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firmly clenched and all over blood. I did not see him use it; he must have used it before I came into the room. In falling he declined upon one side, and the blood burst from him like a torrent from a watering-pot. I was unable to support him, and he fell out of my arms. I think the wound must have been inflicted as soon as I put my foot on the threshold of the door, as its nature was such that the extinction of life must have followed in the twinkling of an eye. I think that not less than two quarts of blood flowed from him in one minute. I am satisfied that a minute did not elapse from the moment of my entering the room until he died, and during that time he said not a word except that which I have already mentioned."

A letter from the Duke of Wellington to the King relating to Castlereagh was produced at the inquest in support of the contention that the unhappy statesman was mad when he cut his throat, as, according to Wellington, he had been deranged for a long time previously. That he was insane is certain, for a few weeks before his death he denied in the House of Lords all knowledge of a certain document and which he held in his hand at the time, and which, indeed, he had brought down to communicate to the house Yet, curiously enough, Castlereagh the lunatic was allowed to hold the very important office of Secretary for Foreign Affairs. Anyway, the jury returned the following somewhat quaint and curious verdict:

"That on Monday, August 12, and for some time previously, the Most Noble Robert, Marquis of Londonderry, under a grievous disorder, did labor and languish, and become in consequence delirious and of insane mind; and that, while in that state, with a knife of iron and steel, he did inflict on himself, on the left side of his neck and of the carotid artery, a wound of one inch in length, and half an inch in depth, of which he instantly died, and that no other person except himself was the cause of his death."

As

The funeral of Castlereagh was marked by an extraordinary demonstration of popular hostility. It was a time of general discontent on account of heavy taxation and repressive social laws, for both of which Castlereagh was held to be mainly responsible. the coffin was being conveyed from the hearse to the Abbey howls of execration were raised by the crowds; and groaning and yelling raged outside during the whole of the funeral service. The feeling of the time with regard to Castlereagh is well expressed by the terrible lines of Shelley, written during the statesman's life:

"I met Murder on the way,
He had a mask like Castlereagh;
Very smooth he looked, yet grim,
Seven bloodhounds followed him.

"All were fat, and well they might,
Be in admirable plight,
For one by one, and two by two,
He tossed them human hearts to chew,
Which from his wide cloak he drew."

Then there are the still flercer, relent. The Tenacity of the

less lines of Byron, written after the suicide:

"So he has cut his throat at last! He! Who?

The man who cut his country's long ago.

So Castlereagh has cut his throat! The worst

Of this is-that his own was not the first!"

All this, perhaps, is ancient history. What remains, tangible, fixed, immutable, is the exulting smile of Castlereagh in the Statesmen's Aisle of Westminster Abbey. I saw that smile, more mocking and exultant than ever, on May 28, 1898, when Gladstone, who tried in vain to undo the work of Pitt and Castlereagh, was being committed to the grave. And thus it is that every reference I see to the Union brings inevitably to my recollection the obscure and unnoticed grave of Henry Grattan and the statue of Castlereagh above it, smiling serenely and triumphantly down the years.

T

Geraldines.

HE young Duke of Leinster, who is only just sixteen, will be (says the "Freeman's Journal'')

a great parti, and will be saved from the fate of the modern young duke-a hunt for an American heiress. A million and a quarter in cash, a noble palace, fine old castles, much other property, and the rank of premier Duke, premier Marquis and premier Earl of Ireland will make this young gentleman a great personage.

His fortune shows the wonderful tenacity of the Geraldines. Any ordinary house would have been extinguished by the troubles which befell the house of Kildare. In the first half of the sixteenth century, for example, one Earl died in the Tower of a broken heart, his son (Silken Thomas) and his six brothers were hung at Tyburn, and his grandson, the eleventh Earl, was hunted like a deer through the length and breadth of Ireland.

The tenacity of the Geraldines is one of the most wonderful things in his

The Ballad of Mollie Maloney. tory. Every one knows that the ori

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Now Mollie Maloney is jist thirty-wan; Her eyes are as bright, but there's gray in her hair,

An' most av the boys she flouted are done

Wid th' days av their foolish youth, they declare

(Too bad for Mollie Maloney!) But Pat, who nivir had blarney enough to get even half a show,

Has won her for life, an' th' joke is on thim-she chose him so long ago; Och, Mollie Maloney, I thank ye for that,

For Mollie, me darlint, ye know I am Pat!

ginal Geraldines were Maurice and William Fitzgerald, the sons of a Norman knight, Gerald FitzWalter, by Nesta, Princess of South Wales. The brothers founded the great houses, some of which, by intermarriages or otherwise, took names other than that of Fitzgerald. The House of Desmond is extinct, but the other eight houses still exist, all with large landed property, and most of them with the whole or portion of the original Geraldine estates. The eight houses are:

1. The Earl of Kildare, representative, the Duke of Leinster.

2 and 3. The Knight of Glin or the Knight of Kerry, represented by the present Knights.

