common pathway went, and in a minute or two was out of sight.

Mary, on her return, at once perceived, by the flushed cheek and kindled eye of her sister, that something had discomposed her.  “Why, goodness me, dear Julia, you look disturbed or frightened; what is the matter?”

“Disturbed I am,” she replied, “but not at all frightened.  This worthy lover of mine, whom nothing can abash, has honored me with another interview.”

“Is it after the scene between him and my brother to-day?”

“Certainly,” she replied, with a smile, for she now began once more to look upon the matter in a ludicrous point of view, “and has threatened not only myself, but the whole family with destruction, unless I favor his addresses—­ha! ha! ha!  He has one good quality in a lover, at all events—­perseverance.”

“Say rather effrontery and impudence,” replied Mary.

“Yes, I admit that,” said her sister; “but at any rate, they very often go together, I believe.”

She then related the dialogue that took place, at which her sister, who was equally remarkable for courage, only laughed.