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The old man became very little wiser by the information of his servant, and said in reply, “I hope, Andy, he's not a Papist;” but checking the unworthy prejudice—and in him such prejudices were singularly strong in words, although often feeble in fact he added, “it matters not—we owe our lives to him—the deepest and most important obligation that one man can owe to another. I am, however, scarcely able to stand; I feel be-numbed and exhausted, and wish to get home as soon as possible.”

“Mr. Reilly,” said Andy, “this gentleman is very weak and ill; and as you have acted so much like a brave man and a gentleman, maybe you'd have no objection to see us safe home.”

“It is my intention to do so,” replied Reilly. “I could not for a moment think of leaving either him or you to the mercy of this treacherous man, who dishonors a noble name. Randal,” he proceeded, addressing the Rapparee, “mark my words!—if but a single hair of this gentleman's head, or of any one belonging to him, is ever injured by you or your gang, I swear that you and they will swing, each of you, from as many gibbets, as soon as the course of the law can reach you. You know me, sir, and my influence over those who protect you. As for you, Fergus,” he added, addressing one of the Rapparee's followers, “you are, thank God! the only one of my blood who has ever disgraced it by leading such a lawless and guilty life. Be advised by me—leave that man of treachery,rapine, and murder—abandon him and re-form your life—and if you are disposed to become a good and an industrious member of society, go to some other country, where the disgrace you have incurred in this may not follow you. Be advised by me, and you shall not want the means of emigrating. Now begone; and think, each of you, of what I have said.”

The Rapparee glanced at the noble-looking young fellow with the vindictive ferocity of an enraged bull, who feels a disposition to injure you, but is restrained by terror; or, which is quite as appropriate, a cowardly but vindictive mastiff, who eyes you askance, growls, shows his teeth, but has not the courage to attack you.

“Do not look at me so, sir,” said Reilly; “you know I fear you not.”

“But the meantime,” replied the Rapparee, “what's to prevent me from putting a bullet into you this moment, if I wish to do it?”

“There are ten thousand reasons against it,” returned Reilly. “If you did so, in less than twenty-four hours you would find yourself in Sligo jail—or, to come nearer the truth, in less than five minutes you would find yourself in hell.”

“Well, now, suppose I should make the trial,” said the Rapparee. “You don't know, Mr. Reilly, how you have crossed me to-night. Suppose now I should try—and suppose, too, that not one of you three should leave the spot you stand on only as corpses—wouldn't I have the advantage of you then?”

Reilly turned towards the ruined chapel, and simply raising his right hand, about eight or ten persons made their appearance; but, restrained by signal from him, they did not advance.

“That will do,” said he. “Now, Randal, I hope you understand your position. Do not provoke me again; for if you do I will surround you with toils from which you could as soon change your fierce and brutal nature as escape. Yes, and I will take you in the midst of your ruffian guards, and in the deepest of your fastnesses, if ever you provoke me as you have done on other occasions, or if you ever injure this gentleman or any individual of his family. Come, sir,” he proceeded, addressing the old man, “you are now mounted—my horse is in this old ruin—and in a moment I shall be ready to accompany you.”

Reilly and his companions joined our travellers, one of the former having offered the old squire a large frieze great-coat, which he gladly accepted, and having thus formed a guard of safety for him and his faithful attendant, they regained the old road we I have described, and resumed their journey.

When they had gone, the Rapparee and his companions looked after them with blank faces for some minutes.

“Well,” said their leader, “Reilly has knocked up our game for this night. Only for him I'd have had a full and sweet revenge. However, never mind: it'll go hard with me, or I'll have it yet. In the mane time it won't be often that such another opportunity will come in our way.”

“Well, now that it is over, what was your intention, Randal?” asked the person to whom Reilly had addressed himself.

“Why,” replied the miscreant, “after the deed was done, what was to prevent us from robbing the house to-night, and taking away his daughter to the mountains. I have long had my eye on her, I can tell you, and it'll cost me a fall, or I'll have her yet.”

“You had better,” replied Fergus Reilly, for such was his name, “neither make nor meddle with that family afther this night. If you do, that terrible relation of mine will hang you like a dog.”

“How will he hang me like a dog?” asked the Rapparee, knitting his shaggy eyebrows, and turning upon him a fierce and gloomy look.