4. The Barons of Lixnaw, represented by Lord Lansdowne, their lineal descendant.

5 and 6. The White Knight and the Seneschal of Imokilly, represented by their descendants, through females, the Earl of Kingston and Sir Penrose Fitzgerald.

7 and 8. The Graces, represented by Sir Percy Grace and the Gerards by Lord Gerard.

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T was a gusty, squally day, which made it difficult for Maggie's legs to carry her towards Carmore as rapidly as the occasion demanded. She made herself as small as possible, held the shawl which covered her head close under her throat, and, in the lulls of the wind, increased her pace to a run. There was really no particular hurry, but the unusualness of her errand seemed to the girl to give no loophole for delay. Crumpled up in her left hand was a slip of paper, on which was scrawled a list of the articles she was to buy and carry back to Ballyclogher.

The luxuries enumerated on the slip of paper were for the entertainment of one guest, Maggie's uncle, her mother's brother, whom she had never seen. She understood him to be rich; indeed, he was always held up by Mrs. Coyle as a model for her husband's imitation. "He's hunderds," she used to say, "hunderds," and it's my belief they're all in goold; ye can see money in his face. It's you might be as warm, Conn, if you'd think av the poor childer."

As the girl struggled on against the wind, her head was busy with thoughts of the uncle who was rich. The word, coming close home as it were, set her imagination dancing, for rich men did not often come near Ballyclogher, and when they did certainly not as guests of Conn Coyle. She knew what poverty was, though that not of the acut

est-she generally had enough to eat; but the idea of riches swept her up into a new world.

She made her purchases, all at one shop, and then found, as was inevitable, that Mrs. Coyle had miscalculated the prices, and she was two shillings short. Mrs. MacDonagh, who kept the store, was quite willing to give credit for the balance, but it seemed to Maggie that this course would be a kind of reflection on the uncle. While she groped hopelessly in her pocket for money which she knew was not there, she saw James Phelan pass the door. An inspiration shot her to his side.

"Jim," she cried, "lind me two shillin', I'm that short. Ye'll have it back to-morrer." "Faith, is it you? Well, well! Two shillin' is it? How do ye think I'd have all that about me?"

"No jokin'. It's a blessin' I saw ye, sure."

"That's thrue," said Jim; "the polees might have had ye else, Maggie."

He produced the money, and she settled the account and took a receipt with an air of grave dignity. When she came out of the shop Jim was waiting.

"Is it you still?" asked Maggie. "An' why not? I'm goin' your way, sure, and we might as well walk in shtep."

"I'm in a mad hurry, Jim."

"Did I ask you to go slow for me?" "Ye did not," said Maggie candidly. "That's a great ugly parcel," said

Jim; "an' too heavy for the likes av you. Just hand it here, Maggie."

"Ye'll not dhrop it? There's things there'd break if ye did."

"I'll howld an to it right enough. What's inside at all? It's morshul heavy!"

"All sorts. We've a visitor comin' to-night-Uncle Frank Power."

"An' who's he?"

"Sure ye've heerd tell av him times an' times. He's mother's brother." "I'd forgot, Maggie."

"I've never set eyes on 'im yet-but he's a grand rich man, I'm towld." "Is he that? Thin what'll he want in Ballyclogher?"

"To see his own people, sure." "That's kind av 'im," said Jim. "Well, anyway, he's comin', kind or not. Don't ketch the parcel by the shtring!"

"Aisy, Maggie, I was only changin'

arms.

"Will I take a turn at it?" "Lave it be, child."

The wind had dropped somewhat, and a smart shower of rain came on. After a time Jim said:

"We'd best shelther a bit." Maggie hesitated. "I could wrap the parcel up in me shawl," she said.

"An' ketch yer death! That's likely! There's no hurry, sure, if he's not comin' till night."

