“Isn’t there then?  I thought they made him out guilty?”

“So they did, the false ruffians:  but what harum ’ll that do? they daren’t touch a hair of his head!”

Politics, however, are not a favourable introduction to love-making:  so Martin felt, and again gave up the subject, in the hopes that he might find something better.  “What a fool the man is!” thought Meg to herself, at the door—­“if I had a lover went on like that, wouldn’t I pull his ears!”

Martin got up—­walked across the room—­looked out of the little window—­felt very much ashamed of himself, and, returning, sat himself down on the sofa.

“Anty,” he said, at last, blushing nearly brown as he spoke; “Were you thinking of what I was spaking to you about before I went to Dublin?”

Anty blushed also, now.  “About what?” she said.

“Why, just about you and me making a match of it.  Come, Anty, dear, what’s the good of losing time?  I’ve been thinking of little else; and, after what’s been between us, you must have thought the matther over too, though you do let on to be so innocent.  Come, Anty, now that you and mother’s so thick, there can be nothing against it.”

“But indeed there is, Martin, a great dale against it—­though I’m sure it’s good of you to be thinking of me.  There’s so much against it, I think we had betther be of one mind, and give it over at once.”

“And what’s to hinder us marrying, Anty, av’ yourself is plazed?  Av’ you and I, and mother are plazed, sorrow a one that I know of has a word to say in the matther.”

“But Barry don’t like it!”

“And, afther all, are you going to wait for what Barry likes?  You didn’t wait for what was plazing to Barry Lynch when you came down here; nor yet did mother when she went up and fetched you down at five in the morning, dreading he’d murdher you outright.  And it was thrue for her, for he would, av’ he was let, the brute.  And are you going to wait for what he likes?”

“Whatever he’s done, he’s my brother; and there’s only the two of us.”

“But it’s not that, Anty—­don’t you know it’s not that?  Isn’t it because you’re afraid of him? because he threatened and frightened you?  And what on ‘arth could he do to harum you av’ you was the wife of—­of a man who’d, anyway, not let Barry Lynch, or anyone else, come between you and your comfort and aise?”

“But you don’t know how wretched I’ve been since he spoke to me about—­about getting myself married:  you don’t know what I’ve suffered; and I’ve a feeling that good would never come of it.”

“And, afther all, are you going to tell me now, that I may jist go my own way?  Is that to be your answer, and all I’m to get from you?”

“Don’t be angry with me, Martin.  I’m maning to do everything for the best.”

“Maning?—­what’s the good of maning?  Anyways, Anty, let me have an answer, for I’ll not be making a fool of myself any longer.  Somehow, all the boys here, every sowl in Dunmore, has it that you and I is to be married—­and now, afther promising me as you did—­”