im, and have been called after him to the present day,
sometimes Darbyites, and sometimes Drivers.

On returning home, Val was observed to be silent and morose. The dashing
speed of his ride to M'Loughlin's was not usual to him, for his motions
were generally slow; it was significant, however, of the greedy spirit
which stimulated him to the long wished for glut of his revenge. Not
so his return. He walked his horse as if he had been a philosopher on
horseback; and when Phil (now quite tipsy), who expected to see him
return with all the savage triumph of vengeance in his looks, saw
that he was dumb, spiritless and absolutely crestfallen, and who also
observed the symptoms we spoke of, he began naturally enough to suspect
that something had gone wrong. His interrogations, however, were
fruitless. Val, on his inquiring the cause of these appearances, told
him in a petulant fit of that ill-temper which is pecular to cowards,
"to go be hanged;" a compliment which dutiful Phil returned to his
worthy father with interest. This was all that passed between them, with
the single exception of an observation which fell from Phil's lips as he
left the dinner-table, late in the evening.

"I tell you what, M'Clutchy, you're a confounded ill-tempered old
scoundrel, an-and what-what's more--o-o-over to your disgrace, a d----d
bad, rotten, and unsound Protestant. How do you ex-expect, sir, that a
Protestant Establishment can be sup-support-ported in this country by
such scandalous con-conduct as this? hip, hip, hurra! Instead of-of
being an ex-example to your son, it is your-your son, M'Clutchy, that is
an example to you, hip, hip, hur--, and so good night to you, I'm--I'm
on for a neat bit of business--that's all. Go to bed, you old dog."

CHAPTER XXX.--The Mountain Grave-Yard

--Dreams of a Broken Heart--The Christian Pastor at his Duty--Melancholy
Meeting between a Mother and her Son--A Death-Bed that the Great
might envy--Phil experiences a Specimen of the Pressure from
without--Retribution--The Death of Valentine M'Clutchy.

It was now about seven o'clock in the evening; and up from the moment
of Val's return, he had scarcely spoken half a dozen words. As Phil was
leaving the room, however, the father called after him:--

"Phil," said he, "come here for a minute."

"Well," said Phil, staggering back, "what's in the wind now?"

"Phil," continued the father, "which of all the blood-hounds is the
greatest and most