“Why, now, Randal, you know as well as I do,” replied the other, “that if he only raised his finger against you in the country, the very people that harbor both you and us would betray us, aye, seize us, and bind us hand and foot, like common thieves, and give us over to the authorities. But as for himself, I believe you have sense enough to let him alone. When you took away Mary Traynor, and nearly kilt her brother, the young priest—you know they were Reilly's tenants—I needn't tell you what happened: in four hours' time he had the country up, followed you and your party—I wasn't with you then, but you know it's truth I'm spakin'—and when he had five to one against you, didn't he make them stand aside until he and you should decide it between you? Aye, and you know he could a' brought home every man of you tied neck and heels, and would, too, only that there was a large reward offered for the takin' of you livin' or dead, and he scorned to have any hand in it on that account.”

“It was by a chance blow he hit me,” said the Rapparee—“by a chance blow.”

“By a couple dozen chance blows,” replied the other; “you know he knocked you down as fast as ever you got up—I lave it to the boys here that wor present.”

“There's no use in denyin' it, Randal,” they replied; “you hadn't a chance wid him.”

“Well, at all events,” observed the Rapparee, “if he did beat me, he's the only man in the country able to do it; but it's not over, curse him—Ill have another trial with him yet.”

“If you take my advice,” replied Reilly, “you'll neither make nor meddle with him. He's the head o' the Catholics in this part of the country, and you know that; aye, and he's their friend, and uses the friendship that the Protestants have towards him for their advantage, wherever he can. The man that would injure Willy Reilly is an enemy to our religion, as well as to every thing that's good and generous; and mark me, Randal, if ever you cross him in what he warned you against this very night, I'll hang you myself, if there wasn't another livin' man to do it, and to the back o' that again I say you must shed no blood so long as I am with you.”

“That won't be long, then,” replied the Rapparee, pulling out a purse; “there's twenty guineas for you, and go about your business; but take care, no treachery.”

“No,” replied the other, “I'll have none of your money; there's blood in it. God forgive me for ever joinin' you. When I want money I can get it; as for treachery, there's none of it in my veins; good-night, and remember my words.”

Having thus spoken, he took his way along the same road by which the old squire and his party went.

“That fellow will betray us,” said the Rapparee.

“No,” replied his companions firmly, “there never was treachery in his part of the family; he is not come from any of the Queen's O'Reillys.* We wish you were as sure of every man you have as you may be of him.”

* Catholic families who were faithful and loyal to Queen

Elizabeth during her wars in Ireland were stigmatized by the

nickname of the Queen's friends, to distinguish them from

others of the same name who had opposed her, on behalf of

their religion, in the wars which desolated Ireland during

her reign; a portion of the family of which we write were on

this account designated as the Queen's O'Reillys.

“Well, now,” observed their leader, “a thought strikes me; this ould squire will be half dead all night. At any rate he'll sleep like a top. Wouldn't it be a good opportunity to attack the house—aise him of his money, for he's as rich as a Jew—and take away the Colleen Bawn? We'll call at Shane Bearna's** stables on our way and bring the other boys along wid us. What do you say?”

** Shane Bearna was a celebrated Rapparee, who, among his

other exploits, figured principally as a horse-stealer. He

kept the stolen animals concealed in remote mountain caves,

where he trimmed and dyed them in such a way as made it

impossible to recognize them. These caves are curiosities at

the present day, and are now known as Shane Bearna's

Stables. He was a chief in the formidable gang of the

celebrated Redmond O'Manion. It is said of him that he was

called Bearna because he never had any teeth; but tradition

tells us that he could, notwithstanding, bite a piece out of

a thin plate of iron with as much ease as if it were

gingerbread.

“Why, that you'll hang yourself, and every man of us.”

“Nonsense, you cowardly dogs,” replied their leader indignantly; “can't we lave the country?”

“Well, if you're bent on it,” replied his followers, “we won't be your hindrance.”

“We can break up, and be off to America,” he added.

“But what will you do with the Cooleen Bawn, if you take her?” they asked.

“Why, lave her behind us, afther showin' the party creature the inside of Shane Bearea's stables. She'll be able to find her way back to her father's, never fear. Come, boys, now or never. To say the truth, the sooner we get out of the country, at all events, the better.”

