He was a powerful young man, and such was his temper, and so well was it understood, that not one of the family durst venture a word of remonstrance.

The father arose, went to the door, and returned.  “Barny,” said he, “you must content yourself where you are for this night.  It’s snowin’ heavily, so you had betther sleep wid Rody; I see a light in the barn, I suppose he’s after bringing in his bed an’ makin’ it.”

“I’ll do any thing,” replied the poor fiddler, now apprehensive of violence from the outrageous temper of young Frank.

“Well, thin,” added the good man, “let us all go to bed, in the name of God.  Micaul, bring Barny to the barn, and see that he’s comfortable.”

This was complied with, and the family quietly and timidly retired to rest, leaving the violent young man storming and digesting his passion, behind them.

Mass on Christmas morning was then, as now, performed at day-break, and again the Roman Catholic inhabitants of the parish were up betimes to attend it.  Frank M’Kenna’s family were assembled, notwithstanding their short sleep, at an early breakfast; but their meal, in consequence of the unpleasant sensation produced by the outrage of their son, was less cheerful than it would I otherwise have been.  Perhaps, too, the gloom which hung over them, was increased by the snow that had fallen the night before, and by the wintry character of the day, which was such as to mar much of their expected enjoyment.  There was no allusion made to their son’s violence over-night; neither did he himself appear to be in any degree affected by it.  When breakfast was over, they prepared to attend mass, and, what was unusual, young Frank was the first to set out for the chapel.

“Maybe,” said the father, after he was gone—­“maybe that fool of a boy is sarry for his behavior.  It’s many a day since I knew him to go to mass of his own accord.  It’s a good sign, any way.”

“Musha,” inquired his mother, “what could happen atween him an’ that civil boy, Mike Reillaghan?”

“The sorra one o’ me knows,” replied his father:  “an’ now that I think of it, sure enough there was none o’ them at the dance last night, although I sent himself down for them.  Micaul,” he added, addressing the other son, “will you put an your big coat, slip down to Reillaghan’s, an’ bring me word what came atween them at all; an’ tell Owen himself the thruth that this boy’s brakin’ our hearts by his coorses.”

Micaul, who, although he knew the cause of the enmity between these rivals, was ignorant of that which occasioned his brother’s rash oath, also felt anxious to ascertain the circumstances of the last quarrel.  For this purpose, as well as in obedience to his father’s wishes, he proceeded to Reillaghan’s and arrived just as Darby More and young Mike had set out for mass.

“What,” said the mendicant, “can be bringing Micaul down, I wondher? somethin’ about that slip o’ grace, his brother.”