He found a dry spot under a wayside elm. Maggie took the parcel from Jim and carefully placed it close to the trunk; then the pair stood side by side before it and listened to the hiss

of the rain in the leaves and watched the streaming white road.

"Ye'd nade boots in this weather," said Jim, glancing at the girl's bare feet.

"Not at all! What mischief'd a little wet do?" She pressed her toes into the soft earth.

"I'm doin' well now, Maggie." "That's good hearin'," she said. "Ay, I'm doin' well," he repeated. "Ye'll be a'most a woman now, I s'pose?"

"Siventeen last birthday," she said. "Bedad, that's a great age! A'most marryin' time, Maggie. I s'pose ye haven't a notion av it yerself?"

"How would I, wid all thim childer to look afther?"

Jim slipped an arm round her waist and kissed her.

"I thought ye might have," he said. Maggie flushed and closed her eyes for a moment; then they opened again to see the blurred sky and rainy road. "I couldn't," she said softly. Jim released her suddenly and cried, "Whisht! There's Mary Cregan comin'!"

She was opposite the pair almost as soon as Jim spoke-a tall, handsome girl, warmly clad, though less neat than Maggie. She had strong shoes on her feet, too, which should have been sufficient herald of her approach if Jim had not been deaf at the moment. She paused, and looked them up and down with a smile that had something of scorn in it, and at the back of that again a spark of anger.

""Tis a grand day for the like av that, James Phelan!" she said. "Ye might put the comether on grown girls and not childer."

"'Tis a grand day indeed, Mary." said James, avoiding her eyes.

"I'm for Carmore," she said; "are ye comin'?"

"Not now; I've an errand to Ballyclogher."

"Ah, well! good-day to ye." She passed on.

Maggie had stood quite still watching Mary closely all the time.

"She's a hard nail," said Jim, laughing awkwardly.

"She saw!"

"What of that, sure?"

"She'll tell on us."

"Let her!"

"Did ye ever kiss her, Jim?"

"I did, many a time-and others have too. What's there in that to throuble wid? I'd rather kiss you, Maggie." "It's shtopped rainin'," she said. "Give me wan kiss, asthor," he said; "the other I tuk widout lave."

Maggie trembled as she lifted her face to his, and there were tears in her eyes which James Phelan did not see.

At the door of the Coyle cottage, which adjoined the forge, Jim left his companion with a "Good-day, Maggie," and a wave of hand. He had previous. ly appointed to see her on the following day.

When the children came in from school, a riotous mob, they were taken by Maggie to be "put straight," a proc

ess which involved much howling and many tears. She was so full of the morning's episode that she would have preferred not to change the dress she wore; it seemed now to be part of the altered life. In the same way she hesitated to wash the mud from her feet. But of course she did both, and in the act was brought nearer to the practical side of things again.

When she went downstairs her father had come in from the forge, and was sitting, clean and uncomfortable near the hearth. Mrs. Coyle sat opposite to him; the nine children were perched on two wooden benches that ran along the wall. They made way for her with many signals and suppressed giggles. "Whish! Be shtill, there! Yer uncle isn't used to the like av that!"

"God help him, thin!" said Conn. "An' why God help him? Sure, every man can't marry, an' it's well they don't."

"Have yer way, have yer way," said Conn. "I'm thinkin' Frank Power's a sad man, that's all!"

"Faith, thin, 'tis the money does it." "Ye'll harp an that shtring till it breaks!"

"Arrah, Conn, ye've niver a good word for the man, and him me own brother!"

"Sure, one's enough to talk av 'im. If a blessed saint were comin' we couldn't have heerd more noise av it!"

A silence fell upon the party, which was unexpectedly broken by a shockheaded, freckle-faced boy called Barney. He had been gazing for a long time at Maggie's pretty feet, and the words were out before he remembered the solemnity of the occasion.

"Maggie, show us the thrick wid yer toes!"

It was about the only accomplishment that Maggie possessed, and consisted in a curious flexibility of the toes which enabled her to fold them under almost as though they were fingers, and pick up any small object from the ground. This trick was a source of endless delight to the children, who practiced it themselves with an assiduity which promised great future results.

"Not now, pet," said Maggie, running her fingers through Barney's hair.

"The idea!" cried Mrs. Coyle. "When'll ye learn sinse, Barney?"

"Why wouldn't she do the thrick to plaze the boy?" asked Conn. "I've thried times to do it meself."

