hat ought to be done."

"Then let us part good friends," said Linton, holding out his hand
towards him. "I see a boat coming over the lake which will drop me at
Killaloe; we must not be seen together--so good-bye, Tom, good-bye."

"Good-bye, and a safe journey to yer Honer," said Tom, as, touching his
hat respectfully, he retired into the wood.

The boat which Linton descried was still above a mile from the shore,
and he sat down upon a stone to await its coming. Beautiful as that
placid lake was, with its background of bold mountains, its scattered
islands, and its jutting promontories, he had no eye for these, but
followed with a peering glance the direction in which Tom Keane had
departed.

"There are occasions," muttered he to himself, "when the boldest courses
are the safest. Is this one of these? Dare I trust that fellow, or
would this be better?" And, as if mechanically, he drew forth a
double-barrelled pistol from his breast, and looked fixedly at it.

He arose from his seat, and sat down again--his mind seemed beset
with hesitation and doubt; but the conflict did not last long, for he
replaced the weapon, and walking down to the lake, dipped his fingers in
the water and bathed his temples, saying to himself,--

"Better as it is: over-caution is as great an error as foolhardiness."

With a dexterity acquired by long practice, he now disguised his
features so perfectly that none could have recognized him; and by the
addition of a wig and whiskers of bushy red hair, totally changed the
character of his appearance. This he did, that at any future period he
might not be recognized by the boatmen, who, in answer to his signal,
now pulled vigorously towards the shore.

He soon bargained with them to leave him at Killaloe, and as they rowed
along engaged them to talk about the country, in which he affected to
be a tourist. Of course the late murder was the theme uppermost in every
mind, and Linton marked with satisfaction how decisively the current of
popular belief ran in attributing the guilt to Cashel.

With a perversity peculiar to the peasant, the agent whom they had so
often inveighed against for cruelty in his lifetime, they now discovered
to have been the type of all that was kind-hearted and benevolent; and
had no hesitation in attributing his unhappy fate to an altercation in
which he, with too rash a zeal, was the "poor man's advocate."

The last words he was heard to utter on leaving Tub-bermore w