an' Miss
Priscilla now." He illustrates the real truth as he says this.

"Bless me, man! sure they weren't touched at all so," says Miss
Penelope.

"No more they were, miss. Sorra a bit, praise be----"

"Then why did you say they were killed?" says Terence, indignantly, who
has been stricken dumb by the appalling fate of his dear Desmond.

"An' sure how much nearer could they be to it? What saved thim, but
maybe the hitch of a chair? Oh! wirrasthrue this day!" says old Ryan,
beginning to cry.

"Timothy sit down directly. Terence get him a glass of whiskey," says
Miss Penelope. "Now, don't excite yourself, Timothy; you know it is very
bad for you at your age. Take time, now. Collect yourself!"

"Have the assassins been discovered?" asks Miss Priscilla, in a
trembling tone.

"No, miss. But I'm tould the polis is very eager afther 'em."

"Was nobody hurt, Timothy?"

"No one, ma'am."

Here Monica, feeling the relief greater than she can support, gives way
to a dry but perfectly audible sob.

"Don't be afeard, miss, dear," says old Ryan, with heartfelt but most
ill-judged sympathy: "the _young gentleman_ is all right. Not a single
scratch on him, they say; so you needn't be cryin' about him, honey."

"Miss Monica is in no wise anxious about Mr. Brian Desmond," says Miss
Priscilla, recovering from her nervousness with as much haste as though
she had been subjected to an electric shock. "She is only distressed--as
I am--by these lawless proceedings."

"An' we hear they're boycotted, too, ma'am," says old Ryan, still
oppressed with news that must be worked off. "John Bileman, the
Protestant baker in the village they always dealt wid, has been
forbidden to give 'em another loaf, and the butcher is threatened if he
gives 'em a joint, an' the Clonbree butcher has been telegraphed to
also, miss, an' there's the world an' all to pay!"

"Do you mean that they are going to treat him as they did Mr. Bence
Jones?" says Miss Penelope, indignantly.

"Troth, I believe so, ma'am."

"Will Mr. Brian have to milk the cows?" says Terence, at which
astounding thought both he and Kit break into merry laughter until
checked by Monica's reproachful gaze. How _can_ they laugh when Brian
may be _starving_?

"Faix, it's awful, miss; an' the ould man to be wantin' for things
now,--he that allus kep' a fine table, to spake truth of him, and liked
his bit an' sup amazin', small blame to him. I'm thinkin' 'tis hungry
enough he'll b