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rently sincere, that the credulous mind of the intended bridegroom was struck with a forcible conviction of its truth. Like all persons whose passions are of an evanescent nature, his first emotions were strong. He could not speak for some moments.

"I shall go to her-I shall tell her, if she has deceived me, that

He was rushing hurriedly to the door, when his mother seized him by the arm; he was so accustomed to be led by her, that without any resistance he allowed her to draw him back to the fireside.

"Sit down, sit down, Robert dear, my own darling Robert; it's not worth your while to think so much about a girl like Agnes; there will be ladies, beautiful and high ladies, dying to have you yet, maybe. Wait till hear what I'll tell you next."

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The vain, though wounded heart of the young man, was considerably soothed by her words. He re-seated himself in silence.

Mrs. Murphy drew out the coals, which were merely glimmering with life, and proceeded to light a candle, which she placed on a small table close to where Robert was seated. It was the most meagre of candles, and burned with a mocking gleam of yellow light that was scarce clear enough to shew the thick rust of the battered old tin candlestick from which it arose.

"It's a poor place we have here, sure enough," said Mrs. Murphy, standing up and looking all around the ill-furnished and comfortless kitchen. It's not the like of this place I'll have you, my own darling Robert, living in all your life, and with only a poor schoolmaster's daughter for a wife. Listen to me, now, and don't let Agnes have a thought of your heart. Robert, with all the poverty that's about us here, I'm a rich woman-I have hundreds, maybe thousands."

Robert looked on her in bewildered amazement.

"Don't misdoubt my words; I am rich-very rich for a woman of my rank."

"I know you got all the farm produce sold for a number of years, and might have but then my father always had a regular account of the quantity of everything, and the price it brought, given to him, and I don't see how you could grow so rich."

"Grow rich by our farm!" exclaim

ed Mrs. Murphy, with a tone and ges ture of contempt-" grow rich by what I could steal without your father's knowledge from the miserable fifty acres, half made up of bog and mountain, and paying the best part that was made off it into the greedy pockets of the landlord. No, no; I'd have been a poor woman this day, if I had waited for money coming that way."

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Well, how is it-how have you become rich?" inquired Robert, looking as if he was under the influence of a dream.

Mrs. Murphy made no answer, but she drew from out her pocket a worn and badly-soiled, but well-filled purse, and emptied a heap of gold coins on the ill-kept deal table before Robert.

"It was all I could get in gold of the interest to-day. I've a liking for gold, somehow; that is, if I cared about money at all-but it never did me any good yet.

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At the same moment she put into the hands of her astonished son bank bills to the amount of four thousand, and between six and seven hundred pounds.

"It is mine, Robert-it will be your's, every farthing of it will be your's, if you do as I wish you."

"How did you get it, mother?— what do you want me to do?"

"Robert, that money came when it could do me no good; if it had only come four years sooner-but, then, he might have married her after all; if he had married me, it would only have been for my money; no-it couldn't have done me much good in any way."

She said this in a dreamy, soliloquizing tone, as if unconscious that she had a listener.

"I am saying, Robert," she continued, looking on his face with a slight start of uneasiness, as if fearing he had heard some of the thoughts which she was far from the habit of revealing, "that money came to me when I did not care about anything else in the world except yourself. I was three years married to your father when that money came; I remember the night I got the first news of it; it was just a summer evening, something like this, but earlier in the night; I was alone, as I was this evening before you came in, except that I had you in my arms, and you were only two months old; your

father had gone to bed, for John Murphy was an old man even then; I had sent the servant girl to sleep, too; I did not care for any company but you-you-holding you to my heart was the only pleasure I had in the world; I did not know how it could be a pleasure either, for I did not care for your father, nor for myself, nor for anything in or out of the world; I would not have thought I had a living heart, like other people, only for you; well, there came a knock to the door-a neighbour woman, who was coming home late from the town. Here, Mrs. Murphy,' said she, is a letter for you, and they say it's from London.' She stood waiting a little, to see if I would open and read it to her; but I was not in the habit of speaking much, either with women or men then, and she soon went away. I read the letter; it was to tell me that my brother Daniel, who was dead in London, had left me his money, for the sake of old times, he said, when he and I were children, and used to be beat together, and cry together, and lament about it together. Poor Daniel! I recollect that he and I were not the favourites in our family. We were neither the eldest nor the youngest, and somehow we happened to miss the indulgence that is likely to be bestowed on the first and the last of the family. The end of it was, that Daniel went away none of us knew where, when he was seventeen, and I had never heard what he had done with himself, until the letter came. I grew sick when I saw he had made me his heirthat was the first feeling it gave me. I had married old John Murphy. I had a heart so black, that all the light of all the gold and silver in the world could not cheer it. I had lost all relish for everything-it was all one to me whether the sun shone, or the rain rained. I might have taken you, and, with my brother's legacy, went away to some place of the world far from this, and tried to forget the life I had escaped; but I had not activity of mind even to do that, and, besides, when it came to my leaving old John Murphy, I could not do it. He had come and offered me his love when another had forsaken me, and when I was sick, and miserable, and poor, and tormented in my own family, he was the only one to offer me his heart and house. He was

