"I was reflecting, sir," said Mr. Jinks, "I have much to occupy me to-day."

"Ah? Well, set about it—set about it! Don't you know that the great element of success in life, from killing a mosquito to winning an empress, is to strike at once, and at the right moment? Go on, Jinks, my boy, and luck to you!"

"Thanks, sir," replied Mr. Jinks—"I hope I shall have luck."

"Of course, because you have genius! What is luck?" cried Ralph, bending down to smooth the glossy neck of his animal, and laughing gaily,—"why, nothing but a word! Luck, sir, is nothing—genius everything. Luck throws her old shoe after, as says the proverb; but genius catches it, and conquers. Come, you are good at everything, let us have a race!"

"No, I thank you," said Mr. Jinks, drawing back; "I have business, sir—important business, sir!"

"Have you?" said Ralph, restraining his desire to lay the lash of his whip over Fodder's back, and so inaugurate a new Iliad of woes for Mr. Jinks. "Then go on in your course, my dear fellow. I am going to see a young lady, who really is beginning to annoy me."

And the mercurial young fellow passed from laughter to smiles, and even to something suspiciously resembling a sigh.

"Farewell, my dear Jinks," he added, becoming gay again; "fortune favors the brave, recollect. I wish I could believe it," he added, laughing.

And touching his horse, Ralph set forward toward the Bower of Nature, and consequently toward Miss Fanny.

"There goes a young man who is in love," said Mr. Jinks, with philosophic dignity; "regularly caught by a pair of black eyes. Boy!" added Mr. Jinks, after the manner of Coriolanus, "he don't know 'em as I do. He's looking out for happiness—I for revenge!"

And Mr. Jinks scowled at a stable-boy until the terrified urchin hung his head in awe, respect, and admiration. The great militaire was not superior to humanity, and even this triumph elated him. He set forth, therefore, on Fodder, feeling like a conqueror.

If this veracious history were a narrative of the life and adventures of Mr. Jinks alone, we might follow the great conspirator in his various movements on this eventful day. We might show how he perambulated the town of Winchester on his noble steed, like a second Don Quixote, mounted for the nonce upon the courser of Sancho Panza, while Rosinante recovered from his bruises. Though the illustration might fail if carried further, inasmuch as Mr. Jinks encountered no windmills, and indeed met with no adventures worth relating, still we might speak of his prying inquisition into every movement of the hostile Irish—detail his smiling visits, in the character of spy, to numerous domicils, and relate at length the manner in which he procured the information which the noble knight desired. All this we might do; but is it necessary? Not always does the great historic muse fill up the flaws of story, leaving rather much to the imagination. And in the present instance, we might justly be accused of undue partiality. We are not sure that some of our kind readers might not go further still, and declare in general terms, that none of Mr. Jinks' adventures were worth telling—Mr. Jinks himself being a personage wholly unworthy of attention.

To critics of this last description, we would say in deprecation of their strictures—Friends, the world is made up of a number of odd personages, as the animal kingdom is of singular, and not wholly pleasant creatures. Just as the scarabaeus and the ugly insect are as much a part of animated nature as the golden-winged butterfly, and humming-bird, and noble eagle, so are the classes, represented partly by our friend, as human as the greatest and the best. As the naturalist, with laborious care, defines the characteristics of the ugly insect, buzzing, and stinging, and preying on the weaker, so must the writer give a portion of his attention to the microscopic bully, braggart, and boasting coward of the human species. In the one case, it is science—in the other, art.

But still we shall not give too much space to Mr. Jinks, and shall proceed to detail very briefly the result of his explorations.

The great conspirator had, by the hour of eventide, procured all the information he wished. That information led Mr. Jinks to believe that, on the following day, the opposing races would turn out in numbers, far exceeding those on any previous occasion. They would have a grand pageant:—St. Patrick would meet St. Michael in deadly conflict, and the result would undoubtedly overwhelm one of the combatants with defeat, elevating the other to the summit of joy and victory.

It was Mr. Jinks' object to ensure the success of the worthy St. Michael, and prostrate the great St. Patrick in the dust. But this was not all. Mr. Jinks further desired to procure an adequate revenge upon his friend O'Brallaghan. To overwhelm with defeat and dismay the party to which his enemy belonged, was not enough—any common man could invent so plain a course as that. It was Mr. Jinks' boast, privately, and to himself be it understood, that he would arrange the details of an original and refined revenge—a revenge which should, in equal degree, break down the strength and spirit of his enemy, and elevate the inventor to the niche of a great creative genius.

By the hour of nine that night all was arranged; and, after laboring for an hour or more at some mysterious employment, in the secresy of his apartment, Mr. Jinks descended, and ordered Fodder to be saddled.

Under his arm he carried a bundle of some size; and this bundle was placed carefully before him on the animal.

This done, Mr. Jinks went forth cautiously into the night.

Let us follow him.

He proceeds carefully toward the western portion of the town; then suddenly turns a corner, and goes northward; then changes his course, and takes his way eastward. This is to throw enemies off the track.

Half an hour's ride brings him in the neighborhood of Mistress O'Calligan's.

What does he hear? A voice singing;—the voice of no less a personage than Mr. O'Brallaghan.

The conspirator retraces his steps for some distance—dismounts—ties Fodder to a tree-trunk; and then, with his bundle under his arm, creeps along in the shadow toward the cabin.

At Mrs. O'Calligan's door, sitting upon the railing, he perceives the portly figure of Mr. O'Brallaghan, who is singing a song of his own composition; not the ditty which has come down to modern times connected with this gentleman's name—but another and more original madrigal. The popular ditty, we have every reason to believe, was afterwards written by Mr. Jinks, in derision and contempt of Mr. O'Brallaghan.

Mr. Jinks creeps up; diabolical and gloomy thoughts agitate his soul; and when a night-cap appears at an opening in the shutter, and a fluttering voice exclaims, "Oh, now—really! Mr. O'Brallaghan," the hidden spectator trembles with jealousy and rage.

A colloquy then ensues between the manly singer and the maiden, which we need not repeat. It is enough to say, that Mr. O'Brallaghan expresses disapprobation at the coldness of the lady.

The lady replies, that she respects and esteems Mr. O'Brallaghan, but never, never can be his, owing to the fact that she is another's.

