wee infant, hangin' by its clothes to a thorny bush, over a brave sthrame o' water. I scrambled down till I got at it; an' when I tuk it up, I seen the life was in it, though that was all. Though I knew I might get into throuble by it, I couldn't find it in my heart to lave it there, so I carried it away with me, and sthrove to put hate in it, till it began to stir an' move the wee hands-but there wasn't a house any place nearer than a mile, or more, an' I tuk it on till I kem to the nearest town, an' then I found I got far more charity, for the sake o' the infant, than ever I got afore. 'It isn't losin' I'll be on account ov it anyhow,' says I to myself-an' I continued to keep it with me, clappin' it on my back, and carryin' it quite convaynient everywhere I went—an' it thrived well. Next time that I kem to Para Bawn's, I showed the little cratur to Mrs. Wafe, for the man himself was a great piece off at a fair, an' she was delighted with it, for it was the purtiest infant ever ye seen-but anyhow I brought her that time a bundle ov herbs for her own little one, an' she boiled them up the way she always done, an' gave a taycup full o' the medicine to her own child-when, glory on us! the poor wee thing tuk the convulsions, and died off in an hour."

"Shure that can't be, unless ye brought it to life again," said Peggy, interrupting the narrative.

"Wait till ye hear all. Well, then, we knew there must have been poison with the herbs-an' the poor mother fell to screechin' murther, like one deranged but faith the most thing she dhreaded was the anger o' the husband when he'd come home troth it overkem her own grief clane. There wasn't one in the house, but ourselves two, an' seein' her goin' cracked through the room, tearin' her hair, and cryin' out, 'Oh, I'll lose my life when Pat comes back! what 'il I do at all! I ups and says to her at last: Here, Mrs. Wafe, for the love o' marcy, take the foundlin' and lay it in the cradle, and no one 'ill be a whit the wiser, for I'll take the poor wee corpse where it 'ill be berrid safe.' So, faith, the fair terror o' the tyrant that owned her made her be agreeable, an' she let me lay the foundlin' where her own child had slept not

much more than an hour before; an' I took the corpse and hid it in the chist where she kept her Sunda' clothes, till evenin'."

"Granny, that story can't be thrue," said Peggy, shuddering; "it a'most turns me sick."

"As thrue as that my own bones 'ill soon lie in Shinrone grave-yard," declared Granny, striking her forefinger three times slowly on the palm of her left hand. "My own two hands locked the corpse up in the chist, an' when night kem, I tuk it away an' had it berrid, where it 'ill lie till the Judgment Day."

"An' d'ye think I'd b'lieve that any woman 'id do the like with her own child, unless her heart was iron?" asked Peggy.

"Ye don't know what terror can bring the heart to," said Granny; "ye don't know how a bad husband can desthroy the feelin's of any woman, an' make her lie, an' grow as mane as the black slave in the islands beyant the says; he's the greatest curse undher God's sky! The unfortunate woman's head was a'most turned anyhow, an' she raved, an' ranted, an' jumped to the top o' the bed like mad, till I had to hould her down with fair force; an' all the time I darn't let any one into the room; but afther a couple ov days she went off into a kind ov stupor—though the fear o' the man never left her heartan' she'd moan ahead like one in rale agony. All the time, I attended both her an' the livin' infant in the cradle, an' I dhressed it in the dead child's clothes-thinkin' to myself, that shure if I was the manes of killin' one child, I saved the life of another. When Para Bawn kem home, the sorra much he cared about his wife bein' so ill, but he was cracked entirely to get a sight o' the child; but I'd always baffle him one way or another, puttin' the blame on the oddity o' the mother, till he never laid eyes on it for a month, and more; an' then, all at wonst, Mrs. Wafe kem to the point o' death, an' when she was near departin', she tould me she wanted to see the husband; but, guessin' what she wanted with him, I didn't do her biddin', Peggy asthore, but decaived her, when the very dew o' death was over her face, an' never brought Para Bawn to her till the

breath was all but gone, an' the rattle growin' wake in her throat."

Peggy covered her face with her hands, for some minutes unable to utter a word, while the old woman continued:

"So Para Bawn never knew that his child was dead, an' the foundlin' lived as his daughter under his roof from that day to this."

