“I grant you that, Dora; but the truth is, there seems to be a curse over it; whatever’s the raison of it, nothing goes right in it.  The landlords in general care little about the state and condition of their tenantry.  All they trouble themselves about is their rents.  Look at my own case, an’ that’s but one out of thousands that’s happenin’ every day in the country.  Grantin’ that he didn’t sarve me with this notice to quit, an’ supposin’ he let me stay in the farm, he’d rise it on me in sich a way as that I could hardly live in it; an’ you know, Dora, that to be merely strugglin’ an’ toilin’ all one’s life is anything but a comfortable prospect.  Then, in consequence of the people depondin upon nothing but the potato for food, whenever that fails, which, in general, it does every seventh or eighth year, there’s a famine, an’ then the famine is followed by fever an’ all kinds of contagious diseases, in sich a way that the kingdom is turned into one great hospital and grave-yard.  It’s these things that’s sendin’ so many thousands out of the country; and if we’re to go at all, let us go like the rest, while we’re able to go, an’ not wait till we become too poor either to go or stay with comfort.”

“Well, I suppose,” replied his sister, “that what you say is true enough; but for all that I’d rather bear anything in my own dear country than go to a strange one.  Do you think I’d not miss the summer sun rising behind the Althadawan hills? an’ how could I live without seein’ him set behind Mallybeney?  An’ then to live in a country where I’d not see these ould hills, the green glens, and mountain rivers about us, that have all grown into my heart.  Oh, Bryan, dear, don’t think of it—­don’t think of it.”

[Illustration:  PAGE 603—­ country where I’d not see these ould hills]

“Dora,” replied the other, his fine countenance overshadowed with, deep emotion as he spoke, “you cannot love these ould hills, as you cull them, nor these beautiful glens, nor the mountain rivers better than I do.  It will go to my heart to leave them; but leave them I will—­ay, and when I go, you know that I will leave behind me one that’s dearer ten thousand times than them all.  Kathleen’s message has left me a heavy and sorrowful heart.”

“I pity her now,” replied the kind-hearted girl; “but, still, Bryan, she sent you a harsh message.  Ay, I pity her, for did you observe how the father looked when he said that she bid him tell you her happiness was gone, and her heart broken; still, she ought to have seen yourself and heard your defence.”

“I can neither blame her, nor will; neither can I properly justify my vote, I grant; it was surely very wrong or she wouldn’t feel it as she does.  Indeed.  I think I oughtn’t to have voted at all.”

“I differ with you there, Bryan,” replied Dora, with animation, “I would rather, ten times over, vote wrongly, than not vote from cowardice.  It’s a mane, skulkin’, shabby thing, to be afeard to vote when one has a vote—­it’s unmanly.”