of me, and I fear he ever was.  Here, father,” she said with vehemence, “listen to me, my dear father; and you, my mother, beloved mother, hear me!  At the expiration of three weeks I will marry Edward Burke; he is a modest, and I think an honest young man, who would not betray his religion nor his country, nor—­nor—­any unhappy girl that might happen to love him; oh, no, he would not—­and so, after three weeks—­I will marry him.  Go now and tell him so—­say I said so; and you may rest assured I will not break my word, although—­I may break—­break my heart—­my heart!  Now, Hanna, come out and walk, dear—­come out, and let us chat of other matters; yes, of other matters; and you can tell me candidly whether you think Bryan M’Mahon such a villain.”  Struck by her own words she paused almost exhausted, and, bending down, put her face upon her hands, and by a long persevering effort, at length raised her head, and after a little time appeared to have regained a good deal of composure; but not without tears—­for she had wept bitterly.

On that night she told her sister that the last resolution she had come to was that by which she was determined to abide.

“You would not have me like a mere girl,” she said, “without the power of knowing my own mind—­no; let what may come I will send no messages after him—­and as sure as I have life I will marry Edward Burke after the expiration of three weeks, if Bryan doesn’t—­but it’s idle to talk of it—­if he could he would have done it before now.  Good-night, dear Hanna—­good-night,” and after many a long and heavy sigh she sank to an uneasy and troubled slumber.

The next morning Gerald Cavanagh, who laid great stress upon the distracted language of his daughter on the preceding night paid an early visit to his friend, Jemmy Burke.  He found the whole family assembled at breakfast, and after the usual salutations, was asked to join them, which invitation, however, having already breakfasted, he declined.  Hycy had of late been very much abroad—­that is to say he was out very much at night, and dined very frequently in the head-inn of Ballymacan, when one would suppose he ought to have dined at home.  On the present occasion he saluted honest Gerald with a politeness peculiarly ironical.

“Mr. Cavanagh,” said he, “I hope I see you in good health, sir.  How are all the ladies?—­Hannah, the neat, and Kathleen—­ah, Kathleen, the divine!”

“Troth, they’re all very well, I thank you, Hycy; and how is yourself?”

“Free from care, Mr. Cavanagh—­a chartered libertine.”

“A libertine!” exclaimed the honest farmer; “troth I’ve occasionally heard as much; but until I heard it from your own lips divil a word of it I believed.”

“He is only jesting, Mr. Cavanagh,” said his brother; “he doesn’t mean exactly, nor indeed at all, what you suppose he does.”

“Does he mean anything at all, Ned?” said his father, dryly, “for of late it’s no aisy matther to understand him.”