In the course of about two or three hours after the transaction already stated, old Peety Dim was proceeding towards the post-office with a letter, partly in his closed hand, and partly up the inside of his sleeve, so as that it might escape observation.  The crowds were still tumultuous, but less so than in the early part of the day; for, as we said, they were diminishing in numbers, those who had been so long from home feeling a natural wish to return to their families and the various occupations and duties of life which they had during this protracted contest been forced to neglect.  Peety had got as far as the market-house—­which was about the centre of the street—­on his way, we say, to the post-office, when he met his daughter Nanny, who, after a few words of inquiry, asked him where he was going.

“Faith, an’ that’s more than I dare tell you,” he replied.

“Why,” she said, “is there a saicret in it, I’m sure you needn’t keep it from me, whatever it is.”

This she added in a serious and offended tone, which, however, was not lost on the old man.

“Well,” said he, “considherin’ the man he is, an’ what you know about him, I think I may as well tell you.  It’s a letther I’m bringin’ to slip into the post-office, unknownst.”

“Is it from Hycy?” she asked.

“From Hycy, and no other.”

“I’ll hould a wager,” she replied, “that that’s the very letther I seen him openin’ through the key hole doar this mornin’.  Do you know who it’s to?” she inquired.

“Oh, the sorra know; he said it was a love-letther, and that he did not wish to be seen puttin’ it in himself.”

“Wait,” said she, “give it to me here for a minute; here’s Father M’Gowan comin’ up, and I’ll ax him who it’s directed to.”

She accordingly took the letter out of his hand, and approaching the priest, asked him the name of the person to whom it was addressed.

“Plaise your reverence,” she said, “what name’s on the back of this?—­I mane,” said she, “who is goin’ to?”

The priest looked at it, and at once replied, “It is goin’ to Bryan M’Mahon, of Ahadarra, the traitor, and it comes from Major Vanston, the enemy to his liberty and religion, that his infamous vote put into Parliament, to rivet our chains, and continue our degradation.  So there, girl, you have now the bigot from whom it comes, and the apostate to whom it goes.  Who gave it to you?”

Nanny, who from some motives of her own, felt reluctant to mention Hycy’s name in the matter, hastily replied, “A person, plaise your reverence, from Major Vanston.”

“Very well, girl, discharge your duty,” said the priest; “but I tell you the devil will never sleep well till he has his clutches in the same Major, as well as in the shameless apostate he has corrupted.”

Having uttered these words, he passed on, and Nanny in a minute or two afterwards returned the letter to her father, who with his own hands put it into the post-office.