hat they should change clothes, and Power Magill
should walk out in place of his visitor. She has read of such things
being done before; why should they not be done again? But the question
is, What man in the county would willingly take the place of Power
Magill?

"It must be done," the girl says to herself, as she listens to the talk
going on about her; for of course every one is talking of the men taken
in the affray of the past night, and their chances of heavy punishment.
"Some one can be got surely, to run the risk--if not for love, then for
money!"

Brian Beresford is away at Drum; and she is glad of it--it would be
awkward to have him about the house at the present crisis.

About a mile from Donaghmore, on the Boyne road, stands a cottage that,
in the summer season, is almost hidden from sight by the masses of wild
roses and jasmine that cover its old walls. It is a picturesque little
place enough, and wondrously clean for an Irish cottage; but it is not
in good repute in the place. Magistrates shake their heads when they
hear of meetings held on the quiet at Hugh Scanlan's; and more than
once terror and disaster have been carried into quiet homes by order of
the men who meet there.

Scanlan is a man over eighty, but erect and vigorous, and full of
subtle cunning. It is to this man Honor turns in trouble and
perplexity. He is no friend of hers--all her life she has been taught
to look upon him as an evil man and a bad neighbor, who would do any
harm that lay in his power to her or hers. But to this she never gives
a thought now. Power must be helped; and, if any man in Donaghmore can
help him, it is Scanlan.

The afternoon sun shines brightly upon the strip of garden as she opens
the gate and walks up to the half-closed door. From the threshold she
can see all round the one room that the place contains. It is low, and
would be dim but for the great fire burning, hot as the day is, on the
low hearth. The owner of the cottage has been sitting before the fire
smoking; but, at the sight of Honor standing on his doorstep, he rises
to his feet.

"Good-evening!" the girl says in her low clear voice. "I want very much
to speak to you! May I come in?"

For an instant the ready tact of his race seems to forsake the old man,
and he stares at her stupidly.

"Robert Blake's daughter asking to come into my house?" he mutters,
raising his withered hands with a gesture of the most intense surprise.

"Yes," the girl a