a personal slight towards herself, or indifference to her creed and its propagation, were looked upon by Kathleen as crimes for which there was no forgiveness.  If she had any fellings, it was in these two points they lay.  But at the same time, we are bound to say, that the courage and enthusiasm of Joan of Arc had been demanded of her by the state and condition of her country and her creed, she would have unquestionably sacrificed her life, if the sacrifice secured the prosperity of either.

Something of their difference of temperament might have been observed during their conversation, while sitting under the white thorn.  Every now and then, for instance, Hanna would start up and commence a series of little flirtations with the blackbird, which she called her sweetheart, and again resume her chat and seat as before; or she would attempt to catch a butterfly as it fluttered about her, or sometimes give it pursuit over half the green, whilst Kathleen sat with laughing and delighted eyes, and a smile of unutterable sweetness on her lips, watching the success of this innocent frolic.  In this situation we must now leave them, to follow Peety, who is on his way to deliver the other letter to Bryan M’Mahon.

Our little black Mercury was not long in arriving at the house of Tom M’Mahon, which he reached in company with that worthy man himself, whom he happened to overtake near Carriglass where he lived.  M’Mahon seemed fatigued and travel-worn, and consequently was proceeding at a slow pace when Peety overtook him.  The latter observed this.

“Why, thin, Tom,” said he, after the first salutations had passed, “you look like a man that had jist put a tough journey over him.”

“An’ so I ought, Peety,” he replied, “for I have put a tough journey over me.”

“Musha where were you, thin, if it’s fair to ax?” inquired Peety; “for as for me that hears everything almost, the never a word I heard o’ this.”

“I was in Dublin, thin, all the way,” replied the farmer, “strivin’ to get a renewal o’ my laise from ould Squire Chevydale, the landlord; an’ upon my snuggins, Peety, you may call a journey to Dublin an’ home agin a tough one—­devil a doubt of it.  However, thank God, here we are at home; an’ blessed be His name that we have a home to come to; for, afther all, what place is like it?  Throth, Peety, my heart longed for these brave fields of ours—­for the lough there below, and the wild hills above us; for it wasn’t until I was away from them that I felt how strong the love of them was in my heart.”

M’Mahon was an old but hale man, with a figure and aspect that were much above the common order even of the better class of peasants.  There could be no mistaking the decent and composed spirit of integrity which was evident in his very manner; and there was something in his long flowing locks, now tinged with gray, as they rested upon his shoulders, that gave an air of singular respect to his whole appearance.