"Granny, ye done wrong!" at last exclaimed Peggy, indignation colouring her sallow cheek. "What's to come ov Weeny when she hears the truth-if the truth's in it at all? It's not possible to allow such decaivin' to go on. Oh! poor child it 'id be betther if ye had left her to perish among the rocks, where ye picked her up!"

"Stay, Peggy," said Granny, extending her long arm till her hand touched Peggy's shoulder; "maybe Weeny 'ill thank God yit, that she isn't Para Bawn's child; whisper."

Peggy bent her head till it was on

a level with Granny's face, and then the old woman spoke a few words in her ear which made her turn pale and utter a faint "My God!"

Para Bawn sat alone in his dreary home, with black beetles crawling up the kitchen walls, and crickets chirping by the hearth. The fire was smouldering, the air damp and chill, a gale was blowing from the north, and a hollow moaning swept down the narrow staircase leading from the rooms above. Wafe felt a strange nervousness that night-a presentiment of evil was over him-and so he sat, as if watching for something, he knew not what, with a dull cloud on his face. The something came at last near the midnight hour-a knock at the outer door-a boy with perspiration standing on his hot browuttering in the twinkling of an eye these words

"Bat tould ye to run for yer life this very minnit, as fast as you can!"

MORE than once in her life, when her mind was ill at ease, had Weeny passed the night in the open air, sitting out in wild spots away from human habitation. Strangely brought up, and rarely happy, this young girl had passed a lonely childhood, but never before had she felt such anxiety as had tortured her for the last few weeks. The interview which had just occurred between herself and Peggy Cross awoke feelings of acute misery, and climbing to a steep height, where furze and bramble grew thickly, she sat there for hours, being at length roused to a sense of her imprudence by the heavy tramp of feet below; this alarmed her; and her eye having grown accustomed to the starlight, she sought to discover the cause of the sounds. Leaning over the height, and endeavouring to conceal herself as well as she could, she dimly beheld a crowd of men hurrying by, all armed with weapons of some sort, which they now and then brandished with threats of vengeance. Such sights had of late grown common enough at Dring fights between the still-owners and the police being frequent-but Weeny thought she heard a name shouted

out with demoniac rage, that made her tremble. It was the name of Para Bawn. The crowd marched swiftly on; their tramping dying away in the distance. Then the girl arose and stood upright, gazing as far as her eye could penetrate, scarcely breathing all the while. How long she stood there she knew not, the time seemed passing in a dream, when high in the air a tongue of flame shot up with sudden fury in the direction of her gaze. Another, and another followed, till a lurid glare of fire seemed to tint the very sky.

"Oh, father!" she cried, clasping her hands, as she sprang wildly down the crag, and away, like a frantic creature, towards Para Bawn's house. Soon she arrived within a distant view of the burning mass. Her old home was fast demolishing, and a hoarse roar like the rush of the ocean in a storm, filled all the air.

"Save my father, save him!" she shrieked, flinging herself fearlessly among the body of infuriated men, who were watching the destruction they had created. "Let him live for God's sake, an' throw me in the flames if ye like!"

"Stand away, Weeny," said Owen Keegan, who, though one of the fiercest there, was yet not ungentle in his tone to the wretched girl; “this isn't any place for you; yer father's escaped, though he didn't desarve it; nobody wants to harm the innocent, so you needn't be afraid, but keep back. Fire the turf-stack boys! whew! there it goes!"

And now a broader sheet of flame spread itself through the air, outhouses sharing the common fate, while the shrieks of cattle rose above the din of crashing timber and the hollow roar of the devouring element. But Weeny heard no more; consciousness forsook her, and she sank senseless into the arms of one who was present merely for her sake, lest aught of injury might befal her.

Bat M'Govern had refused to take part in the revenge thus wreaked upon Para Bawn, for foul treachery, and he was very nearly falling a victim himself to the fury of the enraged band, when his courage alone saved him from a violent end. They saw it was not cowardice that held him back from aiding in the work of destruction when no threat of instant death could compel him to alter his determination. His firm words, "There, boys, ye may shoot me, but I'll never raise a hand to commit murder, or set fire to any man's house," together with his noble bearing and unflinching eye, struck admiration into every man.

"I knew how it 'id be!" cried Keegan; "the chap thinks too much o' the ruffin's daughter, to turn again' the father. Come lads, lave him alone, maybe we'd all be as foolish if we was in his place;" and so every man's arm was stayed.

