We have always been of opinion that there is scarcely anything more mysterious than the speed with which popular report travels apparently with very inadequate machinery throughout a large district of country.  Before the day was more than half-advanced, fame had succeeded in circulating a report that Matthew Purcel and Dr. Turbot had been both shot dead in the garden of the rectory.  This report spread rapidly, and it is with equal pain and shame we are obliged to confess that in general it was received with evident and undisguised satisfaction.  John and Alick Purcel, on their way home, were accosted at a place called “Murderer’s Corner,” by two of the men who had attended at their father’s office that morning, and informed that he and Dr. Turbot had been murdered in the course of the day, a piece of information which was conveyed by them with a sneer of cowardly triumph that was perfectly diabolical.

“God save ye, gintlemen!” said one of them, with a peculiar emphasis on the last word; “did ye here the news?”

“No, Jemmy, what is it?” asked John.

“Why, that Darby Hourigan is very ill,” he replied, with mock gravity.

“No thanks for your information, Jemmy,” replied the other; “if you told us something of more interest we might thank you.”

“Never mind him, gintlemen,” replied his companion, “there’s nothing wrong wid Darby Horaigan, barrin’ that he occasionally rubs himself where he’s not itching, but there’s worse news than that before you.”

“What is it, then?” asked Alick; “if you know it, let us hear it, and don’t stand humming and hawing as if you were afraid to speak.”

“Faith, an’ it’s no wondher I would, sir, when it’s to tell you that you’ll find your father a murdhered corpse at home before you.”

“Great God! what do you mean, sir? asked John.

“Why, gintlemen, it seems that himself an’ Parson Turbot wor both shot in the parsonage garden to-day.  The parson’s takin’ his rest in his own house, but your father’s body was brought home upon the car.  The bullet entered your worthy father’s breeches’ pocket, cut through a sheaf of notes that he had to pay the parson his tides wid, and from that it went on——­”

Human patience could not endure the ill-suppressed and heartless satisfaction with which the fellow was about to enter into the details, and accordingly, ere he had time to proceed further, John Purcel turning a hunting-whip, loaded for self-defense, left him sprawling on the earth.

“Now, you ill-conditioned scoundrel,” he exclaimed, “whether he is murdered or not, take that for your information.  Alick, lay on Hacket there, you are the nearest to him,” he added, addressing his brother.

Hacket at once took to his heels, but the other, touching his horse with the spurs, cantered up to him, and brought the double thong of his whip into severe contact with his neck and shoulders.  When this was over, the two fiery young men exclaimed:—­