—­His Uncle’s Treachery—­The Marriage of Kathleen and Edward Burke Determined on

This partial restoration of M’Mahon to the affections of Kathleen Cavanagh might have terminated in a full and perfect reconciliation between them, were it not for circumstances which we are about to detail.  From what our readers know of young Clinton, we need not assure them that, although wild and fond of pleasure, he was by no means devoid of either generosity or principle.  There were indeed few individuals, perhaps scarcely any, in the neighborhood, who felt a deeper or manlier sympathy for the adverse fate and evil repute which had come so suddenly, and, as he believed in his soul, undeservedly, upon Bryan M’Mahon.  He resolved accordingly to make an effort for the purpose of setting the unfortunate young man’s character right with the public, or if not with the public, at least in that quarter where such a service might prove most beneficial to him, we mean in Gerald Cavanagh’s family.  Accordingly, one morning after breakfast as his uncle sat reading the newspaper, he addressed him as follows:—­

“By the way, uncle, you must excuse mo for asking you a question or two.”

“Certainly, Harry.  Did I not often desire you never to hesitate asking me any question you wish?  Why should you not?”

“This, however, may be trenching a little upon the secrets of your—­your—­profession.”

“What is it?—­what is it?”

“You remember the seizure you made some time ago in the townland of Ahadarra?”

“I do perfectly well.”

“Now, uncle, excuse me.  Is it fair to ask you if you know the person who furnished you with information on that subject.  Mark, I don’t wish nor desire to know his name; I only ask if you know it?”

“No, I do not.”

“Do you not suspect it?  It came to you anonymously, did it not?”

“Why, you are raking me with a fire of cross-examination, Harry; but it did.”

“Should you wish to know, uncle?”

“Undoubtedly, I wish to know those to whom we are indebted for that fortunate event.”

“Don’t say we, uncle; speak only for yourself.”

“I should wish to know, though.”

“Pray have you the letter?”

“I have:  you will find it in one of the upper pigeon holes; I can’t say which; towards the left hand.  I placed it there yesterday, as it turned up among some other communications of a similar stamp.”

In a few moments his nephew returned, with the precious document in his hands.

“Now, uncle,” he proceeded, as he seated himself at the table, “you admit that this is the letter?”

“I admit—­why, you blockhead, does not the letter itself prove as much?”

“Well, then, I know the scoundrel who sent you this letter.”

“I grant you he is a scoundrel, Harry; nobody, I assure you, despises his tools more than I do, as in general every man does who is forced to make use of them.  Go on.”