and rich people in London and Paris, and the
lord knows where else besides; but never sets his foot, nor spinds a
skurrick here, where the money that pays for his houses, and carriages,
and race-horses, and the wine his foine friends drinks--when his tenants
is starving--comes from. Seeing how things were likely to go, the ould
agent threw up his place rather than rack the tenants any further; this
just suited my gintleman, who sent over a new one, a hard man, wid a
heart of stone, and he drove the poor craytures as a wolf would drive a
flock of shape; they did their best, till their crops failed, to kape
their bits of farms; but then--God help them! they were dead bate--sure
the famine came, and the famine brought on the faver; they couldn't pay;
they were evicted by dozens; and the evictions brought oil something
worse than the famine or faver--something they hungered and thirsted for
more than mate and dhrink."

"What was that, father dear?"

"_Revinge_!" says he.

"Revinge! father--revinge!" I muttered.

"Yis," says he; "but hush! spake low, darlin'! _The boys wint out_!
Well, after that, it's little the moon or stars were wanted to light up
the night while there was a full barn on the estate.

"The country is overrun by the police and the sojers; but it is small
good they have done, or are likely to do. Starving men don't care much
for stale or lead; but--"

Here he paused, and raised his hand.

"Hush! there's futsteps on the road, and me talking loud enough to be
heard a mile off."

As he spoke, he rose, went stealthily to the door, opened it, and looked
out.

"There's nothing to be afraid of, it's naither the peelers nor the
sogers, it's frinds that's coming."

As he wint back to his sate, a fine, handsome young fellow brought in a
lovely girl, exclaiming, as he entered, "God save all here."

"Amen for that same kindly wish," was our answer.

They were ould frinds and playmates, the son and daughter of two of the
snuggest farmers on the estate; and I well knew before I sailed for
Amerikay they were engaged to be married.

"I wasn't wrong," said the young man, as he looked hard at me, "it is
Phil himself. How's every bit of you? sure it's right glad I am to see
you here this blessed night."

"And me, too, Phil," said pretty Mary Sheean, as she took the hand young
O'Rourke left free, and shook it warmly.

We sat for, maybe, an hour or more, talking over ould times; and it was
with a sad hea