Mr. Jinks starts with joy, and shakes his fist—from the protecting shadow—triumphantly at the poor defeated wooer.

The wooer, in turn, grows cold and defiant; he upbraids the lady; he charges her with entertaining a passion for the rascal and coward Jinks.

This causes the lady to repel the insulting accusation with hauteur.

Mr. O'Brallaghan thinks, and says, thereupon, that she is a cruel and unnatural woman, and unworthy of affection or respect.

Mistress O'Calligan wishes, in reply, to know if Mr. O'Brallaghan means to call her a woman.

Mr. O'Brallaghan replies that he does, and that if Mr. Jinks were present, he would exterminate that gentleman, as some small exhibition of the state of his feelings at being thus insulted by the worst and most hard-hearted of her sex.

After which, Mr. O'Brallaghan clenches his hands with threatening vehemence, and brushing by the concealed Jinks, who makes himself as small as possible, disappears, muttering vengeance.

Mr. Jinks is happy, radiant, triumphant, and as he watches the retreating wooer, his frame shakes with sombre merriment. Then he turns toward the window, and laughs with cautious dignity.

The lady, who is just closing the window, starts and utters an exclamation of affright. This, however, is disregarded by Mr. Jinks, who draws near, and stands beneath the window.

Mistress O'Calligan considers it necessary to state that she is in such a taking, and to ask who could have thought it. Mr. Jinks does not directly reply to this question, but, reaching up, hands in the bundle, and commences a whispered conversation. The lady is doubtful, fearful—Mr. Jinks grows more eloquent. Finally, the lady melts, and when Mr. Jinks clasps, rapturously, the red hand hanging out, he has triumphed.

In fifteen minutes he is on his way back to the tavern, chuckling, shaking, and triumphant.

All is prepared.



CHAPTER LXII.

VERTY MUSES.

Let us now leave the good old town of Winchester, and go into the hills, where the brilliant autumn morning reigns, splendid and vigorous.

In the hills! Happy is the man who knows what those words mean; for only the mountain-born can understand them. Happy, then, let us say, are the mountain-born! We will not underrate the glories of the lowland and the Atlantic shore, or close our eyes to the wealth of the sea. The man is blind who does not catch the subtle charm of the wild waves glittering in the sun, or brooded over by the sullen storm; but "nigh gravel blind" is that other, whose eyes are not open to the grand beauty of the mountains. Let us not rhapsodize, or with this little bit of yellow ore, venture to speak of the great piles of grandeur from whose heart it was dug up. There is that about the mountains, with their roaring diapason of the noble pines, their rugged summits and far dying tints, purple, and gold, and azure, which no painter could express, had the genius of Titian and Watteau, and the atmosphere of Poussin, to speak over its creations. No! let them speak for themselves as all great things must—happy is he, who, by right of birth, can understand their noble voices!

But there is the other and lesser mountain life—the life of the hills. Autumn loves these especially, and happy, too, are they who know the charm of the breezy hills! The hills where autumn pours her ruddy sunshine upon lordly pines—rather call them palms!—shooting their slender swaying trunks into the golden sea of morning, and, far up above, waving their emerald plumes in the laughing wind;—where the sward is fresh and dewy in the shivering delicious hunter's morning!—where the arrow-wood and dogwood cluster crimson berries, and the maple, alder tree and tulip, burn away—setting the dewy copse on fire with splendor! Yes, autumn loves the hills, and pours her brawling brooks, swarming with leaves, through thousands of hollows, any one of which might make a master-piece on canvas. Some day we shall have them—who knows?—and even the great mountain-ranges shall be mastered by the coming man.

We do not know the name of the "hollow" through which Verty came on the bright morning of the day following the events we have just related. But autumn had never dowered any spot more grandly. All the trees were bright and dewy in the sunrise—birds were singing—and the thousand variegated colors of the fall swept on from end to end of it, swallowing the little stream, and breaking against the sky like a gay fringe.

Verty knew all this, and though he did not look at it, he saw it, and his lips moved.

Cloud pricked up his ears, and the hound gazed at his master inquiringly. But Verty was musing; his large, dreamy eyes were fixed with unalterable attention upon vacancy, and his drooping shoulders, whereon lay the tangled mass of his chestnut hair, swayed regularly as he moved. It only mingled with his musings—the bright scene—and grew a part of them; he scarcely saw it.

"Yes," he murmured, "yes, I think I am a Delaware!—a white? to dream it! am I mad? The wild night-wind must have whispered to me while I slept, and gone away laughing at me. I, the savage, the simple savage, to think this was so! And yet—yes, yes—I did think so! Redbud said it was thus—Redbud!"

And the young man for a time was silent.

"I wonder what Redbud thinks of me?" he murmured again, with his old dreamy smile. "Can she find anything to like in me? What am I? Poor, poor Verty—you are very weak, and the stream here is laughing at you. You are a poor forest boy—there can be nothing in you for Redbud to like. Oh! if she could! But we are friends, I know—about the other, why think? what is it? Love!—what is love? It must be something strange—or why do I feel as if to be friends was not enough? Love!"

And Verty's head drooped.

"Love, love!" he murmured. "Oh, yes! I know what it means! They laugh at it—but they ought not to. It is heaven in the heart—sunshine in the breast. Oh, I feel that what I mean by love is purer than the whole wide world besides! Yes, yes—because I would die for her! I would give my life to save her any suffering—her hand on my forehead would be dearer and sweeter than the cool spring in the hills after a weary, day-long hunt, when I come to it with hot cheeks and burnt-up throat! Oh, yes! I may be an Indian, and be different—but this is all to me—this feeling, as if I must go to her, and kneel down and tell her that my life is gone from me when I am not near her—that I walk and live like a man dreaming, when she does not smile on me and speak to me!"

Verty's head drooped, and his cheeks reddened with the ingenuous blush of boyhood. Then he raised his head, and murmured, with a smile, which made his face beautiful—so full of light and joy was it.

"Yes—I think I am in love with Redbud—and she does not think it wrong, I am sure—oh, I don't think she will think it wrong in me, and turn against me, only because I love her!"

