It is unnecessary to add, that when sickness and the severity of winter passed away, our lovers, Mave and young Condy Dalton, were happily married, as they deserved to be, and occupied the farm from which the good old man had been so unjustly expelled.

It was on the first social evening that the two families, now so happily reconciled, spent together subsequent to the trial, that Bartle Sullivan gratified them with the following account of his history: 

“I remimber fightin’,” he proceeded, “wid Condy on that night, an’ the devil’s own bulliah battha he was.  We went into a corner of the field near the Grey Stone to decide it.  All at wanst I forgot what happened, till I found myself lyin’ upon a car wid the M’Mahons of Edinburg, that lived ten or twelve miles beyant the mountains, at the foot of Carnmore.  They knew me, and good right they had, for I had been spakin’ to their sister Shibby, but she wasn’t for me at the time, although I was ready to kick my own shadow about her, God knows.  Well, you see, I felt disgraced at bein’ beaten by Con Dalton, an I was fond of her, so what ’ud you have of us but off we went together to America, for you see she promised to marry me if I’d go.

“They had taken me up on one of their carts, thinkin’ I was dhrunk, to lave me for safety in the next neighbor’s house we came to.  Well, she an’ I married when we got to Boston; but God never blessed us wid a family; and Toddy here, who tuk the life of a pedlar, came back afther many a long year, with a good purse, and lived with us.  At last I began to long for home, and so we all came together.  The Prophet’s wife was wid us, an’ another passenger tould me that Con here had been suspected of murdherin’ me.  I got unwell in Liverpool, but I sent Toddy on before me to make their minds aisy.  As we wor talkin’ over these matthers, I happened to mention to the woman what I had seen the night the carman was murdhered, and I wondhered at the way she looked on hearin’ it.  She went on, but afther a time came back to Liverpool for me, an’ took the typhus on her way home, but thank God, we were all in time to clear the innocent and punish the guilty; ay, an’ reward the good, too, eh, Toddy?’”

“I’ll give Mave away,” replied Toddy, “if there wasn’t another man in Europe; an’ when I’m puttin’ your hand into Con’s, Mave, it won’t be an empty one.  Ay, an’ if your friend Sarah, the wild girl, had lived—­but it can’t be helped—­death takes the young as well as the ould; and may God prepare us all to meet Him!”

Young Richard Henderson’s anticipations were, unfortunately, too true.  On leaving Mr. Travers’ office, he returned home, took his bed, and; in the course of one short week, had paid, by a kind of judicial punishment, the fatal penalty of his contemplated profligacy.  His father survived him only a few months, so that there is not at this moment, one of the name or blood of Henderson in the Grange.  The old man died of a quarrel with Jemmy Branigan, to whom he left a pension of fifty pounds a year; and truly the grief of this aged servant after him was unique and original.