he pony about, till I call you;"
and so saying, he dismounted and entered the cabin.

"Sit down, Owen; yes, yes--I insist upon it, and do you, also. I have
come up here to-day to have a few moments' talk with you about an
occurrence that took place last week at the fair. There was a young
gentleman, Mr. Leslie, got roughly treated by some of the people: let me
hear your account of it."

Owen and his father exchanged glances; the same idea flashed across
the minds of both, that the visitor was a magistrate come to take
information against the Joyces for an assault; and however gladly they
would have embraced any course that promised retaliation for their
injuries, the notion of recurring to the law was a degree of baseness
they would have scorned to adopt.

"I'll take the 'vestment' I never seen it at all," said the old man
eagerly, and evidently delighted that no manner of cross-questioning or
badgering could convert him into an informer.

"And the little I saw," said Owen, "they knocked out of my memory with
this;" and he pointed to the half-healed gash on his forehead.

"But you know something of how the row begun?"

"No, yer honor, I was at the other side of the fair."

"Was young Mr. Leslie in fault--did you hear that?"

"I never heerd that he did any thing--unagreeable," said Owen, after
hesitating for a few seconds in his choice of a word.

"So then, I'm not likely to obtain any information from either of you."

They made no reply, but their looks gave as palpable a concurrence to
this speech, as though they swore to its truth.

"Well, I have another question to ask. It was you saved this young
gentleman, I understand; what was your motive for doing so? when, as by
your own confession, you were at a distance when the fight begun."

"He was my landlord's son," said Owen, half roughly; "I hope there is no
law agin that."

"I sincerely trust not," ejaculated the gentleman; "have you been long
on the estate?"

"Three generations of us now, yer honor," said the old man.

"And what rent do you pay?"

"Oh, musha, we pay enough! we pay fifteen shillings an acre for the bit
of callows below, near the lake, and we give ten pounds a year for the
mountain--and bad luck to it for a mountain--it's breaking my heart,
trying to make something out of it."

"Then I suppose you'd be well pleased to exchange your farm, and take
one in a better and more profitable part of the country?"

Another suspicion here sho