The Rapparee and his men had moved up to the door of the old chapel already alluded to, whilst this conversation went on; and now that their dreadful project had been determined on, they took a short cut across the moors, in order to procure additional assistance for its accomplishment.

No sooner had they gone, however, than an individual, who had been concealed in the darkness within, came stealthily to the door, and peeping cautiously out, at length advanced a few steps and looked timidly about him. Perceiving that the coast was clear, he placed himself under the shadow of the old walls—for there was now sufficient light to cast a shadow from any prominent object; and from thence having observed the direction which the Rapparee and his men took, without any risk of being seen himself, he appeared satisfied. The name of this individual—who, although shrewd and cunning in many things, was nevertheless deficient in reason—or rather the name by which he generally went, was Tom Steeple, a sobriquet given to him on account of a predominant idea which characterized and influenced his whole conversation. The great delight of this poor creature was to be considered the tallest individual in the kingdom, and indeed nothing could be more amusing than to witness the manner in which he held up his head while he walked, or sat, or stood. In fact his walk was a complete strut, to which the pride, arising from the consciousness of, or rather the belief in, his extraordinary height gave an extremely ludicrous appearance. Poor Tom was about five feet nine in height, but imagined himself to be at least a foot higher. His whole family were certainly tall, and one of the greatest calamities of the poor fellow's life was a bitter reflection that he himself was by several inches the lowest of his race. This was the only exception he made with respect to height, but so deeply did it affect him that he could scarcely ever allude to it without shedding tears. The life he had was similar in most respects to that of his unhappy class. He wandered about through the country, stopping now at one farmer's house, and now at another's, where he always experienced a kind reception, because he was not only amusing and inoffensive, but capable of making himself useful as a messenger and drudge. He was never guilty of a dishonest act, nor ever known to commit a breach of trust; and as a quick messenger, his extraordinary speed of foot rendered him unrivalled. His great delight, however, was to attend sportsmen, to whom he was invaluable as a guide and director. Such was his wind and speed of foot that, aided by his knowledge of what is termed the lie of the country, he was able to keep up with any pack of hounds that ever went out. As a soho man he was unrivalled. The form of every hare for miles about was known to him, and if a fox or a covey of partridges were to be found at all, he was your man. In wild-fowl shooting he was infallible. No pass of duck, widgeon, barnacle, or curlew, was unknown to him. In fact, his principal delight was to attend the gentry of the country to the field, either with harrier, foxhound, or setter. No coursing match went right if Torn were not present; and as for night shooting, his eye and ear were such as, for accuracy of observation, few have ever witnessed. It is true he could subsist a long time without food, but, like the renowned Captain Dalgetty, when an abundance of it happened to be placed before him, he displayed the most indefensible ignorance as to all knowledge of the period when he ought to stop, considering it his bounden duty on all occasions to clear off whatever was set before him—a feat which he always accomplished with the most signal success.

“Aha” exclaimed Tom, “dat Red Rapparee is tall man, but not tall as Tom; him no steeple like Tom; but him rogue and murderer, an' Tom honest; him won't carry off Cooleen Bawn dough, nor rob her fader avder. Come, Tom, Steeple Tom, out with your two legs, one afore toder, and put Rapparee's nose out o' joint. Cooleen Bawn dats good to everybody, Catlieks (Catholics) an' all, an' often ordered Tom many a bully dinner. Hicko! hicko! be de bones of Peter White—off I go!”

Tom, like many other individuals of his description, was never able to get over the language of childhood—a characteristic which is often appended to the want of reason, and from which, we presume, the term “innocent” has been applied in an especial manner to those who are remarkable for the same defect.

Having uttered the words we have just recited, he started off at a gait, peculiar to fools, which is known by the name of “a sling trot,” and after getting out upon the old road he turned himself in the direction which Willy Reilly and his party had taken, and there we beg to leave him for the present.

The old squire felt his animal heat much revived by the warmth of the frieze coat, and his spirits, now that the dreadful scene into which he had been so unexpectedly cast had passed away without danger, began to rise so exuberantly that his conversation became quite loquacious and mirthful, if not actually, to a certain extent, incoherent.

“Sir,” said he, “you must come home with me—confound me, but you must, and you needn't say nay, now, for I shall neither take excuse nor apology. I am a hospitable man, Mr.—what's this your name is?”

