m ever likely to see him
again up at Lisconnel. And the rest of the neighbours, having heard her
tale, supposed so likewise, and said among themselves that Theresa Joyce
was to be pitied.

Yet not many days after this, while the early autumn weather was still
soft-aired and mellow-lighted over our blue-misted bogland, where the
leaves and berries were brightening, and even the little frosty-grey
cups on the lichened boulders getting a scarlet thread at the rim, on
one clear, dew-dashed morning, who but Denis O'Meara himself should
come stepping into Lisconnel? The neighbours who saw him go by were glad
to notice that he looked as well as ever he did in his life, and he
greeted them all blithely though briefly, eluding every attempt to
entangle him in conversation, and making very straight for the Widow
Joyce's house, which was by these same observers considered to betoken a
healthy frame of mind.

Only Mrs. Joyce and Mrs. Kilfoyle were in the little brown room when he
arrived, but they gave him a cordial welcome, and he took a seat from
which he could keep a watch on the door while they talked about
different things. One of these, naturally, was the melancholy end of
Denis's assailant--poor Hugh McInerney--and Mrs. Joyce said it was
little enough they'd have thought a while ago that it would be Denis
who'd come back. "But indeed," she said, "if anythin' had took you, we'd
ha' been in no hurry ever to set eyes on the other unlucky bosthoon."

Denis said: "Faith, ma'am, I'd give six months' pay the thing had never
happint. Divil a bit of harm I believe there was in poor McInerney; and
I spoke to Dr. Hamilton to spake to Mr. Nugent and the other magistrates
for him; but they said, after what me cousin Joe let out about the
poteen at his place, the polis would be wishful to keep him convanient
to thim for a while; and to be sure, they kep' him too long altogether.
I know, ma'am, young Rafferty and the rest had his shanty pulled down
before the polis come up next day; but they thought they'd git somethin'
out of him. The little jackass ought to ha' held his tongue. It was a
pity, bedad. Hard lines it is on a man to be losin' his life, you may
say, along wid his temper, just be raison of a bit of a joke."

Still as he looked out into the sunshine he could not help thinking that
he would have had a greater loss of his life than poor Hugh McInerney,
who, it was evident, would always have met with a cold reception from
every