kind to me, too, and let me have my own way, though his temper was very bad, to be sure, and he was always a dying creature. I was grateful to him, however, for the good he had done, as far as he was able-I stayed with him, but I told him nothing concerning this legacy-it could have done him no good; he had enough for the rank he was reared in-thousands and millions of money could not have cured his sores, and his unsound constitution. I let my money remain at interest, and now, Robert, I shall give it all to

you."

"To me! to me!" cried Robert, with a face and voice of such unutterable delight, that it was evident the love of money, though it had been a passion hitherto but little excited in his nature, was in reality more powerful than his feeling for Agnes.

"I shall give it every farthing to you, on one condition."

"What is it? I shall do it."

His mother looked on him earnestly, as if anxious to ascertain the exact li mits of her power over him.

"Tell me tell me, if it is not impossible."

"No, it is easily done. I shall tell you in the morning; it is late, now, and you must go to sleep. But you can dream of all the delights which money can bestow on the young and unbroken in spirit like you. Think of the world there is, away beyond those bogs and mountains, which have shut you in ever since you were born. You were not made to live always as you have lived, my own boy. You have the something in you that shews you were made to be a gentleman."

Robert's cheeks glowed, and his eyes kindled, as his mind drank in deep draughts of the intoxicating essence of vanity which his mother administered to him.

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،، Let me know what I am to do, now, mother-for pity's sake tell me before I go to sleep, and I'll promise."

"In the morning, when you are ready to go to marry Agnes, I shall tell you what you must do, if you wish to get all my money."

Marry Agnes!" he repeated, as if the words brought him back from some new golden world, in which Agnes and his love had been completely forgotten, "but you told me something about her and Sergeant Morton."

"It is no matter; when you are

going to marry Agnes to-morrow, you shall know what I require of you."

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And the money shall be mine?" he cried, impatient to have it in his grasp.

Yes, yes; and you will have the clever heart to spend it happily, as your poor mother could not do; but now go to bed, or you will be a bleareyed bridegroom to-morrow-go to bed."

She placed the candlestick in his hand. He hesitated for a little; but knowing by the expression of her face that he would obtain no further satisfaction from her, he bade her good night, and went to dream of money and happiness.

All were noisy and mirthful, but in the loud and reiterated laugh of the young bridegroom there was some. thing strange and mysterious. His eyes glowed and his cheeks burned, as if with fever; yet, when Agnes inquired softly if he was well, he said, "Yes, very well.”

They had been married by the Presbyterian clergyman, in the bride's house, as was the custom at that period. The marriage had been performed before dinner, and now a large and joyous party were celebrating the happy event, by feasting, and drinking, and talking, and jesting, with much zest and energy. If studied refinement was wanting, there was a warmth, and cordiality, and sincerity, the palpable manifestations of which are often banished from a more polished circle. There was a look of free and unthinking happiness on almost every face except that of the bridegroom. He did not seem sad either to a common observer; for his face was one perpetual smile, and his voice had the tone of unceasing laughter, except at intervals, when it became husky and broken. But all his mirth seemed the joy of delirium to his bride Agnes, who was the only one of the party gifted with any degree of observation. She gazed wonderingly on him. She looked for the glow of love she had been accustomed to see in his soft, fond eyes; but those eyes were now strange and hard to her, and filled with incomprehensible meanings. In place of the long and earnest gaze she had been accustomed to receive from