“My name, sir,” replied the other, “is Reilly—William Reilly, or, as I am more generally called, Willy Reilly. The name, sir, though an honorable one, is, in this instance, that of an humble man, but one who, I trust, will never disgrace it.”

“You must come home with me, Mr. Reilly. Not a word now.”

“Such is my intention, sir,” replied Reilly. “I shall not leave you until I see that all risk of danger is past—until I place you safely under your own roof.”

“Well, now,” continued the old squire, “I believe a Papist can be a gentleman—a brave man—a man of honor, Mr. Reilly.”

“I am not aware that there is any thing in his religion to make him either dishonorable or cowardly, sir,” replied Reilly with a smile.

“No matter,” continued the other, who found a good deal of difficulty in restraining his prejudices on that point, no matter, sir, no matter, Mr.—a—a—oh, yes, Reilly, we will have nothing to do with religion—away with it—confound religion, sir, if it prevents one man from being thankful, and grateful too, to another, when that other has saved his life. What's your state and condition in society, Mr.—? confound the scoundrel! he'd have shot me. We must hang that fellow—the Red Rapparee they call him—a dreadful scourge to the country; and, another thing, Mr.—Mr. Mahon—you must come to my daughter's wedding. Not a word now—by the great Boyne, you must. Have you ever seen my daughter, sir?”

“I have never had that pleasure,” replied Reilly, “but I have heard enough of her wonderful goodness and beauty.”

“Well, sir, I tell you to your teeth that I deny your words—you have stated a falsehood, sir—a lie, sir.”

“What do you mean, sir?” replied Reilly, somewhat indignantly. “I am not in the habit of stating a falsehood, nor of submitting tamely to such an imputation.”

“Ha, ha, ha, I say it's a lie still, my friend. What did you say? Why, that you had heard enough of her goodness and beauty. Now, sir, by the banks of the Boyne, I say you didn't hear half enough of either one or other. Sir, you should know her, for although you are a Papist you are a brave man, and a gentleman. Still, sir, a Papist is not—curse it, this isn't handsome of me, Willy. I beg your pardon. Confound all religions if it goes to that. Still at the same time I'm bound to say as a loyal man that Protestantism is my forte, Mr. Reilly—there's where I'm strong, a touch of Hercules about me there, Mr. Reilly—Willy, I mean. Well, you are a thorough good fellow, Papist and all, though you—ahem!—never mind though, you shall see my daughter, and you shall hear my daughter; for, by the great Boyne, she must salute the man that saved her father's life, and prevented her from being an orphan. And yet see, Willy, I love that girl to such a degree that if heaven was open for me this moment, and that Saint Peter—hem!—I mean the Apostle Peter, slid to me, 'Come, Folliard, walk in, sir,' by the great Deliverer that saved us from Pope and Popery, brass money, and—ahem! I beg your pardon—well, I say if he was to say so, I wouldn't leave her. There's affection for you; but she deserves it. No, if ever a girl was capable of keeping an old father from heaven she is.”

“I understand your meaning, sir,” replied Reilly with a smile, “and I believe she is loved by every one who has the pleasure of knowing her—by rich and poor.”

“Troth, Mr. Reilly,” observed Andy, “it's a sin for any one to let their affections, even for one of their own childer, go between them and heaven. As for the masther, he makes a god of her. To be sure if ever there was an angel in this world she is one.”

“Get out, you old whelp,” exclaimed his master; “what do you know about it?—you who never had wife or child? isn't she my only child?—the apple of my eye? the love of my heart?”

“If you loved her so well you wouldn't make her unhappy then.”

“What do you mean, you despicable old Papist?”

“I mean that you wouldn't marry her to a man she doesn't like, as you're goin' to do. That's a bad way to make her happy, at any rate.”

“Overlook the word Papist, Mr. Reilly, that I applied to that old idolater—the fellow worships images; of course you know, as a Papist, he does—ahem!—but to show you that I don't hate the Papist without exception, I beg to let you know, sir, that I frequently have the Papist priest of our parish to dine with me; and if that isn't liberality the devil's in it. Isn't that true, you superstitious old Padareen? No, Mr. Reilly, Mr. Mahon—Willy, I mean—I'm a liberal man, and I hope we'll be all saved yet, with the exception of the Pope—ahem! yes, I hope we shall all be saved.”

