It was now the day but one previous to the commencement of the assizes, and our readers will be kind enough to accompany us to the Grange, or rather to the garden of the Grange, at the gate of which our acquaintance Red Rody is knocking.  He has knocked two or three times, and sent, on each occasion, Hanlon, old Dick, young Dick, together with all the component parts of the establishment, to a certain territory, where, so far as its legitimate historians assure us, the coldness of the climate has never been known to give any particular offence.

“I know he’s inside, for didn’t I see him goin’ in—­well, may all the devils—­hem—­oh, good morrow, Charley—­troth you’d make a good messenger for death.  I’m knocking here till I have lost the use of my arm wid downright fatigue.”

“Never mind, Rody, you’ll recover it before you’re twice married—­come in.”  They then entered.  “Well, Rody, what’s the news?”

“What the news, is it?  Why then is anything in the shape of news—­of good news I mean—­to be had in such a counthry as this?  Troth it’s a shame for any one that has health an’ limbs to remain in it.  An’ now that you’re answered, what’s the news yourself, Charley?  I hope that the Drivership’s safe at last, I thought I was to sleep at home in my comfortable berth last—­”

“Not now till afther the ’sizes, Rody.”

“The master’s goin’ to them? bekaise I heard he wasn’t able.”

“He’s goin’, he says, happen what may; he thinks it’s his last visit to them, and I agree wid him—­he’ll soon have a greater ’sizes and a different judge to meet.”

“Ay, Charley, think of that now; an’ tell me, he sleeps in Ballynafail, as usual; eh, now?”

“He does of course.”

“An’ Jemmy Branigan goes along wid him?”

“Are you foolish, Kody?  Do you think he could live widout him?”

“Well, I b’lieve not.  Throth, whenever the ould fellow goes in the next world, there’ll be no keepin’ Jemmy from him.  Howandiver, to dhrop that.  Isn’t these poor times, Charley, an’ isn’t this a poor counthry to live in—­or it would be nearer the truth to say starve in?”

“No, but it would be the truth itself,” replied the other.  “What is there over the whole counthry but starvation and misery?”

“Any dhrames about America since, Charley? eh, now?”

“Maybe ay, and maybe no, Rody.  Is it true that Tom Dalton threatens all kinds of vengeance on the Sullivans?”

“Ay, is it, an’ the whole counthry says that he’s as ready to knock one o’ them on the head as ever the father before him was.  They don’t think the betther of the ould man for it; but what do you mane by ’maybe ay, an’ maybe no,’ Charley?”

“What do you mane by axin’ me?”

Each looked keenly for some time at the other as he spoke, and after this there was a pause.  At length, Hanlon, placing his hand upon Rody’s shoulder, replied: 

“Rody, it won’t do.  I know the design—­and I tell you now that one word from my lips could have you brought up at the assizes—­tried—­and I won’t say the rest.  You’re betrayed!”