"Whisht! there's wheels comin'." Mrs. Coyle was at the door in a moment, peering out into the autumn twilight with hands on hips and an anxious tremor at the heart. Uncle Frank Power at last.

It was

He was not a prepossessing man. The little likeness to his sister that he had was, as it were, hidden away in odd corners of his face, which only now and then revealed it as by compulsion. He was small and spare of figure; neat, as became his position; dryly conciliatory in manner, as a person who has to please to live. His face was hard, save for the mouth, which had an un

expected looseness of lips; his eyes were furtive, shooting a sudden glance and then turning aside as though to muse on the impression they had taken. He was a man who habitually masked himself, though with so little art that a close observer saw his small soul bare under the disguise.

The much-debated meal was hardly a social success. To begin with, Power had no great appetite, nor did he pour forth the congratulations which Mrs. Coyle had confidently expected. He ate slowly and thoughtfully, speaking little, and the other three had to restrain their longing hunger out of respect for the extreme gentility of the Belfast draper. He made no references to the old times which are so dear to the Irish heart; he said nothing about the little old house at Killeen, where he and his sister had been brought up; he appeared to have forgotten the episode of the Brown Cow.

Maggie, poor girl, was as quiet as a sitting bird. She was oppressed both by Power's presence and the thought that, for the first time, she had a secret from her parents. Yet under the oppression there was a singing current of joy that made music to her heart, a music hardly to be listened to without bringing the hot blood to her cheeks.

After the meal was over and the two men had their pipes lit, Maggie and her mother pulled one of the benches to the hearth, and the four sat round the fire with folded hands, each waiting for someone else to begin. It was then that Uncle Frank Power made a start.

"Tis long since I've seen ye, Ellen, an' ye might think I'd forgotten ye, but 'twasn't so, faith."

"Av coorse not, Frank." She shot a triumphant glance at Conn.

"I've bin a busy man, Ellen, an' I knew ye were well placed wid Conn here."

"Minds change as well as times," said Conn. "Ye were black agin me wance, Frank."

Power waved his pipe deprecatingly. "Ay," he said, "I'd a fancy for Ellen to marry Tom Blake."

"Who's in jail this two years for as blagyard a thrick as iver a man played," said Conn.

"Thrue for ye, thrue for ye, Ellen did well, an' a fine family, too. Ye'll be proud av thim, Conn."

"I am, an' not wan of thim more throuble than a bird in a cage."

"I sometimes wish," said Power, "that I'd some av me own, for it's well to lave what ye have to yer own blood."

Mrs. Coyle's face epitomized all the joyful emotions, but Conn was staring hard into the peats and did not see.

"I've bin takin' a partner," Power went on, "an' it's our intintion to increase the business. He's a shmart man, wid money, an' he'll take some ay the work off me owld shoulders." He laughed dryly, glanced round the circle, and replaced the pipe in his mouth.

"It's time, sure," said Mrs. Coyle. "I've bin thinkin' ye might shpare me wan av these childer av yours;

not," he added hastily, "a young wan, but, say, Maggie here."

"Me!" Maggie called the word out of a dream: the dream was broken. "Hush, dearie!" said Mrs. Coyle, leaning forward eagerly, and trying to catch Power's uncertain eye.

"She's a fine grown girl, an' 'd do well in the shop. 'Tis a pity to lave her here. In time she'd be a grand help to ye. In six months, or, say nine, afther she'd learnt the business, I'd pay her some wages, an' in the meantime I'd kape her free intirely. The thought just kem to me," he added. "What'd we do widout Maggie at all?" said Conn. "Come here, asthor!"

She went to him and sat on his knee, with her arms round his neck and her head sunk against his shoulder.

"'Tis a fine offer," said Mrs. Coyle vaguely.

"What do ye say, Maggie?" Conn whispered in the girl's ear.

"No, no," she pleaded, and again, "No, no," with a shiver that shook her throat. She clung closer. "Let me shtay wid ye, let me shtay."

Conn held her to him and allowed his pipe to go out. He was a poor man with many clamoring mouths to feed; he was also a man of strong affections; a bitter struggle began in him. Frank Power watched cautiously.

"I'm thinkin' the north mightn't shute the child," said Conn. "An' thin there's the young wans. Who'll see afther thim?"

"Sure Biddy's fourteen, and well able for it. Would ye shtand in the girl's way, Conn?"