All night the fire raged. The dawn of the winter morning found Para Bawn's house a blackened shell, filled with charred remnants of rafters, great lumps of cinders, kettles and saucepans molten into strange shapes by the fervour of the flames. But the large turf-stack at the rear of the dwelling was burning still. For two days and a night that huge pile of firing smouldered sullenly on, emitting a dull, oppressive smoke.

How was it discovered that Para Bawn himself was the informer, who betrayed the men whom he had beguiled to their destruction?

Bat M'Govern, by a skill in physiognomy which he possessed in a remarkable degree, had long suspected that Wafe was the traitor, and each day various little circumstances which would not have attracted any one not on the watch, strengthened his surmises. Unwilling, however, to bring such a frightful accusation against the father of the girl he loved, he never breathed a word of his suspicions. Every one was convinced that a spy was among the band, and if they chose to carry on their dangerous practices in defiance of this knowledge they did it at their peril; besides M'Govern had received no actual proof of Wafe's guilt. But what roused the suspicion of Owen Keegan upon the subject was a simple occurrence. Para Bawn and he were at a fair in a town about eight miles from Dring, and while standing together, the gauger's right hand man, an individual well known to the still-owners passed, and giving a wink and a knowing nod saluted Para Bawn with a familiar "how are you, Pat?" Keegan turned his keen eye on the culprit, and beheld that he never raised his head, or pretended to see the formidable person who had accosted him, though it was nearly impossible that such could be the case. Without pretending to have noticed any thing remarkable, Owen said nothing on the subject to Wafe, who seemed "thick," as Keegan expressed it, for the rest of the day. Determined to sift the affair to the bottom, Owen employed a ruse. Late that evening he repaired to the gauger's abiding place, and affecting an air of secrecy and confidence, asked if Pat Wafe had told him that the

boys" were to meet at Killogan Pass that night. "No," said the gauger, promptly, "he said he thought the next place would be Claragh." "Well, he sent me to tell ye to come on to Killogan anyhow," said Keegan, "about one o'clock this night;" and then he went off, leaving the gauger without a doubt that he was an emissary from the right source. To Killogan Pass a party of the revenue, accordingly marched, with the gauger at their head, and here they encountered rather more than they bargained for, Keegan having assembled nearly thirty stout young fellows all armed to the teeth, who sprang upon the

police from an ambush, succeeded in driving off the men, and capturing the gauger, whom they ducked unmercifully in a stream. They extorted from their prisoner, by threats of a violent death on one hand, and promises of release on the other, the whole history of Wafe's treachery, and the next night it was resolved to wreak vengeance on the informer. Lest a whisper of this determination might reach Wafe, Kee-. gan and his confederates, who were all young and daring, preserved great

secrecy, and it was only when Bat M'Govern was called upon to give his aid in the terrible work, about halfan-hour before midnight, that he was made acquainted with the proceedings contemplated. It was intended to burn Para Bawn in his house; but M'Govern defeated this scheme by despatching one of his nephews, whom he knew he could trust, to warn the wretch to fly, thus saving him from a frightful end.

THE remainder of that terrible night Weeny had passed at the Mullins' house in the hamlet, M'Govern having borne her there when she fainted. Much kindness was shown her by the blacksmith's wife, whose compassion for her was only equalled by her horror of Para Bawn's iniquity. Weeny had long looked upon herself as degraded by her father's dishonesty, which she had been aware of for some weeks, and the dreadful denouement which had now taken place was scarcely more terrible to her than the feeling of suspense she had of late experienced. Even if her parent's treachery and cruelty were to remain for ever unknown to the world, she would have felt that a dark blot rested upon her as the child of such a man; but now what was to become of her? How could she bear to be pointed at in scorn as the daughter of the informer? Where could she run to hide herself from every eye! More than all, how could she show her face in the light of day to the lover, who must feel ashamed that he ever thought of her? Such feelings as these racked her mind all the remainder of the night. She knew that her father must be ruined; she had long known that his debts were heavy and his means of paying them doubtful; now he must be beggared, and she must endeavour to work for own livelihood, if indeed she could live on, so humiliated as she was. Before break of day she had determined upon a plan for the future. When one bitter sacrifice was completed, and the neighbourhood of her childhood abandoned for ever, she would breathe more freely. While