Having arrived at this conclusion, Verty went along smiling, and admiring the splendid tints of the foliage—drinking in the fresh, breezy air of morning, and occasionally listening for the cries of game—of deer, and turkey, pheasants, and the rest. He heard with his quick ear many of these sounds: the still croak of the turkey, the drumming of the pheasant; more than once saw disappear on a distant hill, like a flying shadow, the fallow deer, which he had so often chased and shot. But on that morning he could not leave his path to follow the wild deer, or slay the lesser game, of which the copses were full. Mastered by a greater passion even than hunting, Verty drew near Apple Orchard—making signs with his head to the deer to go on their way, and wholly oblivious of pheasants.

He reached Apple Orchard just as the sun soared redly up above the distant forest; and the old homestead waked up with it. Morning always smiled on Apple Orchard, and the brilliant flush seemed, there, more brilliant still; while all the happy breezes flying over it seemed to regret their destiny which led them far away to other clouds.

Verty always stopped for a moment on his way to and from Winchester, to bid the inmates good morning; and these hours had come to be the bright sunny spots in days otherwise full of no little languor. For when was Daymon merry and light-hearted, separated from his love? It is still the bright moment of meeting which swallows up all other thoughts—around which the musing heart clusters all its joy and hope—which is looked forward to and dreamed over, with longing, dreamy, yet excited happiness. And this is the reason why the most fatal blow which the young heart can suffer is a sudden warning that there must be no more meetings. No more! when it dreams of and clings to that thought of meeting, as the life and vital blood of to-morrow!—when the heart is liquid—the eyes moist with tenderness—the warp of thought woven of golden thread—at such a moment for the blow of the wave to fall, and drown the precious argosy with all its freight of love, and hope, and memory—this is the supreme agony of youth, the last and most refined of tortures.

Verty lived in the thought of meeting Redbud—his days were full of her; but the hours he passed at Apple Orchard were the brightest. The noonday culminated at dawn and sunset!

As he approached the pleasant homestead now, his eyes lighted up, and his face beamed with smiles. Redbud was standing in the porch waiting for him.

She was clad with her usual simplicity, and smiled gently as he approached. Verty threw the bundle upon Cloud's mane, and came to her.

They scarcely interchanged a word, but the hand of the girl was imprisoned in his own; and the tenderness which had been slowly gathering for months into love, pure, and deep, and strong, flushed his ingenuous face, and made his eyes swim in tears.

It was well that Verty was interrupted as he essayed to speak; for we cannot tell what he would have said. He did not speak; for just as he opened his lips, a gruff voice behind him uttered the words:

"Well, sir! where is your business?"



CHAPTER LXIII.

HOW VERTY AND MISS LAVINIA RAN A-TILT AT EACH OTHER, AND WHO WAS OVERTHROWN.

The young man turned round: the gruff voice belonged to Judge Rushton.

That gentleman had left his horse at the outer gate, and approached the house on foot. Absorbed by his own thoughts, Verty had not seen him—as indeed neither had Redbud—and the gruff voice gave the young man the first intimation of his presence.

"Well," repeated the lawyer, leaning on his knotty stick, and scowling at the two young people from beneath his shaggy eyebrows, "what are you standing there staring at me for? Am I a wild beast, a rhinoceros, or a monster of any description, that you can't speak? I asked you why you were not in town at your work?"

Verty pointed to the horizon.

"The day has only begun," he said.

"Well, sir—"

"And I stopped for only one minute, Mr. Rushton," added Verty."

"One minute! Do you know, sir, that life is made up of minutes?"

"Yes, sir," said Verty.

"Well, if you know that, why do you trifle away your minutes? Don't reply to me, young man," continued the shaggy bear, "I have no desire to argue with you—I hate and despise arguing, and will not indulge you. But remember this, Life is the struggle of a man to pay the debt he owes to Duty. If he forgets his work, or neglects it, for paltry gratifications of the senses or the feelings, he is disgraced—he is a coward in the ranks—a deserter from the regiment—he is an absconding debtor, sir, and will be proceeded against as such—remember that, sir! A pretty thing for you here, when you have your duty to your mother to perform, to be thus dallying and cooing with this baby—ough!"

And the lawyer scowled at Redbud with terrible emphasis.

Redbud knew Mr. Rushton well,—and smiled. She was rather grateful to him for having interrupted an interview which her woman-instinct told had commenced critically; and though Redbud could not, perhaps, have told any one what she feared, still this instinct spoke powerfully to her.

It was with a smile, therefore, that Redbud held out her hand to Mr. Rushton, and said:

"Please don't scold Verty—he won't stay long, and he just stopped to ask how we all were."

"Humph!" replied the lawyer, his scowling brow relaxing somewhat as he felt the soft, warm little hand in his own,—"humph! that's the way it always is. He only stopped to say good morning to 'all;'—I suspect his curiosity was chiefly on the subject of a single member of the family."

And a grim smile corrugated—so to speak—the rugged countenance.

Redbud blushed slightly, and said:

"Verty likes us all very much, and—"

"Not a doubt of it!" said the lawyer, "and no doubt 'we all' like Verty! Come, you foolish children, don't be bothering me with your nonsense. And you, Mr. Verty—you need'nt be so foolish as to consider everything I say so harsh as you seem to. You'll go next and tell somebody that old Rushton is an ill-natured huncks, without conscience or proper feeling; that he grumbled with you for stopping a moment to greet your friends. If you say any such thing," added Mr. Rushton, scowling at the young man, "you will be guilty of as base a slander—yes, sir! as base a slander, sir!—as imagination could invent!"

And with a growl, the speaker turned from Verty, and said, roughly, to Redbud:

"Where's your father?"'

"Here I am," said the bluff and good-humored voice of the Squire, from the door; "you are early—much obliged to you." And the Squire and lawyer shook hands. Mr. Rushton's hand fell coldly to his side, and regarding the Squire for a moment with what seemed an expression of contemptuous anger, he said, frowning, until his shaggy, grey eye-brows met together almost:

"Early! I suppose I am to take up the whole forenoon—the most valuable part of the day—jogging over the country to examine title-deeds and accounts? Humph! if you expect anything of the sort, you are mistaken. No, sir! I started from Winchester at day-break, without my breakfast, and here I am."

The jovial Squire laughed, and turning from Verty, with whom he had shaken hands, said to the lawyer:

"Breakfast?—is it possible? Well, Rushton, for once I will be magnanimous—magnificent, generous and liberal—"

"What!" growled the lawyer.

