Martin went out early to Toneroe; doubtless the necessary labours of the incipient spring required him at the farm but I believe that if his motives were analysed, he hardly felt himself up to a tete-a-tete with his mistress, before he had enjoyed a cool day’s consideration of the extraordinary circumstances which had brought her into the inn as his mother’s guest.  He, moreover, wished to have a little undisturbed conversation with Meg, and to learn from her how Anty might be inclined towards him just at present.  So Martin spent his morning among his lambs and his ploughs; and was walking home, towards dusk, tired enough, when he met Barry Lynch, on horseback, that hero having come out, as usual, for his solitary ride, to indulge in useless dreams of the happy times he would have, were his sister only removed from her tribulations in this world.  Though Martin had never been on friendly terms with his more ambitious neighbour, there had never, up to this time, been any quarrel between them, and he therefore just muttered “Good morning, Mr Lynch,” as he passed him on the road.

Barry said nothing, and did not appear to see him as he passed; but some idea struck him as soon as he had passed, and he pulled in his horse and hallooed out “Kelly!”—­and, as Martin stopped, he added, “Come here a moment—­I want to speak to you.”

“Well, Mr Barry, what is it?” said the other, returning.  Lynch paused, and evidently did not know whether to speak or let it alone.  At last he said, “Never mind—­I’ll get somebody else to say what I was going to say.  But you’d better look sharp what you’re about, my lad, or you’ll find yourself in a scrape that you don’t dream of.”

“And is that all you called me back for?” said Martin.

“That’s all I mean to say to you at present.”

“Well then, Mr Lynch, I must say you’re very good, and I’m shure I will look sharp enough.  But, to my thinking, d’you know, you want looking afther yourself a precious dale more than I do,” and then he turned to proceed homewards, but said, as he was going—­“Have you any message for your sisther, Mr Lynch?”

“By—! my young man, I’ll make you pay for what you’re doing,” answered Barry.

“I know you’ll be glad to hear she’s pretty well:  she’s coming round from the thratement she got the other night; though, by all accounts, it’s a wondher she’s alive this moment to tell of it.”

Barry did not attempt any further reply, but rode on, sorry enough that he had commenced the conversation.  Martin got home in time for a snug tea with Anty and his sisters, and succeeded in prevailing on the three to take each a glass of punch; and, before Anty went to bed he began to find himself more at his ease with her, and able to call her by her Christian name without any disagreeable emotion.  He certainly had a most able coadjutor in Meg.  She made room on the sofa for him between herself and his mistress, and then contrived that the room should be barely sufficient, so that Anty was rather closely hemmed up in one corner:  moreover, she made Anty give her opinion as to Martin’s looks after his metropolitan excursion, and tried hard to make Martin pay some compliments to Anty’s appearance.  But in this she failed, although she gave him numerous opportunities.