It was too true; the unhappy girl had passed into another life; but, whether from a broken heart, caused by sin, shame, and desertion, or from famine and the pressure of general destitution and distress, could never properly be ascertained.

“I see!” exclaimed Dalton, his eyes again blazing, and his voice hollow with emotion—­“I see—­there she lies; and who brought her to that?  But I intended to set all right.  Ay—­there she lies.  An’ again, how are we at home?  Brought low down, down to a mud cabin!  Now, Dick o’ the Grange, an’ now, Darby Skinadre—­now for revenge.  The time is come.  I’ll take my place at the head of them, and what’s to be done, must be done.  Margaret Murtagh, you’re lying dead before me, and by the broken heart you died of—­”

He could add no more; but with these words, tottering and frantic, he rushed out of the miser’s house.

“Wid the help o’ God, the young savage is as mad as a March hare,” observed Skinadre, coolly; “but, as it’s all over wid the unfortunate crature, I don’t see why an honest man should lose his own, at any rate.”

Whilst uttering these words, he seized the meal, and deliberately emptied it back into the chest from which young Dalton had taken it.

CHAPTER VIII. —­ A Middle Man and Magistrate—­Master and Man.

Having mentioned a strange woman who made her appearance at Skinadre’s, it may be necessary, or, at least, agreeable to the reader, that we should account for her presence under the roof of that worthy individual, especially as she is likely to perform a part of some interest in our tale.  We have said already that she started on hearing Mave Sullivan’s name mentioned, and followed her and the Black Prophet’s wife like a person who watched their motions, and seemed to feel some peculiar interest in either one or both.  The reader must return, then, to the Grey Stone already alluded to, which to some of the characters in our narrative will probably prove to be a “stone of destiny.”

Hanlon, having departed from Sarah M’Gowan in a state of excitement, wended his way along a lonely and dreary road, to the residence of his master, Dick o’ the Grange.  The storm had increased, and was still increasing at every successive blast, until it rose to what might be termed a tempest.  It is, indeed, a difficult thing to describe the peculiar state of his feelings as he struggled onwards, sometimes blown back to a stand-still, and again driven forward by the gloomy and capricious tyranny of the blast, as if he were its mere plaything.  In spite, however, of the conflict of the external elements as they careered over the country around him, he could not shake from his imagination the impression left there by the groan which he had heard at the Grey Stone.  A supernatural terror, therefore, was upon him, and he felt as if he were in the presence of an accompanying spirit—­of a spirit that seemed anxious to disclose the fact