pain, or smooth their last moment by the consolation of her sympathy.  If she met a family on the highway, worn with either illness or fatigue—­perhaps an unhappy mother, surrounded by a helpless brood, bearing, or rather tottering under a couple of sick children, who were unable to walk—­she herself, perhaps, also ill, as was often the case—­she would instantly take one of them out ’of the poor creature’s arms, and carry it in her own as far as she happened to go in that direction, utterly careless of contagion, or all other consequences.

In this way was she engaged towards evening when at a turn of the road she was met by a large crowd of rioters, headed by Red Rody, Tom Dalton, and many others in the parish who were remarkable only for a tendency to ruffianism and outrage; for we may remark here, that on occasions such as we are describing, it is generally those who have suffered least, and have but little or nothing to complain of, that lead the misguided and thoughtless people into crime, and ultimately into punishment.

The change that had come over young Dalton was frightful; he was not half his former size; his clothes were now in rags, his beard grown, his whole aspect and appearance that of some miscreant, in whom it was difficult to say whether the ruffian or the idiot predominated the most.  He appeared now in his glory—­frantic and destructive; but amidst all this drivelling impetuosity, it was not difficult to detect some desperate and unshaken purpose in his heavy but violent and bloodshot eyes.

Far different from him was Red Rody, who headed his own section of them with an easy but knowing swagger; now nodding his head with some wonderful purpose which nobody could understand; or winking at some acquaintance with an indefinite meaning, that set them a guessing at it in vain.  It was easy to see that he was a knave, but one of those knaves on whom no earthly reliance could be placed, and who would betray to-morrow, for good reasons, and without a moment’s hesitation, those whom he had corrupted to-day.

“Come, Tom,” said Rody, “we have scattered a few of the meal-mongin’ vagabonds; weren’t you talkin’ about that blessed voteen, ould Darby Skinadre?  The villain that allowed Peggy Murtagh an’ her child to starve to death!  Aren’t we to pay him a visit?”

Dalton coughed several times, to clear his throat; a settled hoarseness having given a frightful hollowness to his voice.  “Ay,” said he—­“ha, ha, ha—­by the broken-heart she died of—­well—­well—­eh, Rody, what are we to do to him?”

Rody looked significantly at the crowd, and grinned, and touched his forehead, and pointed at Dalton.

“That boy’s up to everything,” said he; “he’s the man to head us all—­ha, ha!”

“Never mind laughin’ at him, anyway,” observed one of his friends; “maybe if you suffered what he did, poor fellow, an’ his family too, that it’s not fun you’d be makin’ of him.”