owner.

The shillelagh, like the poet, is born, not made. Like the poet, too,
it is a choice plant, and its growth is slow. Among ten thousand
blackthorn shoots, perhaps not more than one is destined to become
famous, but one of the ten thousand appears of singular fitness. As
soon as discovered, it is marked, and dedicated for future service.
Everything that might hinder its development is removed, and any
off-shoot of the main stem is skilfully cut off. With constant care it
grows thick and strong, upon a bulbous root that can be shaped into a
handle.

Hugh had for many years been watching over the growth of a young
blackthorn sapling. It had arrived at maturity about the time the
diabolical article appeared in "The Quarterly." The supreme moment of
his life came just when the weapon on which he depended was ready.

Returning from the manse, his whole heart and soul set on avenging his
niece, his first act was to dig up the blackthorn so carefully that he
might have enough of the thick root to form a lethal club. Having
pruned it roughly, he placed the butt end in warm ashes, night after
night, to season. Then when it had become sapless and hard, he cut it
to shape, then "put it to pickle," as the saying goes. After a
sufficient time in the salt water, he took it out and rubbed it with
chamois and train-oil for hours. Then he shot a magpie, drained its
blood into a cup, and with it polished the blackthorn till it became a
glossy black with a mahogany tint.

The shillelagh was then a beautiful, tough, formidable weapon, and
when tipped with an iron ferrule was quite ready for action. It became
Hugh's trusty companion. No Sir Galahad ever cherished his shield or
trusted his spear as Hugh Bronte cherished and loved his shillelagh.

When the shillelagh was ready, other preparations were quickly
completed. Hugh made his will by the aid of a local school-master,
leaving all he possessed to his maligned niece, and then, decked out
in a new suit of broadcloth, in which he felt stiff and awkward, he
departed on his mission of vengeance.

He set sail from Warrenpoint for Liverpool by a vessel called the "Sea
Nymph," and walked from Liverpool to Haworth. His brother James had
been over the route a short time previously, and from him he had
received all necessary directions as to the way. He reached the
vicarage on a Sunday, when all, except Martha the old servant, were at
church. At first she looked upon him as a tramp,