"You shall have some breakfast here!" finished the Squire, laughing heartily; and the merry old fellow caught Miss Redbud up from the porch, deposited a matutinal salute upon her lips, and kicking at old Caesar as he passed, by way of friendly greeting, led the way into the breakfast room.

Verty made a movement to depart, inasmuch as he had breakfasted; but the vigilant eye of the lawyer detected this suspicious manoeuvre; and the young man found himself suddenly commanded to remain, by the formula "Wait!" uttered with a growl which might have done honor to a lion.

Verty was not displeased at this interference with his movements, and, obedient to a sign, followed the lawyer into the breakfast-room.

Everything was delightfully comfortable and cheerful there.

And ere long, at the head of the table sat Miss Lavinia, silent and dignified; at the foot, the Squire, rubbing his hands, heaping plates with the savory broil before him, and talking with his mouth full; at the sides, Mr. Rushton, Redbud and Verty, who sedulously suppressed the fact that he had already breakfasted, for obvious reasons, doubtless quite plain to the reader.

The sun streamed in upon the happy group, and seemed to smile with positive delight at sight of Redbud's happy face, surrounded by its waving mass of curls—and soft blue eyes, which were the perfection of tenderness and joy.

He smiled on Verty, too, the jovial sun, and illumined the young man's handsome, dreamy face, and profuse locks, and uncouth hunter costume, with a gush of light which made him like a picture of some antique master, thrown upon canvas in a golden mood, to live forever. All the figures and objects in the room were gay in the bright sunlight, too—the shaggy head of Mr. Rushton, and the jovial, ruddy face of the Squire, and Miss Lavinia's dignified and stately figure, solemn and imposing, flanked by the silver jug and urn—and on the old ticking clock, and antique furniture, and smiling portraits, and recumbent Caesar, did it shine, merry and laughing, taking its pastime ere it went away to other lands, like a great, cheerful simple soul, smiling at nature and all human life.

And the talk of all was like the sunshine. The old Squire was king of the breakfast table, and broke many a jesting shaft at one and all, not even sparing the stately Miss Lavinia, and the rugged bear who scowled across the table.

"Good bread for once," said the Squire, slashing into the smoking loaf; astonishing how dull those negroes are—not to be able to learn such a simple thing as baking."

"Simple!" muttered the lawyer, "it is not simple! If you recollected something of chemistry, you would acknowledge that baking bread was no slight achievement."

"Come, growl again," said his host, laughing; "come, now, indulge your habit, and say the bread is sour."

"It is!"

"What!—sour!"

"Yes."

The Squire stands aghast—or rather sits, laboring under that sentiment.

"It is the best bread we have had for six months," he says, at length, "and as sweet as a nut."

"You have no taste," says Mr. Rushton.

"No taste?"

"None: and the fact that it is the best you have had for six months is not material testimony. You may have had lead every morning—humph!"

And Mr. Rushton continues his breakfast.

The Squire laughs.

"There you are—in a bad humor," he says.

"I am not."

"Come! say that the broil is bad!"

"It is burnt to a cinder."

"Burnt? Why it's underdone!"

"Well, sir—every man to his taste—you may have yours; leave me mine."

"Oh, certainly; I see you are determined to like nothing. You'll say next that Lavinia's butter is not sweet."

The lawyer growls.

"I have no desire to offend Miss Lavinia," he says, solemnly; "but I'll take my oath that there's garlic in it—yes, sir, garlic!"

The Squire bursts into a roar of laughter.

"Good!" he cries—"you are in a cheerful and contented mood. You drop in just when Lavinia has perfected her butter, and made it as fresh as a nosegay; and when the cook has sent up bread as sweet as a kernel, to say nothing of the broil, done to a turn—you come when this highly desirable state of things has been arrived at, and presume to say that this is done, that is burnt, the other is tainted with garlic! Admire your own judgment!"

And the Squire laughs jovially at his discomfited and growling opponent.

"True, Lavinia has had lately much to distract her attention," says the jest-hunting Squire; "but her things were never better in spite of—. Well we won't touch upon that subject!"

And the mischievous Squire laughs heartily at Miss Lavinia's stately and reproving expression.

"What's that?" says Mr. Rushton; "what subject?"

"Oh, nothing—nothing."

"What does he mean, madam?" asks Mr. Rushton, of the lady.

Miss Lavinia colors slightly, and looks more stately than ever.

"Nothing, sir," she says, with dignity.

"'Nothing!' nobody ever means anything!"

"Oh, never," says the Squire, and then he adds, mischievously,—"by-the-by, Rushton, how is my friend, Mr. Roundjacket?"

"As villainous as ever," says the lawyer; "my opinion of Mr. Roundjacket, sir, is, that he is a villain!"

Miss Lavinia colors to the temples—the Squire nearly bursts with pent-up laughter.

"What has he done? A villain did you say?" he asks.

"Yes, sir!—a wretch!"

"Possible?"

"Yes—it is possible: and if you knew as much of human nature as I do, you would never feel surprised at any man's turning out a villain and a wretch! I am a wretch myself, sir!"

And scowling at the Squire, Mr. Rushton goes on with his breakfast.

The Squire utters various inarticulate sounds which seem to indicate the stoppage of a bone in his throat. Nevertheless he soon recovers his powers of speech, and says:

"But how is Roundjacket so bad?"

"He has taken to writing poetry."

"That's an old charge."

"No, sir—he has grown far worse, lately. He is writing an epic—an epic!"

And the lawyer looked inexpressibly disgusted.

"I should think a gentleman might compose an epic poem without rendering himself amenable to insult, sir," says Miss Lavinia, with freezing hauteur.

"You are mistaken," says Mr. Rushton; "your sex, madam, know nothing of business. The lawyer who takes to writing poetry, must necessarily neglect the legal business entrusted to him, and for which he is paid. Now, madam," added Mr. Rushton, triumphantly, "I defy you, or any other man—individual, I mean—to say that the person who takes money without giving an equivalent, is not a villain and a wretch!"

Miss Lavinia colors, and mutters inarticulately.

"Such a man," said Mr. Rushton, with dreadful solemnity, "is already on his way to the gallows; he has already commenced the downward course of crime. From this, he proceeds to breach of promise—I mean any promise, not of marriage only, madam—then to forging, then to larceny, and finally to burglary and murder. There, madam, that is what I mean—I defy you to deny the truth of what I say!"

