entered the house, after having been made acquainted with their secret.
"Tom," said he, approaching his son, "sure you wouldn't go to bring an
ould man away?"

"Where to, father?" asked the other, a good deal alarmed.

"Why, to America, where you're all goin' to. Oh! surely you wouldn't
bring the old man away from the green fields of Carriglass? Would you
lay my white head in a strange land, an' among a strange people? Would
you take poor ould grandfather away from them that expects him down, at
Carndhu where they sleep? Carndhu's a holy churchyard. Sure there never
was a Protestant buried in it but one, an' the next mornin' there was a
boortree bush growin' out o' the grave, an' it's there yet to prove the
maricle. Oh! ay, Carndhu's holy ground, an' that's where I must sleep."

These words were uttered with a tone of such earnest and childlike
entreaty as rendered them affecting in a most extraordinary degree, and
doubly so to those who heard him. Thomas's eyes, despite of every effort
to the contrary, filled with tears. "Ah!" he exclaimed, "he has found it
out at last; but how can I give him consolation, an' I stands in need of
it so much myself?"

"Father," said he, rising and placing the old man in the arm-chair,
which for the last half century had been his accustomed seat, "father,
we will go together--we will all be wid you. You'll not be among
strangers--you'll have your own about you still."

"But what's takin' you all away?"

"Neglect and injustice, an' the evil tongues of them that ought to know
us betther. The landlord didn't turn out to be what he ought to be. May
God forgive him! But at any rate I'm sure he has been misled."

"Ould Chevydale," said his father, "never was a bad landlord, an' he'd
not become a bad one now. That's not it."

"But the ould man's dead, father, an' its his son we're spakin' of."

"And the son of ould Chevydale must have something good about him. The
heart was always right wid his father, and every one knows there's a
great deal in true blood. Sooner or later it'll tell for itself--but
what is this? There was something troublin' me this minute. Oh! ay,
you're goin' away, then, to America; but, mark my words:--I won't go.
You may, but I'll stay here. I won't lave the green fields of Carriglass
for any one. It's not much I'll be among them now, an' it isn't worth
your while to take me from them. Here's where I was born--here's where
the limbs that's now stiff an' feeble wa