“Come, Mr. O’Finigan,” said James, approaching him, “you must have another glass.”

“Well no, James,” he replied, “I think not.”

“Faith, but I say you will; if it was only to hear what Dora—­hem—­what Bryan said.

“Very well,” said the master, allowing him to take the glass which he received again brimming, “thanks, James.”

“‘Well,’ said Bryan, lettin’ go my collar, ’blame any one you like; blame me, blame Vanston, blame Chevydale, Fethertonge, anybody, everybody, the Priest, the Bishop, the Pope,—­but don’t dare to blame Kathleen Cavanagh.’

“‘Why,’ said I, ‘has she been right in her condemnation of you?’

“‘She has,’ he replied, with a warmth of enthusiasm which lit up his whole features; ’she has done nothing but what was right.  She just acted as she ought, and all I can say is, that I know I’m not worthy of her, and never was.  God bless her!’

“‘And don’t let me hear,’ said Dora, taking up the dialogue, ’that ever you’ll mention her name wid disrespect—­mark that, Mr. O’Finigan, or it’ll be worse for you a thrifle.’

“Her brother looked on her wid complacent affection, and patting her on the head, said, ’Come, darling, don’t beat him now.  You see the risk you run,’ he added, as they went away, ’so don’t draw down Dora’s vengeance on your head.  She might forgive you an offence against herself; but she won’t forgive you one against Kathleen Cavanagh; and, Mister O’Finigan, neither will I.’”

“Masther,” said James Cavanagh, “you’ll stop to-night with us?”

“No, James, I have an engagement of more importance than you could ever dhrame of, and about—­but I’m not free or at liberty to develop the plot—­for plot it is—­at any greater length.  Many thanks to you in the mane time for your hospitable intentions; but before I go, I have a word to say.  Now, what do you think of that young man’s ginerosity, who would rather have himself thought guilty than have her thought wrong; for, whisper,—­I say he’s not guilty, and maybe—­but, no ruatther, time will tell, and soon tell, too, plaise God.”

So saying he took up his hat, and politely wished them a pleasant evening, but firmly refused to taste another drop of liquor, “lest,” he added, “it might denude him of the necessary qualifications for accomplishing the enterprise on which he was bint.”

When he was gone, Kathleen brought her sister to their own room, and throwing herself on her bosom, she spoke not, but wept calmly and in silence for about twenty minutes.

“Kathleen,” said Hanna, “I am glad to see this, and I often wished for it.”

“Whisht, dear Hanna,” she replied; “don’t speak to me at present.  I’m not fit to talk on that unfortunate subject yet.  ’Forgive us our trespassess as we—­we—­forgive them that trespass against us!’ Oh!  Hanna darling, how have I prayed?” They then rejoined the family.

CHAPTER XXIII.—­Harry Clinton’s Benevolence Defeated