“Ay, when he’s, hangin’, wid his tongue out, ha, ha, ha; wait till we get to the Rabbit Bank, where there’s a tree to be had; I’ve sworn it, ay, on her very grave too; so good-by, Mave!  Come along, Darby.”

“Mave, as you expect to have the gates of Heaven opened to your sowl, an’ don’t lave me,” exclaimed the miser with clasped hands.

Mave looked up and down the road, but could perceive no one approach who might render the unfortunate man assistance.

“Tom,” said she, “I must insist on your settin’ the poor man at liberty; I insist upon it.  You cannot, an’ you must not take his life in a Christian country; if you do, you know you will be hanged yourself.  Let him go immediately.”

“Oh, ay,” he replied, “you insist, Mave; but I’ll tell you what—­I’ll put Peggy in a coach yet, when I come into my fortune; an’ so you’ll insist, will you?  Jest look at that wrist of yours,” he replied, seizing hers, but with gentleness, “and then look at this of mine; an’ now will you tell me that you’ll insist?  Come, Darby, we’re bound for the Bank; there’s not a beech there but’s a hundred feet high, an’ that’s higher than ever I’ll make you swing from.  Your heart bled for her, didn’t it! but how will you look when I have you facin’ the sun, wid your tongue out?”

“Tom,” replied the wretch, “I go on my knees to you, an’ as you hope, Tom—­”

“Hope, you hard-hearted hound! isn’t her father’s curse upon me? ay, an’ in me?  Wasn’t she destroyed among us? an’ you bid me hope.  By the broken heart she died of, you’ll get a double tug for that,” and he was about to drag him on in a state of great violence, when Mave again placed her hand upon, his arm, and said—­

“I am sure, Tom, you are not ungrateful; I am sure you would not forget a kind act done to poor Peggy, that’s gone.”

“Peggy!” he replied, “what’s about her? gone!—­Peggy gone!—­is she gone?”

“She is gone,” replied Mave, “but not lost; an’ it is most likely that she is now looking down with displeasure at your conduct and intentions towards this poor man; but listen.”

“Are you goin’ to spake about Peggy, though?”

“I am, and listen.  Do you remember one evenin’ in the early part of this summer, it was of a Sunday, there was a crowd about old Brian Murtagh’s house, and the report of Peggy’s shame had gone abroad and couldn’t be kept from people’s eyes any longer.  She was turned out of her father’s house—­she was beaten by her brother who swore that he would take the life of the first person, whether man or woman, young or ould, that would give her one hour’s shelter.  She was turned out, poor, young, misled and mistaken crature, and no one would resave her, for no one durst.  There was a young girl then passin’ through the village, on her way home, much about Peggy’s own age, but barring in one respect, neither so good nor so handsome.  Poor Peggy ran to that young girl, an’ she was goin’ to throw herself into her arms, but she stopped.  ’I am not worthy,’ she said, cryin’ bitterly; ’I am not worthy,—­but oh, I have no roof to shelter me, for no one dare take me in.  What will become of me?’”