“No, nor I, grandfather,” said Bryan, “putting everything else out of the question, its too unnatural an act.  What makes you shake your head, Art?”

“I never liked a bone in his body, somehow,” replied Art.

“Ay, but my goodness, Art,” said Dora, “sure nobody would think of robbin’ their own father?”

“He has been doin’ little else these three years, Dora, by all accounts,” replied Art.

“Ay, but his father,” continued the innocent girl; “to break into the house at night an’ rob him like a robber!”

“Well, I say, it’s reported that he has been robbin’ him these three years in one shape or other,” continued Art; “but here’s Shibby, let’s hear what she’ll say.  What do you think, shibby?”

“About what, Art?”

“That Hycy Burke would rob his father!”

“Hut, tut!  Art, what puts that into your head?  Oh, no, Art—­not at all—­to rob his father, an’ him has been so indulgent to him!”

“Indeed, I agree with you, Shibby,” said Bryan; “for although my opinion of Hycy is changed very much for the worse of late, still I can’t and won’t give in to that.”

“An what has changed it for the worse?” asked his mother.  “You an’ he wor very thick together always—­eh?  What has changed it, Bryan?”

Bryan began to rub his hand down the sleeve of his coat, as if freeing it from dust, or perhaps admiring its fabric, but made no reply.

“Eh, Bryan,” she continued, “what has changed your opinion of him?”

“Oh, nothing of much consequence, mother,” replied her son; “but sometimes a feather will toll one how the wind blows.”

As he spoke, it might have been observed that he looked around upon the family with an appearance of awakened consciousness that was very nearly allied to shame.  He recovered his composure, however, on perceiving that none among them gave, either by look or manner, any indication of understanding what he felt.  This relieved him:  but he soon found that the sense of relief experienced from it was not permitted to last long.  Dora, his favorite sister, glided over to his side and gently taking his hand in hers began to play with his fingers, whilst a roguish laugh, that spoke a full consciousness of his secret, broke her pale but beautiful features into that mingled expression of smiles and blushes which, in one of her years, gives a look of almost angelic purity and grace.  After about a minute or two, during which she paused, and laughed, and blushed, and commenced to whisper, and again stopped, she at last put her lips to his ear and whispered:—­“Bryan, I know the reason you don’t like Hycy.”

“You do?” he said, laughing, but yet evidently confused in his turn;—­“well—­an’—­ha!—­ha!—­no, you fool, you don’t.”

“May I never stir if I don’t!”

“Well, an’ what is it?”

“Why, bekaise he’s coortin’ Kathleen Cavanagh—­now!”

“An’ what do I care about that?” said her brother.