his mouth with his
gathered, palm, breathed deeply, but was still silent.

"Torley, did you hear me? What news of that unfortunate boy?"

"No news, Bridget, at least no good news; the boy's an outlaw, and will
be an outlaw--or rather he won't be an outlaw long; they'll get him
soon."

"But why would they get him? hasn't he sense enough to keep from them?"

"That's just what he has not, Bridget; he has left the mountains and
come down somewhere to the Infield country; but where, I cannot make
out."

"Well, asthore, he'll only bring on his own punishment. Troth, I'm not a
bit sorry that Granua missed him. I never was to say, for the match,
but you should have your way, and force the girl there to it, over and
above. Of what use is his land and wealth to him now?"

"God's will be done," replied her husband, sorrowfully. "As for me, I
can do no more in it, nor I won't. I was doing the best for my child.
He'll be guided by no one's advice but his own."

"That's true," replied his wife, "you did. But here's Barney Casey, from
the big house, comin' to warn the tenantry to a bonfire that's to be
made to-night in Rathfillan, out of rejoicin' for the misthress's son
that's come home to them."

Here Barney once more repeated the message, with which the reader is
already acquainted.

"You are all to come," he proceeded, "ould and young; and to bring every
one a backload of sticks and brusna to help to make the bonfire."

"Is this message from the masther or misthress, Barney?" asked Davoren.

"O, straight from himself," he replied. "I have it from his own lips.
Troth he's ready to leap out of his skin wid delight."

"Bekaise," added Davoren, "if it came from the misthress, the sorrow
foot either I or any one of my family would set near her; but from
himself, that's a horse of another color. Tell him, Barney, we'll be
there, and bring what we can to help the bonfire."

Until this moment the young fellow at the fire never uttered a syllable,
nor seemed in the slightest degree conscious that there was any
person in the house but himself. He was now engaged in masticating the
potatoes, and eggs, the latter of which he ate with a thin splinter of
bog deal, which served as a substitute for an egg-spoon, and which is
to-this day used among the poor for the same purpose in the remoter
parts of Ireland. At length he spoke:

"This won't be a good night for a bonfire anyhow."

"Why, Andy, _abouchal?_" (my boy.)

"Bekaise,