than the ghastly wound that marked his brow. The
poor fellow dwelt upon the portions of the conversation he overheard as
they carried him up the mountain; and whatever might have been his fears
before, now he was convinced that all prospect of gaining Mary's love
was lost to him for ever.

This depression, natural to one after so severe an injury, excited
little remark from the old man; and although he wished Owen might make
some effort to exert himself, or even move about in the air, he left him
to himself and his own time, well knowing that he never was disposed to
yield an hour to sickness, beyond what he felt unavoidable.

It was about eight or nine days after the fair, that the father was
sitting mending a fishing-net at the door of his cabin, to catch the
last light of the fading day. Owen was seated near him, sometimes
watching the progress of the work, sometimes patting the old sheep-dog
that nestled close by, when the sound of voices attracted them: they
listened, and could distinctly hear persons talking at the opposite side
of the cliff, along which the pathway led; and before they could even
hazard a guess as to who they were, the strangers appeared at the
angle of the rock. The party consisted of two persons; one, a gentleman
somewhat advanced in life, mounted on a stout but rough-looking
pony--the other, was a countryman, who held the beast by the bridle, and
seemed to take the greatest precaution for the rider's safety.

The very few visitors Owen and his father met with were for the most
part people coming to fish the mountain-lake, who usually hired ponies
in the valley for the ascent; so that when they perceived the animal
coming slowly along, they scarce bestowed a second glance upon them, the
old man merely remarking, "They're three weeks too early for this water,
any how;" a sentiment concurred in by his son. In less than five minutes
after, the rider and his guide stood before the door.

"Is this where Owen Connor lives?" asked the gentleman.

"That same, yer honor," said old Owen, uncovering his head, as he rose
respectfully from his low stool.

"And where is Owen Connor himself?"

"'Tis me, sir," replied he; "that's my name."

"Yes, but it can scarcely be you that I am looking for; have you a son
of that name?"

"Yes, sir, I'm young Owen," said the young man, rising, but not without
difficulty; while he steadied himself by holding the door-post.

"So then I am all right: Tracy, lead t