ime of his waking, as
the old man saw the thin and haggard face of Sir Archy peering between
the curtains of his bed.

"Well, what is it?" said he, in some alarm at the unexpected sight. "Has
Gubbins issued the distress? Are the scoundrels going to sell us out?"

"No, no; it is another matter brings me here," replied M 'Nab, with a
gravity even deeper than usual.

"That infernal bond! By God, I knew it; it never left my dreams these
last three nights. Mark was too late, I suppose, or they wouldn't take
the interest, and the poor fellow sold his mare to get the money."

"Dinna fash about these things now," said M'Nab with impatience, "It's
that poor callant, Herbert--he's very ill--it's a fever he's caught.
I'm thinking."

"Oh Herbert!" said O'Donoghue, with a tone of evident relief, that
his misfortunes had taken any other shape than the much-dreaded one of
money-calamity. "What of him?"

"He's in a fever; his mind is wandering already."

"Not a bit of it; it's a mere wetting--a common cold: the boy fell into
the river last night at the old bridge there; Kerry told me something
about it; and so, maybe, Mark may reach Cork in good time after all."

"I am no speaking of Mark just now," said M'Nab tartly, "but of
the other lad, wha may be dangerously ill, if something be nae done
quickly."

"Then, send for Roach. Let one of the boys saddle a horse and ride over
to Killarney. Oh! I was forgetting; let a fellow go off on foot, he'll
get there before evening. It is confoundedly hard to have nothing in the
stables, even to mount a messenger. I hope Mark may be able to manage
matters in Cork. Poor fellow, he hates business as much as I do myself."

Sir Archy did not wait for the conclusion of this rambling reply. Long
before it was over, he was half-way down stairs in search of a safe
messenger to despatch to Killarney for Doctor Roach, muttering between
his teeth as he went--

"We hae nae muckle chance of the docter if we canna send the siller to
fetch him, as weel as the flunkie. Eh, sirs?--he's a cannie chiel, is
auld Roach, and can smell a fee as soon as scent a fever," and with this
sensible reflection he proceeded on his way.

Meanwhile the O'Donoghue himself had summoned energy enough to slip
on an old and ragged dressing-gown, and a pair of very unlocomotive
slippers, with which attired, he entered the sick boy's room.

"Well, Herbert, lad," said he, drawing the curtains back, and suffering
the grey ligh