“Throth, sir,” said Andy, addressing himself to Reilly, “he's a quare gentleman, this. He's always abusing the Papists, as he calls us, and yet for every Protestant servant undher his roof he has three Papists, as he calls us. His bark, sir, is worse than his bite, any day.”

“I believe it,” replied Reilly in a low voice, “and it's a pity that a good and benevolent man should suffer these idle prejudices to sway him.”

“Divil a bit they sway him, sir,” replied Andy; “he'll damn and abuse them and their religion, and yet he'll go any length to serve one o' them, if they want a friend, and has a good character. But here, now we're at the gate of the avenue, and you'll soon see the Cooleen Bawn”

“Hallo!” the squire shouted out, “what the devil! are you dead or asleep there? Brady, you Papist scoundrel, why not open the gate?”

The porter's wife came out as he uttered the words, saying, “I beg your honor's pardon. Ned is up at the Castle;” and whilst speaking she opened the gate.

“Ha, Molly!” exclaimed her master in a tone of such bland good nature as could not for a moment be mistaken; “well, Molly, how is little Mick? Is he better, poor fellow?”

“He is, thank God, and your honor.”

“Hallo, Molly,” said the squire, laughing, “that's Popery again. You are thanking God and me as if we were intimate acquaintances. None of that foolish Popish nonsense. When you thank God, thank him; and when you thank me, why thank me; but don't unite us, as you do him and your Popish saints, for I tell you, Molly, I'm no saint; God forbid! Tell the doctorman to pay him every attention, and to send his bill to me when the child is properly recovered; mark that—properly recovered.”

A noble avenue, that swept along with two or three magnificent bends, brought them up to a fine old mansion of the castellated style, where the squire and his two equestrian attendants dismounted, and were ushered into the parlor, which they found brilliantly lighted up with a number of large wax tapers. The furniture of the room was exceedingly rich, but somewhat curious and old-fashioned. It was such, however, as to give ample proof of great wealth and comfort, and, by the heat of a large peat fire which blazed in the capacious hearth, it communicated that sense of warmth which was in complete accordance with the general aspect of the apartment. An old gray-haired butler, well-powdered, together with two or three other servants in rich livery, now entered, and the squire's first inquiry was after his daughter.

“John,” said he to the butler, “how is your mistress?” but, without waiting for a reply, he added, “here are twenty pounds, which you will hand to those fine fellows at the hall-door.”

“Pardon me, sir,” replied Reilly, “those men are my tenants, and the sons of my tenants: they have only performed towards you a duty, which common humanity would require at their hands towards the humblest person that lives.”

“They must accept it, Mr. Reilly—they must have it—they are humble men—and as it is only the reward of a kind office, I think it is justly due to them. Here, John, give them the money.”

It was in vain that Reilly interposed; the old squire would not listen to him. John was, accordingly, dispatched to the hall steps, but found that they had all gone.

At this moment our friend Toni Steeple met the butler, whom he approached with a kind of wild and uncouth anxiety.

“Aha! Mista John,” said he, “you tall man too, but not tall as Tom Steeple—ha, ha—you good man too, Mista John—give Tom bully dinners—Willy Reilly, Mista John, want to see Willy Reilly.”

“What do you want with him, Tom? he's engaged with the master.”

“Must see him, Mista John; stitch in time saves nine. Hicko! hicko! God's sake, Mista John: God's sake! Up dere;” and as he spoke he pointed towards the sky.

“Well, but what is your business, then? What have you to say to him? He's engaged, I tell you.”

Tom, apprehensive that he might not get an opportunity of communicating with Reilly, bolted in, and as the parlor door stood open, he saw him standing near the large chimney-piece.

“Willy Reilly!” he exclaimed in a voice that trembled with earnestness, “Willy Reilly, dere's news for you—for de squire too—bad news—God's sake come wid Tom—you tall too, Willy Reilly, but not tall as Tom is.”

“What is the matter, Tom?” asked Reilly; “you look alarmed.”

“God's sake, here, Willy Reilly,” replied the kind-hearted fool, “come wid Tom. Bad news.”

“Hallo!” exclaimed the squire, “what is the matter? Is this Tom Steeple? Go to the kitchen, Tom, and get one of your 'bully dinners'—my poor fellow—off with you—and a pot of beer, Tom.”