The Squire could endure the pressure upon his larynx no longer, and exploded like a bomb-shell; or if not in so terrible a manner, at least nearly as loudly.

No one can tell what the awful sentiments of Mr. Rushton, on the subject of Roundjacket would have led to, had not the Squire come to the rescue.

"Well, well," he said, still laughing, "it is plain, my dear Rushton, that for once in your life you are not well posted up on the 'facts of your case,' and you are getting worse and worse in your argument, to say nothing of the prejudice of the jury. Come, let us dismiss the subject. I don't think Mr. Roundjacket, however, will turn out a murderer, which would be a horrible blow to me, as I knew his worthy father well, and often visited him at 'Flowery Lane,' over yonder. But the discussion is unprofitable—hey! what do you think, Verty, and you, Miss Redbud?"

Verty raises his head and smiles.

"I am very fond of Mr. Roundjacket," he says.

"Fond of him?"

"Yes, sir: he likes me too, I think," Verty says.

"How does he show it, my boy?"

"He gives me advice, sir."

"What! and you like him for that?"

"Oh, yes, sir."

"Well, perhaps the nature of the advice may modify my surprise at your gratitude, Verty."

"Anan, sir?"

"What advice does he give you?"

Verty laughs.

"Must I tell, sir? I don't know if—"

And Verty blushes slightly, looking at Miss Lavinia and Redbud.

"Come, speak out!" laughs the Squire. "He advises you—"

"Not to get married."

And Verty blushes.

We need not say that the wicked old Squire greets this reply of Verty with a laugh sufficient to shake the windows.

"Not to get married!" he cries.

"Yes, sir," Verty replies, blushing ingenuously.

"And you like Mr. Roundjacket, you say, because he advises you not to get—"

"No, oh! no, sir!" interrupts Verty, with sudden energy, "oh! no, sir, I did not mean that!"

And the young man, embarrassed by his own vehemence, and the eyes directed toward his face, hangs his head and blushes. Yes, the bold, simple, honest Verty, blushes, and looks ashamed, and feels as if he is guilty of some dreadful crime. Do. not the best of us, under the same circumstances?—that is to say, if we have the good fortune to be young and innocent.

The Squire looks at Verty and laughs; then at Miss Lavinia.

"So, it seems," he says, "that Mr. Roundjacket counsels a bachelor life, eh? Good! he is a worthy professor, but an indifferent practitioner. The rascal! Did you ever hear of such a thing, Lavinia? I declare, if I were a lady, I should decline to recognize, among my acquaintances, the upholder of such doctrines—especially when he poisons the ears of boys like Verty with them!"

And the Squire continues to laugh.

"Perhaps," says Miss Lavinia, with stately dignity, and glancing at Verty as she speaks,—"perhaps the—hem—circumstances which induced Mr. Roundjacket to give the advice, might have been—been—peculiar."

And Miss Lavinia smooths down her black silk with dignity.

"Peculiar?"

"Yes," says the lady, glancing this time at Redbud.

"How was it, Verty?" the Squire says, turning to the young man.

Verty, conscious of his secret, blushes and stammers; for how can he tell the Squire that Mr. Roundjacket and himself were discussing the propriety of his marrying Redbud? He is no longer the open, frank, and fearless Verty of old days—he has become a dissembler, for he is in love.

"I don't know—oh, sir—I could'nt—Mr. Roundjacket—"

The Squire laughs.

"There's some secret here," he says; "out with it, Verty, or it will choke you. Come, Rushton, you are an adept—cross-examine the witness."

Mr. Rushton growls.

"You won't—then I will."

"Perhaps the time, and the subject of conversation, might aid you," says Miss Lavinia, who is nettled at Verty, and thus is guily of what she is afterwards ashamed of.

"A good idea," says the Squire; "and I am pleased to see, Lavinia, that you take so much interest in Verty and Mr. Roundjacket."

Miss Lavinia blushes, and looks solemn and stiff.

"Hum!" continues the Squire. "Oyez! the court is opened! First witness, Mr. Verty! Where, sir, did this conversation occur?"

Verty smiles and colors.

"At Mr. Roundjacket's, sir," he replies.

"The hour, as near as you can recollect."

"In the forenoon, sir."

"Were there any circumstances which tend to fix the hour, and the day, in your mind?"

"Yes, sir."

"What were they?"

"I recollect that Miss Lavinia called to see Mr. Roundjacket that day, sir; and as she generally comes into town on Tuesday or Wednesday, soon after breakfast it must have been—"

Verty is interrupted by a chair pushed back from the table. It is Miss Lavinia, who, rising, with a freezing "excuse me," sails from the room.

The Squire bursts into a roar of laughter, and leaving the table, follows her, and is heard making numerous apologies for his wickedness in the next room. He returns with the mischievious smile, and says:

"There, Verty! you are a splendid fellow, but you committed a blunder."

And laughing, the Squire adds:

"Will you come and see the titles, Rushton?"

The lawyer growls, rises, and bidding Verty remain until he comes out, follows the Squire.



CHAPTER LXIV.

THE ROSE OF GLENGARY.

Redbud rose, smiling, and with the gentle simplicity of one child to another, said:

"Oh! you ought not to have said that about cousin Lavinia, Verty—ought you?"

Verty looked guilty.

"I don't think I ought," he said.

"You know she is very sensitive about this."

"Anan?" Verty said, smiling.

Redbud looked gently at the young man, and replied:

"I mean, she does not like any one to speak of it?"

"Why?" said Verty.

"Because—because—engaged people are so funny!"

And Redbud's silver laughter followed the words.

"Are they?" Verty said.

"Yes, indeed."

Verty nodded.

"Next time I will be more thoughtful," he said; "but I think I ought to have answered honestly."

Redbud shook her curls with a charming little expression of affected displeasure.

"Oh, no! no!"

"Not answer?"

"Certainly not, sir—fie! in the cause of ladies!"

Verty laughed.

"I understand," he said, "you are thinking of the books about the knights—the old Froissart, yonder, in four volumes. But you know there were'nt any courts in those days, and knights were not obliged to answer."

Redbud, training up a drooping vine, replied, laughing:

"Oh, no—I was only jesting. Don't mind my nonsense. Look at that pretty morning-glory."

Verty looked at Redbud, as if she were the object in question.

"You will hurt your hand," he said,—"those thorns on the briar are so sharp; take care!"

