mountain-fern, called forth the praise we have mentioned; and, poor as
they may seem to the reader, they were many degrees in comfort beyond
the majority of Irish cabins.

The boys--for so the unmarried men of whatever age are called--having
left one of the party to watch over Owen, now quitted the house, and
began their return homeward. It was past midnight when the old man
returned; and although endeavouring to master any appearance of emotion
before the "strange boy," he could with difficulty control his feelings
on beholding his son. The shirt matted with blood, contrasting with
the livid colourless cheek--the heavy irregular breathing--the frequent
startings as he slept--were all sore trials to the old man's nerve; but
he managed to seem calm and collected, and to treat the occurrence as an
ordinary one.

"Harry Joyce and his brother Luke--big Luke as they call him--has sore
bones to-night; they tell me that Owen didn't lave breath in their
bodies," said he, with a grim smile, as he took his place by the fire.

"I heerd the ribs of them smashing like an ould turf creel," replied the
other.

"'Tis himself can do it," said the old fellow, with eyes glistening with
delight; "fair play and good ground, and I'd back him agin the Glen."

"And so you might, and farther too; he has the speret in him--that's
better nor strength, any day."

And thus consoled by the recollection of Owen's prowess, and gratified
by the hearty concurrence of his guest, the old father smoked and
chatted away till daybreak. It was not that he felt any want of
affection for his son, or that his heart was untouched by the sad
spectacle he presented,--far from this; the poor old man had no other
tie to life--no other object of hope or love than Owen; but years of a
solitary life had taught him rather to conceal his emotions within his
own bosom, than seek for consolation beyond it; besides that, even in
his grief the old sentiment of faction-hatred was strong, and vengeance
had its share in his thoughts also.

It would form no part of our object in this story, to dwell longer
either on this theme, or the subject of Owen's illness; it will be
enough to say, that he soon got better, far sooner perhaps than if all
the appliances of luxury had ministered to his recovery; most certainly
sooner than if his brain had been ordinarily occupied by thoughts and
cares of a higher order than his were. The conflict, however, had left
a deeper scar behind,