Mrs. Mullins was yet sleeping, and the hamlet lying in the hush of night, with the stars still beaming in the sky, she arose softly, and left the house. Without a shilling in her pocket, she was determined to commence a journey of many miles, and so she set forth. Long acquainted with remote parts of the country, there was scarcely a glen or nook where the smugglers had been wont to assemble for their nightly work that she did not know; often she had watched them, unperceived, from some wild crag, as they sat round the fires; often she had wished that they could have been warned of the danger threatening them. The direction she now took was eastward, and she walked on rapidly till she had gone so far, that she hoped there was no chance of her meeting any familiar face, when she sat down to rest by the wayside. She had not been long there when a well known figure appeared to her, coming down a hill which she herself had lately descended. There was no mistaking this figure; it was that of Granny Dunn, already on her travels since peep of day. She would have endeavoured to avoid the old woman by rising and pursuing her way, but the latter was too quick for her.

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Stay where ye are, Weeny!" she called out, shaking her stick at her; stay where ye are, till I come up to ye," and quickening her pace, she was soon beside the girl.

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'Now, where are ye goin'?" she asked.

"Away down to my mother's people," replied Weeny.

"That's down near Shinrone, agra;

Not to my knowledge, Granny," said Weeny.

"Well, I don't say it is; you'd scarce remimber twenty year ago. Howsomever my little jewel, ye often took a cosy nap tied up in the hood on my back!"

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edly.

Maybe so," said Weeny, abstract

"Para Bawn's house was burnt last night," continued Granny, "but he tuk good care to be out ov it himself. I'll warrant he'll never come back."

"Granny, don't say any thing against my father," said the girl colouring; "I know he done wrong, but still I don't want to hear it from any one else."

"An' what's bringin' ye away out ov Dring?"

"Shame an' grief."

"An' did the boy that pretinded he loved ye when he thought you were rich an' grand, let ye lave him that way?"

He didn't know it; I'm goin' to see what my mother's people can do for me; maybe they'd hire me for a maid."

"Maybe so," said Granny, shortly; "ye needn't expect much from them when they know you're in want."

"I'll be willin' to do any thing honest for my livin'," said the humbled girl; "though I never done much in my life yit."

"Yer able to do a dale," said Granny, ironically, as she eyed the slender form of her companion.

"Well, Granny, if I can't work much I can live almost upon nothing," said Weeny, smiling faintly.

Here the conversation ended for some time. All the day they travelled without cessation, except when Granny stopped at houses on the way for alms, saving Weeny the trouble of asking any thing for herself; and sometimes they got a lift upon a cart, which bore them comfortably along. Before the day closed in they arrived at a lonely spot which seemed to interest Granny. Ascending some rocks

she led Weeny on till they stood over a brawling stream, rushing, swollen, and frothy, far below them.

"That's a sup o' the broad Shannon;" said the old woman, thoughtfully. "Look at it, Weeny, an' see if it isn't a desolate lookin' place for a body to be dhrowned in."

ing.

"It is so," said Weeny, shudder

'An' yit I seen it onst on a summer's mornin' as pacible as glass, with the sun flashin' on it like bars ov goold, an' a wee fairy child lyin' down near it as if it had dhropped from the sky," resumed Granny, but Weeny was not attending to her words. Fatigue and dread of the coming darkness oppressed her; her feet were blistered and swollen; her heart faint. Much more weary walking followed, and then more driving on jolting carts, till it was nearly ten o'clock.

"We'll stop for the night when we get to John Carolin's house," said Granny; "he never turns a thraveller from the door, no matther what hour they come; an' they get the best ov thratement."

Very glad, indeed, was Weeny, when this hospitable dwelling was reached. It was a substantial farmhouse, with a high slanting roof newly thatched, white walls, shining windows, and an air of neatness and plenty all round it. Granny's summons at the door was answered by immediate admittance, and a hearty welcome from the woman who seemed to hold highest rank in the large kitchen, where Weeny and her aged companion were allowed seats at a very ample fire. Numerous domestics occupied this kitchen--some of whom were knitting, others spinning or carding wool; but the workmen who had done a hard day's labour in the fields were now rejoicing in idleness, lounging against the large hobs of the grate, some half asleep, some smoking. Much good-humour and cheerfulness prevailed here. But in the parlour a solitary man was sitting by himself reading. John Carolin lived "his lone," to the surprise of many who wondered he did not provide himself with a wife, as he was a handsome man, scarcely past his fortieth year.