And Verty grasped the vine, and, no doubt, accidentally, Redbud's hand with it.

"Now I have it," he said; and suddenly seeing the double meaning of his words, the young man added, with a blush and a smile, "it is all I want in the world."

"What? the—oh!"

And Miss Redbud, suddenly aware of Mr. Verty's meaning, finds her voice rather unsafe, and her cheeks covered with blushes. But with the tact of a grown woman, she applies herself to the defeat of her knight; and, turning away, says, as easily as possible:

"Oh, yes—the thorn; it is a pretty vine; take care, or it will hurt your hand."

Verty feels astounded at his own boldness, but says, with his dreamy Indian smile:

"Oh, no, I don't want the thorn—the rose!—the rose!"

Redbud understands that this is only a paraphrase—after the Indian fashion—for her own name, and blushes again.

"We—were—speaking of cousin Lavinia," she says, hesitatingly.

Verty sighs.

"Yes," he returns.

Redbud smiles.

"And I was scolding you for replying to papa's question," she adds.

Verty sighs again, and says:

"I believe you were right; I don't think I could have told them what we were talking about."

"Why?" asks the young girl.

"We were talking about you," says Verty, gazing at Redbud tenderly; "and you will think me very foolish," adds Verty, with a tremor in his voice; "but I was asking Mr. Roundjacket if he thought you could—love—me—O, Redbud—"

Verty is interrupted by the appearance of Miss Lavinia.

Redbud turns away, blushing, and overwhelmed with confusion.

Miss Lavinia comes to the young man, and holds out her hand.

"I did not mean to hurt your feelings, just now, Verty," she says, "pardon me if I made you feel badly. I was somewhat nettled, I believe."

And having achieved this speech, Miss Lavinia stiffens again into imposing dignity, sails away into the house, and disappears, leaving Verty overwhelmed with surprise.

He feels a hand laid upon his arm;—a blushing face looks frankly and kindly into his own.

"Don't let us talk any more in that way, Verty, please," says the young girl, with the most beautiful frankness and ingenuousness; "we are friends and playmates, you know; and we ought not to act toward each other as if we were grown gentleman and lady. Please do not; it will make us feel badly, I am sure. I am only Redbud, you know, and you are Verty, my friend and playmate. Shall I sing you one of our old songs?"

The soft, pure voice sounded in his ears like some fine melody of olden poets—her frank, kind eyes, as she looked at him, soothed and quieted him. Again, she was the little laughing star of his childhood, as when they wandered about over the fields—little children—that period so recent, yet which seemed so far away, because the opening heart lives long in a brief space of time. Again, she was to him little Redbud, he to her was the boy-playmate Verty. She had done all by a word—a look; a kind, frank smile, a single glance of confiding eyes. He loved her more than ever—yes, a thousand times more strongly, and was calm.

He followed her to the harpsichord, and watched her in every movement, with quiet happiness; he seemed to be under the influence of a charm.

"I think I will try and sing the 'Rose of Glengary,'" she said, smiling; "you know, Verty, it is one of the old songs you loved so much, and it will make us think of old times—in childhood, you know; though that is not such old, old time—at least for me," added Redbud, with a smile, more soft and confiding than before. "Shall I sing it? Well, give me the book—the brown-backed one."

The old volume—such as we find to-day in ancient country-houses—was opened, and Redbud commenced singing. The girl sang the sweet ditty with much expression; and her kind, touching voice filled the old homestead with a tender melody, such as the autumn time would utter, could its spirit become vocal. The clear, tender carol made the place fairy-land for Verty long years afterwards, and always he seemed to hear her singing when he visited the room. Redbud sang afterwards more than one of those old ditties—"Jock o' Hazeldean," and "Flowers of the Forest," and many others—ditties which, for us to-day, seem like so many utterances of the fine old days in the far past.

For, who does not hear them floating above those sweet fields of the olden time—those bright Hesperian gardens, where, for us at least, the fruits are all golden, and the airs all happy?

Beautiful, sad ditties of the brilliant past! not he who writes would have you lost from memory, for all the modern world of music. Kind madrigals! which have an aroma of the former day in all your cadences and dear old fashioned trills—from whose dim ghosts now, in the faded volumes stored away in garrets and on upper shelves, we gather what you were in the old immemorial years! Soft melodies of another age, that sound still in the present with such moving sweetness, one heart at least knows what a golden treasure you clasp, and listens thankfully when you deign to issue out from silence; for he finds in you alone—in your gracious cadences, your gay or stately voices—what he seeks; the life, and joy, and splendor of the antique day sacred to love and memory!

And Verty felt the nameless charm of the good old songs, warbled by the young girl's sympathetic voice; and more than once his wild-wood nature stirred within him, and his eyes grew moist. And when she ceased, and the soft carol went away to the realm of silence, and was heard no more, the young man was a child again; and Redbud's hand was in his own, and all his heart was still.

The girl rose, with a smile, and said that they had had quite enough of the harpsichord and singing—the day was too beautiful to spend within doors. And so she ran gaily to the door, and as she reached it, uttered a gay exclamation. Ralph and Fanny were seen approaching from the gate.



CHAPTER LXV.

PROVIDENCE.

Ralph was mounted, as usual, upon his fine sorrel, and Fanny rode a little milk-white pony, which the young man had procured for her. We need not say that Miss Fanny looked handsome and coquettish, or Mr. Ralph merry and good-humored. Laughter was Fanny's by undoubted right, unless her companion could contest the palm.

Miss Fanny's first movement, after dismounting, was to clasp Miss Redbud to her bosom with enthusiastic affection, as is the habit with young ladies upon public occasions; and then the fair equestrian recognized Verty's existence by a fascinating smile, which caused the unfortunate Ralph to gaze and sigh.

"Oh, Redbud!" cried Miss Fanny, laughing, and shaking gaily her ebon curls, "you can't think what a delightful ride I've had—with Ralph, you know, who has'nt been half as disagreeable as usual—"

"Come," interposed Ralph, "that's too bad!"

"Not for you, sir!"

"Even for me."

"Well, then, I'll say you are more agreeable than usual."

"That is better, though some might doubt whether that was possible."

"Ralph, you are a conceited, fine gentleman, and positively dreadful."

"Ah, you dread me!"

"No, sir!"

