Henderson. The man waived
his hand towards the space under the window, meaning that he should take
his stand there, and added--

"If it's law you want, I'm afeard you'll get more abuse than justice
from him now, since Jemmy's gone."

The knowing grin, and the expression of comic sorrow which accompanied
the last words, were not lost upon the prophet, who, in common with
every one in the neighborhood for a circumference of many miles, was
perfectly well aware of the life which master and man both led.

"Is that it?" said the prophet; "however, it can't be helped. Clerk,
or no clerk, I want to see him on sarious business, tell him; but I'll
wait, of coorse, till he's at leisure."

"Tom," said Henderson from within, "Who's there?--is that him? If it
is, tell him, confound him! to come in, and I'll forgive him. If he'll
promise to keep a civil tongue in his head, I'll forget all, say. Come
in, you old scoundrel, I'm not angry with you; I want to speak to you,
at all events."

"It's not him, sir; it's only Donnel M'Gowan, the Black Prophet, that
wants some law business."

"Send him to the devil for law business What brings him here now? Tell
him he shall have neither law nor justice from me. Did you send to his
brother-in-law? May be he's there?"

"We did, sir. Sorra one of his seed, breed, or generation but we sent
to. However, it's no use--off to America he's gone, or to the Isle o'
White, at any rate."

"May the devil sink America and the Isle of White both in the ocean, an'
you, too; you scoundrel, and all of you! Only for the cursed crew that's
about me, I'd have him here still--and he the only man that understood
my wants and my wishes, and that could keep me comfortable and easy."

"Troth, then, he hadn't an overly civil tongue in his head, sir,"
replied the man; "for, when you and he, your honor, were together, there
was little harmony to spare between you."

"That was my own fault, you cur. No servant but himself would have had
a day's patience with me. He never abused me but when I deserved it--did
he?"

"No, your honor; I know he didn't, in troth."

"You lie, you villain, you know no such thing. Here am I with my
sore leg, and no one to dress it for me. Who's to help me upstairs or
downstairs?--who's to be about me?--or, who cares for me, now that he's
gone? Nobody--not a soul."

"Doesn't Masther Richard, sir?"

"No sir; Master Richard gives himself little trouble about me. He has
other plots a