orst, the horrid touch of that dread man with
the fatal rope! It was not death he feared--it was the disgrace of
death, and the misery of the ignominious preparations. He knew in his
heart that heaven could not call it murder that he had done; but he
felt equally sure that man would do so.

He lay there on the lime-kiln till the sun had already set, and then
he was again driven into the cabin by the cold.

There sat that silent, still old man. He had not moved from his
former position, his bare feet thrust into old ragged shoes, which in
some former generation had been made for some strong man double his
size, and hanging down so that his toes just reached the floor--his
hands resting on the quilt on each side of him, and his head dropping
on his chest. Oh, what an easy, quiet mind, thought Thady, must that
man have--how devoid of care and fear must he be, to be able to sit
there motionless all the live-long day, and not feel it dreary, long,
endless, insupportable, as he did.

The girl was still absent, and Thady again sat himself down by the
fire, the blazing turf on which gave the only signs that the old man
had moved. Again he counted the rafters, counted the miserable scraps
of furniture, counted the sods of turf, speculated where the turf was
cut--who cut it? who was the landlord of the cabin? what rent was
paid? who collected it? But a minute--half a minute sufficed for the
full consideration of all these things, and again he began to reflect
how long it would be before the police would find him, and drag him
forth from that dreary place; how long it would be before he should
feel the handcuffs on his wrist; and before the first day of his
concealment had passed over, he had become almost impatient for that
time; and looked forward to the excitement of his capture, which he
knew must sooner or later take place, with something like a wish that
it might soon occur, to relieve him from the weight of his present
condition.

At last he determined to speak to his companion, and after
considering for some time what he should say to him, he asked him
what his name was; but Thady had spoken in his usual language, and
the old man, looking up, answered that he had no English.

"What's your name?" asked Thady, in Irish.

"Andy McEvoy."

"And is this cabin your own?"

"Yes."

"And who's your landlord?"

"The mountain belongs mostly to Sir Michael."

"But don't you pay any rent?"

"No."

"And what is it you