"Well, that is not fair—for I am afraid of you. The fact is, Miss Redbud," continued Ralph, turning to the young girl, "I have fallen deeply in love with Fanny, lately—"

"Oh, sir!" said Redbud, demurely.

"But I have not told you the best of the joke."

"What is that?"

"She's in love with me."

And Ralph directed a languishing glance toward Fanny, who cried out:

"Impudence! to say that I am in love with you. It's too bad, Ralph, for you to be talking so!" added Fanny, pouting and coloring, "and I'll thank you not to talk so any more."

"Why not?"

"I'll be offended."

"That will make you lovely."

"Mr. Ashley!"

"Miss Temple!"

And striking an attitude, Mr. Ashley waited for Fanny's communication.

Redbud smiled, and turning to Fanny, said:

"Come, now, don't quarrel—and come in and take off your things."

"Oh, I can't," cried the volatile Fanny, laughing—"Ralph and myself just called by; we are past our time now. That horrid old Miss Sallianna will scold me, though she does talk about the beauties of nature—I wonder if she considers her front curls included!"

And Miss Fanny tossed her own, and laughed in defiance of the absent Sallianna.

At the same moment the Squire came out with Mr. Rushton, and called to Redbud. The young girl ran to him.

"Would you like a ride, little one?" said the Squire, "Miss Lavinia and myself are going to town."

"Oh, yes, sir!"

"But your visitors—"

"Fanny says she cannot stay."

Fanny ran up to speak for herself; and while Redbud hastened to her room to prepare for the ride, this young lady commenced a triangular duel with the Squire and Mr. Ralph, which caused a grim smile to light upon Mr. Rushton's face, for an instant, so to speak.

The carriage then drove up with its old greys, and Miss Lavinia and Redbud entered. Before rode the Squire and Mr. Rushton; behind, Ralph and Fanny.

As for Verty, he kept by the carriage, and talked with Redbud and Miss Lavinia, who seemed to have grown very good-humored and friendly.

Redbud had not ridden out since her return to Apple Orchard, and the fresh, beautiful day made her cheeks bright and her eyes brilliant. The grass, the trees, the singing birds, and merry breezes, spoke to her in their clear, happy voices, and her eye dwelt fondly on every object, so old, and familiar, and dear.

Is it wonderful that not seldom her glance encountered Verty's, and they exchanged smiles? His face was the face of her boy playmate—it was very old and familiar; who can say that it was not more—that it was not dear?

And so they passed the old gate, with all its apple trees, and the spot where the great tree stood, through whose heart was bored the aperture for the cider press beam—and through the slope beyond, leaving the overseer's house, babies and all, behind, and issued forth into the highway leading to the ancient borough of Winchester.

And gazing on the happy autumn fields, our little heroine smiled brightly, and felt very thankful in her heart to Him who dowered her life with all that beauty, and joy, and happiness; and ever and anon her hand would be raised absently toward her neck, where it played with the old coral necklace taken from the drawer in which it had been laid—by accident, we should say, if there were any accident. And so they approached the town.



CHAPTER LXVI.

THE HOUR AND THE NECKLACE.

As they entered the town, something strange seemed to be going on; the place was evidently in commotion. A great thrill seemed to run through the population, who were gathered at the doors and windows—such of them as did not throng the streets; and as the hoofs of the horses struck upon the beaten way, a drum suddenly was heard thundering indignantly through the narrow streets.

The crowd rushed toward it—hurried, muttering, armed with nondescript weapons, as though the Indians were come down from the mountain fastnesses once more; and then, as the cortege from Apple Orchard passed beyond the old fort, the meaning of all the commotion was visible.

Marching slowly along in confused masses, a large portion of the Irish population came toward the fort, and from their appearance, these men seemed ripe for commotion.

They were armed with clubs, heavy canes, bludgeons, and old rusty swords; and these weapons were flourished in the air in a way which seemed to indicate the desire to inflict death and destruction on some hostile party which did not appear.

But the most singular portion of the pageant was undoubtedly the personage borne aloft by the shouting crowd. This was the Dutch St. Michael himself—portly, redfaced, with a necklace of sour krout, clad, as had been said by Mr. Jinks, in six pairs of pantaloons, and resembling a hogshead.

St. Michael was borne aloft on a species of platform, supported on the shoulders of a dozen men; and when the saint raised the huge beer glass from his knee, and buried his white beard in it, the swaying crowd set up a shout which shook the houses.

This was the Irish defiance of the Dutch: the Emerald Isle against the Low Countries—St. Patrick against St. Michael. The figure of St. Michael was paraded in defiance of the Dutch—the thundering drum and echoing shouts were all so many ironical and triumphant defiances.

The shouting crowd came on, tramping heavily, brandishing their clubs, and eager for the fray.

Miss Lavinia becomes terrified; the ladies of the party, by an unanimous vote, decide that they will draw up to one side by Mr. Rushton's office, and permit the crowd to pass. Mr. Rushton desires to advance upon the peacebreakers, and engage in single combat with St. Michael and all his supporters.

The Squire dissuades him—and growling contemptuously, the lawyer does not further oppose the desire of the ladies.

Then from Mr. Rushton's office comes hastily our friend Mr. Roundjacket—smiling, flourishing his ruler, and pointing, with well-bred amusement, to the crowd. The crowd look sidewise at Mr. Roundjacket, who returns them amiable smiles, and brandishes his ruler in pleasant recognition of Hibernian friends and clients in the assemblage.

Roundjacket thinks the ladies need not be alarmed. Still, as there will probably be a fight soon, they had better get out and come in.

Roundjacket is the public character when he speaks thus—he is flourishing his ruler. It is only when Miss Lavinia has descended that he ogles that lady. Suddenly, however, he resumes his noble and lofty carriage, and waves the ruler at his friend, St. Michael—tailor and client—by name, O'Brallaghan.

The crowd passes on, with thundering drums and defiant shouts; and our party, from Apple Orchard, having affixed their horses to the wall, near at hand, gaze on the masquerade from Mr. Rushton's office.

We have given but a few words to the strange pageant which swept on through the main street of the old border town; and this because any accurate description is almost wholly impossible. Let the reader endeavor to imagine Pandemonium broke loose, with all its burly inmates, and thundering voices, and outre forms, and, perhaps, the general idea in his mind may convey to him some impression of the rout which swept by with its shouts and mad defiances.

