a fair start, and I ask no
more.'

"And he was as good as his word, for he started that evening for Vienna,
without lave or license, and that's the way he got dismissed from his
situation."

"And did he break his promise to the count, or did he really send him
any intelligence?"

"He kept his word like a gentleman; he promised him something that would
surprise him, and so he did. He sent him the weddin' of Ballyporeen in
cipher. It took a week to make out, and I suppose they've never got to
the right understandin' it yet."

"I'm curious to hear how he was received in Vienna after this," said I.
"I suppose you accompanied him to that city."

"Troth I did, and a short life we led there; but here we are now, at the
end of our journey. That's Father Doogan's down there, that small, low,
thatched house in the hollow."

"A lonely spot, too. I don't see another near it for miles on any side."

"Nor is there. His chapel is at Murrah, about three miles off. My eyes
isn't over good; but I don't think there's any smoke coming out of the
chimley."

"You are right--there is not."

"He's not at home, then, and that's a bad job for us, for there's not
another place to stop the night in."

"But there will be surely some one in the house."

"Most likely not; 'tis a brat of a boy from Murrah does be with him when
he's at home, and I'm sure he's not there now."

This reply was not very cheering, nor was the prospect itself much
brighter. The solitary cabin, to which we were approaching, stood in a
rugged glen, the sides of which were covered with a low furze,
intermixed here and there with the scrub of what once had been an oak
forest. A brown, mournful tint was over every thing--sky and landscape
alike; and even the little stream of clear water that wound its twining
course along, took the same color from the gravelly bed it flowed over.
Not a cow nor sheep was to be seen, nor even a bird; all was silent and
still.

"There's few would like to pass their lives down there, then!" said my
companion, as if speaking to himself.

"I suppose the priest, like a soldier, has no choice in these matters."

"Sometimes he has, though. Father Doogan might have had the pick of the
county, they say; but he chose this little quiet spot here. He's a friar
of some ordher abroad, and when he came over, two or three years ago, he
could only spake a little Irish, and, I believe, less English; but there
wasn't his equal, for other tongues,