“Master Dick, sirrah:  no, it’s not.”

“Then there must be some mistake,” replied the fellow, who was a stranger; “and as it’s a runaway match, by gorra, it would never do to give the girl to the wrong person.  It was Masther Dick that the Prophet desired us to inquire for.”

“There is a mistake, my friend; there is—­my name, my good fellow, happens to be Master Richard, or rather Mister Richard.  In all other respects, everything is right.  I expect a lady; and I am the gentleman, but not Master Dick, though—­Richard is the correct reading.”

“Then, sir,” replied the fellow, “here she is;” and whilst speaking, a horseman, bearing a female before him, came forward, and in a few minutes she was transferred without any apparent resistance, to the inside of the vehicle which awaited her.  This vehicle we shall now follow.

The night, as we said, was dark, but it was also cold and stormy.  The driver, who had received his instructions, proceeded in the direction of the Grange; and we only I say so generally, because so many cross roads branched off from that which they took, that it was impossible to say when or where; Master or Mister Richard may have intended to stop.  In the meantime, that enterprising and gallant young gentleman commenced a dialogue, somewhat as follows:—­

“My dear Miss Sullivan, I must be satisfied that these fellows have conducted this business with all due respect to your feelings, I hope they have not done anything to insult you.”

“I am very weak,” replied the lady; “you needn’t expect me to spake much, for I’m not able.  I only wish I was in Heaven, or anywhere out of this world.”

“You speak as if you had been agitated or frightened; but compose yourself, you are now under my protection at last, and you shall want for nothing that can contribute to your ease and comfort.  Upon my honor—­upon my sacred honor, I say—­I would not have caused you even this annoyance, were it not that you yourself expressed a willingness—­very natural, indeed, considering our affection—­to meet me here to-night.”

“Who tould you that I was willin’ to meet you?”

“Who? why who but our mutual friend, the Black Prophet; and by the way, he is to meet us at the Grey Stone, by and by.”

“He tould you false, then,” replied his companion, feebly.

“Why,” asked Henderson, “are you not here with your own consent?”

“I am—­oh, indeed, I am,—­it’s altogether my own act that brings me here—­my own act—­an’ I thank God, that I had strength for it.”

“Admirable girl!—­that is just what I have been led to expect from you, and you shall not regret it; I have, as I said, everything provided that can make you happy.”

“Happy!—­I can’t bear this, sir; I’m desavin’ you.  I’m not what you think me.”

“You are ill, I fear, my dear Miss Sullivan; the bustle and disturbance have agitated you too much, and you are ill.”