word to look to the young
leddy? Come away, honey; for you look as white as the painted angel
beyant there. So they sneaked you away, did they? And all because his
honour was hanging the boys. Never ye fear, dearie, you'll be safe with
old Biddy, even if the whole of the United Irishmen come after you.--And
you, Barry, you're welcome too, though your father Mike wouldn't let me
be mother to you. Dear, oh. There's many changes to us all since then.
The last time I set eyes on yez 'twas in Paris, and little I looked to
see you again when they had us all to the prison. And where's Tim at
all? He's the boy, and a rale gentleman."

"Give us some food, Biddy dear," said Miss Kit, "and tell us all the
news to-morrow."

"'Deed I will," said the good soul, and she bustled about till the whole
household was awake to give us breakfast.

I waited only to allay my hunger, and then rose.

"Good-bye just now, Miss Kit," said I.

Her face fell.

"Oh," said she, "you're not going to leave me, Barry!"

"Till to-night. I am pledged to pay the Dutchman for saving my life by
working for him this day. After that--"

"Oh, go," said she, holding out her hand, "for he deserves all the
thanks in the world for saving you for me."

She blushed as she saw how I lit up at the words, but left her hand in
mine as I raised it to my lips.

"Farewell, my dear Barry," said she. "Heaven bless you, and bring you
safely back!"

All the world then seemed turned to brightness, and I stepped out like a
man who treads on air. But at the door I remembered myself enough to
return and seek Biddy in her kitchen.

"Biddy," said I, "tell me one thing, as you will answer for it at the
last day--which of us two, Tim or I, is the son of Mike Gallagher, and
which is the son of Terence Gorman?"

She turned very white and sank into a chair. But I had no time to
parley, and I urged her to speak.

"As I hope for salvation," said she, and her breath came hard and her
bosom heaved fast, "the one of you that has the mole between his
shoulder-blades is the Gorman's boy."

"It is Tim then," I exclaimed, and hastened to my horse.

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.

DUTCH JUSTICE.

I should be no better than a hypocrite were I to deny that, as I rode my
weary, borrowed nag back that morning along the Delft road, there shot
in and out of the turmoil of my feelings a sharp pang of disappointment.

It was no disloyalty to Tim; it was no greediness for name a