re do you mean?"

"What house but Carrig-na-curra--your father's house."

Mark passed his hand across his forehead, and over his closed eyelids,
and for a second or two seemed trying to dispel some horrible vision,
for deep-rooted as was his jealousy of Frederick Travers, his most
gloomy forebodings had never conjured up the thought of such a rival
as Hemsworth, nor did he now credit it. His indignation was, however,
scarcely less to think that this man should now be received on terms of
intimacy, perhaps of friendship, by those he so long pursued with
insult and oppression. He paid no attention to Terry, as he continued
to narrate the changes effected in his absence, and the various surmises
current among the people to account for his long absence, when at length
they approached the high road that led up the valley. Here Terry halted,
and, pointing in the direction of Mary's cabin, about half a mile
distant, said--

"I can't go any further with you. I dar'n't go there."

"And why not, my poor fellow?" said Mark, compassionately, for the
terror depicted in his face too plainly indicated the return of some
hallucination.

"They're there, now," said Terry, in a faint whisper, "watching for me.
They're five weeks waiting to catch me, but if I keep in the mountains I
needn't care."

"And who are they, Terry?"

"The soldiers," said Terry, trembling all over. "I ran away from them,
and they want to shoot me for desarting."

"And there are soldiers quartered at Mary's now?"

"Ay, and at Macroom, and at Bantry, and Kinsale--they have them all
round us; but devil a one o' me cares; so long as they keep to the
towns, I'll never trouble them."

"And how does poor Mary bear it?" said Mark.

"Bad enough, I hear, for nobody ever goes into the house at all, since
she had the red-coats, and there she's pining away every day; but I must
be going. I'll come down and see you soon, Master Mark, and I hope you
won't lave us in a hurry again." Terry did not wait for any rejoinder
to this speech, but with the agility of his wild life, sprung lightly
up the mountain, from whence his voice was heard gaily carolling as he
went, long afterwards.

Mark looked after him for a few moments, and probably amid the
compassionate feelings with which he regarded the poor creature, there
were mingled others of actual envy, so light-hearted and happy did he
seem amidst all his poverty.

"I could even change with him," said Mark, aloud, and