"God save us, what talk, woman! Shtand in her way! Is it me harm the child? Ach, Maggie, ye know well yer me own heart's blood!"

"Yes," whispered the girl.

"I say thank ye kindly, Frank Power, and God bless ye for the thought av us. We'll settle what we'll do to-morAff to bed wid ye, Maggie, astor, and lave us to think a bit."

rer.

She slipped from Conn's knee after an embrace piteous with entreaty, kissed her mother and the uncle whom she already regarded with a kind of terror, and went up quietly to bed. It was the first night of the girl's life in which she had experienced true sorrow and the dragging length of the dark hours. Even the many prayers she repeated brought small comfort, for when she had been through them twice her mind wandered while her lips moved. A week before she would have accepted the proposed change, not, indeed, without sorrow, but as part of the necessary round of life. Now it seemed an utter uprooting, terrible as the idea of death.

It was decided that Maggie should go. Frank Power, when he made the offer, knew it was inevitable, and congratulated himself on the brilliant idea which had sent him to see Ellen's eldest girl. Her attractiveness was beyond his hopes; even in his eyes she was pretty, and he saw no more than the shell of her, the accidents of feature and of health. He advanced a meagre sum towards the purchase of

the necessary outfit, to be repaid, he said, when she was earning for herself.

Maggie's parting from James Phelan was a very simple matter after all. Her heart was too big for speech, and his, if not that, at least prompted him to say no more than might have been overheard with safety by any passerby.

Mary Cregan as he knew, had long ears and a longer tongue; it was well to be discreet. But Frank Power, who had a habit of silent prowling, both saw and heard. He said nothing, but that night his lean face looked leaner and his crafty eyes drew closer together under bent brows.

Conn's last words to Maggie were: "Be good, dearie, and whin ye come back we'll be proud av ye."

The change to Maggie from Ballyclogher to Belfast was like moving from free air to a close room. Disappointment met her on the threshold of the new life, for the glorious shop which she had imagined with a plateglass front and sumptuous display of millinery, far finer than anything in Carmore, proved to be a dark little place in a side street, with hardly more room than Mrs. McDonagh's. A good deal of business appeared to be done, but it was mainly with poor people, and instead of handling silks and velvets Maggie had to sell such common stuffs as she had been familiar with from childhood.

Maggie and a companion worked at one counter, Frank Power and his new partner at another facing it. The new partner was an amiable young man, content, it seemed, to work under his senior's direction, and appearing to have no ideas of his own. Power ruled the place. He sat up late at night over his books, long after the household had gone to bed. Once, when Maggie came down to fetch something she had forgotten, she found him in the little counting-house poring over rows of figures like a man whose life depended on the solution of some fantastic puzzle. At the sound of her step he rose, white and trembling; then he cursed her for a plague and drain on him; afterward he made a whining apology, accompanied with frigid endearments, which the girl understood less than his rage.

She wrote to Jim, of course, but received no answer. This did not trouble her much, because she knew that he. was handier with the tongue than with the pen.

She heard from her parents

at rare intervals, but in their letters there was naturally no reference to Jim, as she had told them nothing of that incident of her life. So the weeks passed until six months were over.

The expected payment did not begin from that date; she must wait, Power said, until trade was better-six months or nine had been his words. She should think herself lucky for having clothes and free keep and a friend like his partner to show her the world. At the end of the nine months she asked again, and was again put off. But Maggie's idea of a contract was very simple, and she had much too strong

a spirit to give in tamely to a superior power. She pressed-insisted; Power shuffled, wheedled, and raged by turns. When she found that no advantage was gained she determined to appeal to Riordan.

One evening she had been to his mother's house to tea; afterward he took her for a sail on the Lough. It was as they walked back together that she spoke.

"Mister Riordan," she said, "may I ask ye a question?"

"To be sure, Maggie."

"It's nine months now since I kem here, an' at the end of six or nine I was promised some money."

"Quite right-an' haven't ye got it?" "Not a penny," she said.

"Ye say that?" He stopped short for a moment; then walked on slowly with bent brows.

"I spoke to uncle an' he put me off agin. I thought maybe ye'd see me through wid it, Mister Riordan. Av coorse, if I'm worth no pay, I'll lave, an' welcome."

"The owld blagyard!" Riordan muttered under his breath.

"Ye see," she went on, "I want to take a look at me own people, an' till I've money I'm tied here like a dog to a gate."