An expression of distress, probably heightened by his vague and unconscious sense of the squire's kindness, was depicted strongly on his countenance, and ended in a burst of tears.

“Ha!” exclaimed Reilly, “poor Tom, sir, was with us to-night on our duck-shooting excursion, and, now that I remember, remained behind us in the old ruin—and then he is in tears. What can this mean? I will go with you, Tom—excuse me, sir, for a few minutes—there can be no harm in hearing what he has to say.”

He accompanied the fool, with whom he remained for about six or eight minutes, after which he re-entered the parlor with a face which strove in vain to maintain its previous expression of ease and serenity.

“Well, Willy?” said the squire—“you see, by the way, I make an old acquaintance of you—”

“You do me honor, sir,” replied Reilly. “Well, what was this mighty matter? Not a fool's message, I hope? eh!”

“No, sir,” said the other, “but a matter of some importance.”

“John,” asked his master, as the butler entered, “did you give those worthy fellows the money?”

“No, your honor,” replied the other, they were gone before I went out.”

“Well, well,” replied his master, “it can't be helped. You will excuse me, Mr.—a—a—yes—Mr. Reilly—Willy—Willy—ay, that's it—you will excuse me, Willy, for not bringing you to the drawing room. The fact is, neither of us is in a proper trim to go there—both travel-soiled, as they say—you with duck-shooting and I with a long ride—besides, I am quite too much fatigued to change my dress—John, some Madeira. I'm better than I was—but still dreadfully exhausted and afterwards, John, tell your mistress that her father wishes to see her here. First, the Madeira, though, till I recruit myself a little. A glass or two will do neither of us any harm, Willy, but a great deal of good. God bless me! what an escape I've had! what a dreadful fate you rescued me from, my young friend and preserver—for as such I will ever look upon, you.”

“Sir,” replied Reilly, “I will not deny that the appearance of myself and my companions, in all probability, saved your life.”

“There was no probability in it, Willy—none at all; it would have been a dead certainty in every sense. My God! here, John—put it down here—fill for that gentleman and me—thank you, John—Willy,” he said as he took the glass in his trembling hand—“Willy—John, withdraw and send down, my daughter—Willy”—the old man looked at him, but was too full to utter a word. At this moment his daughter entered the room, and her father, laying down the glass, opened his arms, and said in a choking voice, “Helen, my daughter—my child—come to me;” and as she threw herself into them he embraced her tenderly and wept aloud.

“Dear papa!” she exclaimed, after the first burst of his grief was over, “what has affected you so deeply? Why are you so agitated?”

“Look at that noble young man,” he exclaimed, directing her attention to Reilly, who was still standing. “Look at him, my life, and observe him well; there he stands who has this night saved your loving father from the deadly aim of an assassin—from being murdered by O'Donnel, the Red Rapparee, in the lonely moors.”

Reilly, from the moment the far-famed Cooleen Dawn entered the room, heard not a syllable the old man had said. He was absorbed, entranced, struck with a sensation of wonder, surprise, agitation, joy, and confusion, all nearly at the same moment. Such a blaze of beauty, such elegance of person, such tenderness and feeling as chastened the radiance of her countenance into something that might be termed absolutely divine; such symmetry of form; such harmony of motion; such a seraphic being in the shape of woman, he had, in fact, never seen or dreamt of. She seemed as if surrounded by an atmosphere of light, of dignity, of goodness, of grace; but that which, above all, smote him, heart on, the moment was the spirit of tenderness and profound sensibility which seemed to predominate in her whole being. Why did his manly and intrepid heart palpitate? Why did such a strange confusion seize upon him? Why did the few words which she uttered in her father's arms fill his ears with a melody that charmed him out of his strength? Alas! is it necessary to ask? To those who do not understand this mystery, no explanation could be of any avail; and to those who do, none is necessary.

After her father had spoken, she raised herself from his arms, and assuming her full height—and she was tall—looked for a moment with her dark, deep, and terrible eyes upon Reilly, who in the meantime felt rapt, spell-bound, and stood, whilst his looks were riveted upon these irresistible orbs, as if he had been attracted by the influence of some delightful but supernatural power, under which he felt himself helpless.

