little toss of her head, and up
went her fan, and she giggled something in Toole's ear, who grinned, and
glanced uneasily out of the corner of his shrewd little eye at the
unsuspicious general and on to Aunt Rebecca; for it was very important
to Dr. Toole to stand well at Belmont. So, seeing that Miss Mag was
disposed to be vicious, and not caring to be compromised by her tricks,
he whistled and bawled to his dogs, and with a jolly smirk and flourish
of his cocked-hat, off he went to seek other adventures.

Thus, was there feud and malice between two houses, and Aunt Rebecca's
wrong-headed freak of cutting the Macnamaras (for it was not 'snobbery,'
and she would talk for hours on band-days publicly and familiarly with
scrubby little Mrs. Toole), involved her innocent relations in scorn and
ill-will; for this sort of offence, like Chinese treason, is not visited
on the arch offender only, but according to a scale of consanguinity,
upon his kith and kin. The criminal is minced--his sons lashed--his
nephews reduced to cutlets--his cousins to joints--and so on--none of
the family quite escapes; and seeing the bitter reprisals provoked by
this kind of uncharity, fiercer and more enduring by much than any
begotten of more tangible wrongs, Christian people who pray, 'lead us
not into temptation,' and repeat 'blessed are the peace-makers,' will,
on the whole, do wisely to forbear practising it.

As handsome, slender Captain Devereux, with his dark face, and great,
strange, earnest eyes, and that look of intelligence so racy and
peculiar, that gave him a sort of enigmatical interest, stepped into the
fair-green, the dark blue glance of poor Nan Glynn, of Palmerstown, from
under her red Sunday riding-hood, followed the tall, dashing, graceful
apparition with a stolen glance of wild loyalty and admiration. Poor
Nan! with thy fun and thy rascalities, thy strong affections and thy
fatal gift of beauty, where does thy head rest now?

Handsome Captain Devereux!--Gipsy Devereux, as they called him for his
clear dark complexion--was talking a few minutes later to Lilias
Walsingham. Oh, pretty Lilias--oh, true lady--I never saw the pleasant
crayon sketch that my mother used to speak of, but the tradition of
thee has come to me--so bright and tender, with its rose and violet
tints, and merry, melancholy dimples, that I see thee now, as then, with
the dew of thy youth still on thee, and sigh as I look, as if on a lost,
early love of mine