"Maggie, ye'll have every penny ye were promised for the last three months to-morrer. On me sowl, I thought ye'd had it."

Maggie did not grasp the full meaning of this; she only thought there had been some mistake. "Ah! thank ye, Mister Riordan," she said, flushing with pleasure.

"Ay, an' if I've my way ye shall have more-all I've got, bedad, and ye can live away from the owld man."

"Am I worth more?" she asked. "Ye're worth all a man can give ye, Maggie. Sure, if ye'll have me ye'll never go near the shop agin. I'm yours for the takin', child, and that's God's thruth!"

The meaning of it rushed upon her like a black mist. Her heart sickened.

"Ach, not that!" she cried. "There's a boy at home who is waitin' for me, an' it's him I'm wearyin' to see!"

Riordan took the blow like a man. After a moment's silence he lifted his head and laid a hand on her shoulder. "If that's so," he said, "I'm done, and not another word'll I say." Maggie smiled at him through tears. "Ye're a good man," she said, "an' God bless ye.'

That night Riordan returned with her to the shop, where Power was at his usual work with the books. Maggie went to bed and slept more happily than she had done since the world had changed for her. But all night in the little counting-house Frank Power stood at bay, until at last, stripped bare of lying and subterfuge, his partner saw him for what he was a swindler and a thief. But Riordan, in his anger, let slip a word of his love for Maggie.

After breakfast, just before the day's business commenced, Riordan called her aside and slipped a packet into her

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MAGGIE WENT AND SAT ON HER FATHER'S KNEE. "Sit down, Maggie," he said. She obeyed him. He lifted a cup as though to drink, then put it down again, and moistened his lips with his tongue. "I'm hard driven," he said, "an' it's you can help me."

"When ye like," he repeated. "And when must I be back, Mr. Riordan?"

"Ah, well, we'll think av that." He untied a parcel; it contained spun-silk shawls, an unprofitable investment for that neighborhood.

"I'm thinkin'," he said, blushing to his hair, "that wan of these'd suit ye fine. Just choose wan, Maggie."

"Ah, ye're too good, Mr. Riordan. What'd I do wid the like av that?"

"Wear it, sure. They're owld stock," he added, diffidently, "an' annyway somethin'll be saved if ye take it. We'll not be here much longer."

"Are ye goin' to lave the shop?" "Ay, that's it. We've ended the partnership."

"Then mustn't I come back?" "I think it's good-by, Maggie, when ye go. But we'll see later."

He laid the shawl aside. "I'll parcel it up for ye," he said.

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"How can I help?"

"Hard driven," he repeated. "An' me gettin' an owld man. I meant no harm, but the luck was dead agin me. I niver had a chanst-a poor man's always kep' down."

"I thought ye were rich, uncle?" "Rich! I'm not worth the price of me funeral, and prison's starin' me in the face."

"But ye've done nothin' wrong. They can't put ye away for bein' poor."

"But they can for stealin,' child, an' that's what I was drove to, God help me! Ay, this minit I might be took!" He shivered and drew a hand across his moist face.

"You a thief!"

"That's the word, an' ye may throw it at me," he wailed. "Maggie, there's only wan can save me, an' that's you." "I've only this," she said, and put the packet Riordan had given her on the table.

"That's no good," he cried. "It's you, an' not money. It's me partner, John Riordan, I've robbed, an' you can save me name. If ye'd marry him he'd

"Ye said 'No?' God save us, where's yer sinse? Let the other wan go." "I can't!"

"Ye must, for the sake of the name! Would ye have yer Own mother's brother put in jail?"

"Mr. Riordan'll not be hard," she said.

"Would ye be that ongrateful?" cried Power, his tense nerves giving way to the press of anger. "Didn't I take ye from the dirt an' feed ye like me own child? Did I do it all for nothin'? An' who's the other ye fancy? The boy I saw ye wid wan night at Ballyclogher? P'raps he'll be the wan as sint ye a letther that I'd the sinse to stop?"

"Ye did that?" she cried, her face flaming. "Ye dared to do that? Ach, ye coward! An' ye brought me here to keep ye out of jail? God forgive ye for a black-hearted man!"

"I'm beside meself wid sorrow," he whined. "That's a hard word ye spoke, Maggie."

"Was it too hard? A dog'd be ashamed to do the like-an' you a man!" Her eyes swept him with scorn. "Do ye think," she went on, "that

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