him, his glances were quick and stolen, and he seemed anxious to avoid meeting her eyes. An expression of something she knew not what-of evil and gloom pervaded his whole countenance, even whilst the features were writhing in forced smiles. She longed to question him concerning what it all meant. She would have asked him, with her natural frank-heartedness, the meaning of every constrained smile and look, had they only been in some solitary place had they but been by themselves two, in the little nook overshadowed by the large rock and the one solitary old fir-tree, and the clustres of thick furze-that place where they had so often met as lovers; but in the close, crowded, small parlour in her father's house, with every eye on her, and every ear listening, she could not speak-she could only think her own deep and sorrowful thoughts. And much cause was there for the bitterness of those thoughts. She had entered into the bond of marriagethe awful bond which in life there is no cancelling; and now, for the first time, she saw strongly marked on the face of her bridegroom the indications of some black and fearful passions, which she had never even dreamed of finding in his nature: the bright gold of her pure love had gilt him so well before this hour-and now all had so suddenly become dimmed and changed. She was astonished and bewildered, and could have fancied that she was gazing on the face of her Robert in some dream, but from such hallucinations the noise and mirth of the wedding party quickly recalled her always to the actual state of things.

The bridegroom moved restlessly from place to place. One moment he would be seated by his bride, and addressing to her some common-place observation, with a voice and manner strange, excited, and incomprehensible he would laugh when nothing mirthful had been spoken: and then, with a stolen glance on the face of Agnes, a short, quick sigh would suddenly arrest his words. She was in truth a fair bride, one of those young, bright, and high-souled creatures, on whom the eyes of all must gaze with delight. She was dressed in a robe of simple white muslin, with a few judiciously and gracefully disposed white ribbons, and natural pink roses, in her hair and in her bosom. In the

early part of the day, a quiet but deep happiness was reflected from her eyes and from her whole face; but now there was a pensive, enquiring, and most thoughtful cast on her countenance, as she observed and reflected on the strange conduct of her bridegroom.

He would start away from her side in the middle of a sentence, and she would see him laughing and talking to some other individual of the company in the same mysterious and aimless manner.

This strange manner could not be accounted for on the score of inebriation, as he drank most sparingly of the native beverage of Ireland whiskey; which, at the period in question, was indulged in on occasions of festivity, to a much greater extent than at present. Whilst pressing the guests to partake freely, he preserved a strict guard over himself, though every moment some kind of unaccountable mental intoxication was more and more overpowering his mind.

The shades of the summer evening had come on; the mirthful strains of a violin resounded from the room usually appropriated to the school kept by the bride's father. The young brothers of Agnes had arranged a dance there, and a brisk reel had been opened by the bride after much solicitation, for she felt few impulses for dancing. She had seated herself, and in a short period, Robert was seated by her; he took her hand suddenly, and looked earnestly in her face

"You and Serjeant Morton-yourselves two-had a pleasant conversation in the public house at L—————, last Friday-had you not?" he said, speaking in her ear in a low, quick voice.

"Serjeant Morton!" she repeated, in much astonishment, "I never spoke to him in my life."

"I have been told you did last Friday," reiterated the bridegroom.

"Last Friday-Serjeant Morton," she said musingly. "Ah! let me see,

there has been some sad mistake here. I was in L last Friday, I and my two brothers, and we did see Serjeant Morton and my poor cousin; poor Agnes, you know, whom we have not visited with this while, because her conduct is not too correct, and she would not take my father's advice, who has done all he could for his brother's daughter. We saw her going into a public house to drink, I suppose, with Serjeant Morton, and I

was so sorry-I could have given the world to have taken her away with us; but you know she does not mind us of late-poor cousin Agnes."

"Then it was not my Agnes was drinking with that serjeant."

"If you do not believe your poor Agnes, ask my brothers—ask Serjeant Morton himself."

"It is no matter it is no matter to me now-I've sworn to go-she made me swear it-yet I'm glad you were not with the serjeant, Agnes.” He took her hand and pressed it; his lips became white and trembled; he bestowed one lingering look on her face -then he suddenly turned away, and she thought he had gone to speak with some of the company.

Her spirits became lighter, for she thought she knew now why there had been a cloud on his brow. She believed her explanation concerning Serjeant Morton had satisfied him; his last look had something of his old kindness in it; therefore her eyes brightened, and her cheeks glowed, as she listened to the gay music, and looked on the mirthful, happy, dancing party.

When about a quarter of hour had elspsed, she looked round for her bridegroom; she gazed on every face and figure through the small, crowded dancing-room, but he was not to be

seen.

