times more than she could possibly want? Morning after morning,
he walked about the small grounds round the house, with his hat over
his eyes, and his hands tossing about the money in his pockets,
thinking of this,--cursing his father, and longing--almost praying for
his sister's death. Then he would have his horse, and flog the poor
beast along the roads without going anywhere, or having any object in
view, but always turning the same thing over and over in his mind.
And, after dinner, he would sit, by the hour, over the fire, drinking,
longing for his sister's money, and calculating the probabilities of
his ever possessing it. He began to imagine all the circumstances which
might lead to her death; he thought of all the ways in which persons
situated as she was, might, and often did, die. He reflected, without
knowing that he was doing so, on the probability of robbers breaking
into the house, if she were left alone in it, and of their murdering
her; he thought of silly women setting their own clothes on fire--of
their falling out of window--drowning themselves--of their perishing
in a hundred possible but improbable ways. It was after he had been
drinking a while, that these ideas became most vivid before his eyes,
and seemed like golden dreams, the accomplishment of which he could
hardly wish for. And, at last, as the fumes of the spirit gave him
courage, other and more horrible images would rise to his imagination,
and the drops of sweat would stand on his brow as he would invent
schemes by which, were he so inclined, he could accelerate, without
detection, the event for which he so ardently longed. With such
thoughts would he turn into bed; and though in the morning he would try
to dispel the ideas in which he had indulged overnight, they still left
their impression on his mind;--they added bitterness to his hatred--and
made him look on himself as a man injured by his father and sister, and
think that he owed it to himself to redress his injuries by some
extraordinary means.

It was whilst Barry Lynch was giving way to such thoughts as these, and
vainly endeavouring to make up his mind as to what he would do, that
Martin made his offer to Anty. To tell the truth, it was Martin's
sister Meg who had made the first overture; and, as Anty had not
rejected it with any great disdain, but had rather shown a disposition
to talk about it as a thing just possible, Martin had repeated it in
person, and had reiterated it, til