y; "or, by
the blessed day, I'll teach ye a new penance ye never heerd of afore!"

The man dropped back, frightened at the sudden determination these words
were uttered in; and Owen resumed his place.

"I may never see ye again, Mary. 'Tis the last time you'll hear me spake
to you. I'll lave the ould man. God look to him! I'll lave him now,
and go be a sodger. Here we are now, coming to this holy well; and
I'll swear an oath before the Queen of Heaven, that before this time
to-morrow--"

"How is one to mind their prayers at all, Owen Connor, if ye be talking
to yourself, so loud?" said Mary, in a whisper, but one which lost not a
syllable, as it fell on Owen's heart.

"My own sweet darling, the light of my eyes, ye are!" cried he, as
with clasped hands he muttered blessings upon her head; and with such
vehemence of gesture, and such unfeigned signs of rapture, as to evoke
remarks from some beggars near, highly laudatory of his zeal.

"Look at the fine young man there, prayin' wid all his might. Ayeh, the
Saints give ye the benefit of your Pilgrimage!"

"Musha! but ye'r a credit to the station; ye put yer sowl in it,
anyhow!" said an old Jezebel, whose hard features seemed to defy
emotion.

Owen looked up; and directly in front of him, with his back against a
tree, and his arms crossed on his breast, stood Phil Joyce: his brow was
dark with passion, and his eyes glared like those of a maniac. A cold
thrill ran through Owen's heart, lest the anger thus displayed should
fall on Mary; for he well knew with what tyranny the poor girl was
treated. He therefore took the moment of the pilgrims' approach to the
holy tree, to move from his place, and, by a slightly circuitous path,
came up to where Joyce was standing.

"I've a word for you, Phil Joyce," said he, in a low voice, where every
trace of emotion was carefully subdued. "Can I spake it to you here?"

Owen's wan and sickly aspect, if it did not shock, it at least
astonished Joyce, for he looked at him for some seconds without
speaking; then said, half rudely:

"Ay, here will do as well as any where, since ye didn't like to say it
yesterday."

There was no mistaking this taunt; the sneer on Owen's want of courage
was too plain to be misconstrued; and although for a moment he looked
as if disposed to resent it, he merely shook his head mournfully, and
replied: "It is not about that I came to speak; it's about your sister,
Mary Joyce."

Phil turned upon him a