That mutual gaze and that delightful moment! alas! how many hours of misery—of sorrow—of suffering—and of madness did they not occasion!

“Papa has imposed a task upon me, sir,” she said, advancing gracefully towards him, her complexion now pale, and again over-spread with deep blushes. “What do I say? Alas—a task! to thank the preserver of my father's life—I know not what I say: help me, sir, to papa—I am weak—I am—”

Reilly flew to her, and caught her in his arms just in time to prevent her from falling.

“My God!” exclaimed her father, getting to his feet, “what is the matter? I was wrong to mention the circumstance so abruptly; I ought to have prepared her for it. You are strong, Reilly, you are strong, and I am too feeble—carry her to the settee. There, God bless you!—God bless you!—she will soon recover. Helen! my child! my life! What, Helen! Come, dearest love, be a woman. I am safe, as you may see, dearest. I tell you I sustained no injury in life—not a hair of nay head was hurt; thanks to Mr. Reilly for it thanks to this gentleman. Oh! that's right, bravo, Helen—bravo, my girl! See that, Reilly, isn't she a glorious creature? She recovers now, to set her old loving father's heart at ease.”

The weakness, for it did not amount altogether to insensibility, was only of brief duration.

“Dear papa,” said she, raising herself, and withdrawing gently and modestly from Reilly's support, “I was unprepared for the account of this dreadful affair. Excuse me, sir; surely you will admit that a murderous attack on dear papa's life could not be listened to by his only child with indifference. But do let me know how it happened, papa.”

“You are not yet equal to it, darling; you are too much agitated.”

“I am equal to it now, papa! Pray, let me hear it, and how this gentleman—who will be kind enough to imagine my thanks, for, indeed, no language could express them—and how this gentleman was the means of saving you.”

“Perhaps, Miss Folliard,” said Reilly, “it would be better to defer the explanation until you shall have gained more strength.”

“Oh, no, sir,” she replied; “my anxiety to hear it will occasion me greater suffering, I am sure, than the knowledge of it, especially now that papa is safe.”

Reilly bowed in acquiescence, but not in consequence of her words; a glance as quick as the lightning, but full of entreaty and gratitude, and something like joy—for who does not know the many languages which the single glance of a lovely woman can speak?—such a glance, we say, accompanied her words, and at once won him to assent.

“Miss Folliard may be right, sir,” he observed, “and as the shock has passed, perhaps to make her briefly acquainted with the circumstances will rather relieve her.”

“Right,” said her father, “so it will, Willy, so it will, especially, thank God, as there has been no harm done. Look at this now! Get away, you saucy baggage! Your poor loving father has only just escaped being shot, and now he runs the risk of being strangled.”

“Dear, dear papa,” she said, “who could have thought of injuring you—you with your angry tongue, but your generous and charitable and noble heart?” and again she wound her exquisite and lovely arms about his neck and kissed him, whilst a fresh gush of tears came to her eyes.

“Come, Helen—come, love, be quiet now, or I shall not tell you any thing more about my rescue by that gallant young fellow standing before you.”

This was followed, on her part, by another glance at Reilly, and the glance was as speedily followed by a blush, and again a host of tumultuous emotions crowded around his heart.

The old man, placing her head upon his bosom, kissed and patted her, after which he related briefly, and in such a way as not, if possible, to excite her afresh, the circumstances with which the reader is already acquainted. At the close, however, when he came to the part which Reilly had borne in the matter, and dwelt at more length on his intrepidity and spirit, and the energy of character and courage with which the quelled the terrible Rapparee, he was obliged to stop for a moment, and say,

“Why, Helen, what is the matter, my darling? Are you getting ill again? Your little heart is going at a gallop—bless me, how it pit-a-pats. There, now, you've heard it all—here I am, safe—and there stands the gentleman to whom, under God, we are both indebted for it. And now let us have dinner, darling, for we have not dined?”

Apologies on the part of Reilly, who really had dined, were flung to the winds by the old squire.

“What matter, Willy? what matter, man?—sit at the table, pick something—curse it, we won't eat you. Your dress? never mind your dress. I am sure Helen here will not find fault with it. Come, Helen, use your influence, love. And you, sir, Willy Reilly, give her your arm.” This he added in consequence of dinner having been announced while he spoke; and so they passed into the dining-room.