A presentiment of some fearful evil struck on her heart, but she sat like a silent statue still gazing on the crowd before her; minute after minute passed away, and he did not come. She watched the door-her eyes fixed movelessly on that door; she was addressed by some of her female companions, but she could not answer-her lips were parched-she had no power of utterance, still she neither moved nor seemed to breathe.

"Where is the bridegroom?" became at last the general enquiry. The violin became silent-the dancers paused. A search was made within the house and without, but Robert could not be found; all became confusion. The bride was removed to a private apartment; she neither wept, nor sighed, nor fainted; but she sat where they placed her-the functions of life seemed almost to stand within her frame.

After much search and much conjecture, the father of the bride went out, and hastily took the road leading to Robert Murphy's house. It was a

calm, pleasant, summer evening; the stars looked down in clusters from their deep purple clouds, gazing pla cidly on our small, troubled world. There was a feeling of tranquillity in the soft evening air which came over the excited brow of the unhappy father with a kind of mockery at that moment, for his thoughts were stormy and overwhelming. The sight of the pale, patient, but most sorrowful face of his beloved Agnes was before his eyes as he walked hurriedly on, and he could not avoid execrating the day in which she had formed an engagement with Robert Murphy, for whose unaccountable absence at such a time he could see no excuse.

Without the ceremony of knocking at the door, he abruptly entered John Murphy's house. The kitchen was most dimly lighted by a few glimmering turf embers, and over the hearth Mrs. Murphy was sitting in a recumbent or crouching position. She was quite alone, the old man had been long in bed, and the servant girl was also in her slumbers.

"Where is Robert?" cried the father of Agnes in a loud, sharp voice, gazing all round without seeing the object of his search. ،، Where is Robert, I say?-woman what have you done with your son?"

He spoke sternly, walking to her side and fixing his eyes on her face. She returned his gaze with the utmost coolness and indifference.

"My son is now master of himself and of a good fortune, thank God."

"But where is he?-woman, tell me all?" exclaimed the father, almost choking with grief and indignation.

"He is gone from this country, then -do you think I would allow my son to live with your daughter?"

"Gone from this country!" repeated the poor schoolmaster, in a husky voice, and passing his hand over his temples as if he dreaded some sudden attack of madness or disease. "Wo. man are you raving, or am I mad— your son was married to my daughter this morning, and you say he has left the country now."

"It is true; he has left Agnes to yourself

"Great God! is this true?" cried the father, clasping his hands, and looking upwards.

"She will never see him again," cried Mrs. Murphy, with a tone of bitter triumph; and as a transient

gleam of fire-light shone on her face, her eyes were seen glaring with fierceness on the schoolmaster, and her whole countenance exhibited indications of something approaching to incipient, though rarely perceptible insanity.

The schoolmaster made no answer— no sound escaped his lips for some moments; but his whole frame shook, and his face was like that of a dying

man.

"Good God! my poor Agnes-my darling girl"-his lips continued to move in prayer.

"Go home-I want to sleep," cried Mrs. Murphy, in a voice more and more approaching to the sharp scream of madness.

"Monster-fiend!" cried the schoolmaster, suddenly withdrawing his eyes from the heaven to which he had applied for aid, in his agony, and fixing them on the author of his sorrow-"if you had only sent your son away before you allowed him to marry my girl -if you had only sent him yesterday, I would have bid God's blessing go with him and you both, and my Agnes would have been happily rid of him ; but now to send him away now, when they are married! Woman, there is a vengeance everlasting

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Henry Allen, this is the just retribution of Heaven which I have wrought on you. Remember the past— remember how you vowed before God to marry me; yes, and, Henry Allen, we were married in our vows that moonlight evening, before God; yet only six months afterwards you married the mother of Agnes. That act of yours, Henry Allen, took away the innocent young girl's heart from me, and put another in its place-a harder and stronger heart, that has lived to see you well punished this day."

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The schoolmaster gazed on her with a bewildered look, as if he felt under the strong influence of a dream. "She is mad," he said half aloud. It is not possible you can recollect the folly that happened twenty-six or thirty years ago. My God! we are different people now we are not the same persons this many a day that we were then; that was only a dream of a foolish boy and girl. It cannot be that you remember it yet; it is impossible that you could take revenge for that now."

"Well, well-'tis no matter whether I remember it or not. I would not look at your daughter sitting here as the wife of my son; so go out of my

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