Some were clad in coat and pantaloons only; others had forgotten the coat, and exposed brawny and hirsute torsos to the October sun, and swelling muscles worthy of Athletes.

Others, again, were almost sans-culottes, only a remnant being left, which made the deficiency more tantalizingly painful to the eye.

Let the reader, then, imagine this spectacle of torn garments, tattered hats, and brandished clubs—not forgetting the tatterdemalion negro children, who ran after the crowd in the last state of dilapidation, and he will have some slight idea of the masquerade, over which rode, in supreme majesty, the trunk-nosed Mr. O'Brallaghan.

We need not repeat the observations of the ladies; or detail their exclamations, fears, and general behavior. Like all members of the fair sex, they made a virtue of necessity, and assumed the most winning expressions of timidity and reliance on their cavaliers; and even Miss Lavinia reposed upon a settee, and exclaimed that it was dreadful—very dreadful and terrifying.

Thereat, Mr. Roundjacket rose into the hero, and alluded to the crowd with dignified amusement; and when Miss Lavinia said, in a low voice, that other lives were precious to her besides her own—evidently referring to Mr. Roundjacket—that gentleman brandished his ruler, and declared that life was far less valuable than her smiles.

In another part of the room Ralph and Fanny laughed and jested—opposite them. Mr. Rushton indignantly shook his fist in the direction of the crowd, and vituperated the Hibernian nation, in a manner shocking to hear.

Verty was leaning on the mantel-piece, as quietly as if there was nothing to attract his attention. He had pushed Cloud through the mass with the unimpressed carriage of the Indian hunter; and his dreamy eyes were far away—he listened to other sounds than shouts, perhaps to a maiden singing.

The little singer—we refer to Miss Redbud—had been much terrified by the crowd, and felt weak, owing to the recent sickness. She looked round for a seat, and saw none.

The door leading into the inner sanctum of Mr. Rushton then attracted her attention, and seeing a comfortable chair within, she entered, and sat down.

Redbud uttered a sigh of weariness and relief, and then gazed around her.

The curtain was drawn back from the picture—the child's face was visible.

She went to it, and was lost in contemplation of the bright, pretty face; when, as had happened with Verty, she felt a hand upon her shoulder, and started.

Mr. Rushton stood beside her.

"Well, Miss!" he said, roughly, "what are you doing?"

"Oh, sir!" Redbud replied, "I am sorry I offended you—but I saw this pretty picture, and just come to look at it."

"Humph!" growled the lawyer, "nothing can be kept private here."

And, with a softened expression, he gazed at the picture.

"It is very pretty," said Redbud, gently; "who was she, sir?"

The lawyer was silent; he seemed afraid to trust his voice. At last he said:

"My child."

And his voice was so pathetic, that Redbud felt the tears come to her eyes.

"Pardon me for making you grieve, Mr. Rushton," she said, softly, "it was very thoughtless in me. But will you let me speak? She is in heaven, you know; the dear Savior said himself, that the kingdom of heaven was full of such."

The lawyer's head bent down, and a hoarse sigh, which resembled the growl of a lion, shook his bosom.

Redbud's eyes filled with tears.

"Oh, do not grieve, sir," she said, in a tremulous voice, "trust in God, and believe that He is merciful and good."

The poor stricken heart brimmed with its bitter and corroding agony; and, raising his head, the lawyer said, coldly:

"Enough? this may be very well for you, who have never suffered—it is the idle wind to me! Trust in God? Away! the words are fatuitous!—ough!" and wiping his moist brow, he added, coldly, "What a fool I am, to be listening to a child!"

Redbud, with her head bent down, made no reply.

Her hand played, absently, with the coral necklace; without thinking, she drew it with her hand.

The time had come.

The old necklace, worn by use, parted asunder, and fell upon the floor. The lawyer, with his cold courtesy, picked it up.

As he did so,—as his eye dwelt upon it, a strange expression flitted across his rugged features.

With a movement, as rapid as thought, he seized the gold clasp with his left hand, and turned the inner side up.

His eye was glued to it for a moment, his brow grew as pale as death, and sinking into the old chair, he murmured hoarsely:

"Where did you get this?"

Redbud started, and almost sobbing, could not reply.

He caught her by the wrist, with sudden vehemence, and holding the necklace before her, said:

"Look!"

Upon the inside of the gold plate were traced, in almost illegible lines, the letters, "A.R."

"It was my child's!" he said, hoarsely; "where did you get it?"

Redbud, with a tremor which she could not restrain, told how she had purchased the necklace from a pedlar; she knew no more; did not know his name—but recollected that he was a German, from his accent.

The lawyer fell into his chair, and was silent: his strong frame from time to time trembled—his bosom heaved.

At last he raised his face, which seemed to have sunken away in the last few moments, and still holding the necklace tightly, motioned Redbud toward the door.

"We—will—speak further of this," he said, his voice charged with tears; and with a slow movement of his head up and down, he again desired Redbud to leave him.

She went out:—the last she saw was Mr. Rushton clasping the necklace to his lips, and sobbing bitterly,

In the outer room they laughed and jested gaily.



CHAPTER LXVII.

HOW ST. PATRICK ENCOUNTERED ST. MICHAEL, AND WHAT ENSUED.

As Redbud entered the outer room, the talkers suddenly became silent, and ran to the windows.

The procession has returned:—the pageant has retraced its steps:—the swaying, shouting, battle-breathing rout has made the northern end of the town hideous, and comes back to make the portion already passed over still more hideous.

Hitherto the revellers have had a clear sweep—an unobstructed highway. They have gone on in power and glory, conquering where there was no enemy, defying where there was no adversary.

But this all changes suddenly, and a great shout roars up from a hundred mouths.

Another drum is heard; mutterings from the southern end of the town respond.

The followers of the maligned and desecrated Michael are in battle array—the Dutch are out to protect their saint, and meet the Irish world in arms.

They come on in a tumultuous mass: they sway, they bend, they leap, they shout. The other half of Pandemonium has turned out, and surrounding ears are deafened by the demoniac chorus.

In costume they are not dissimilar to their enemies—in rotundity they are superior, however, if not in brawn. Every other warrior holds his pipe between his teeth, and all brandish nondescript weapons, like their enemies, the Irish.

And as the great crowd draws near, the crowning peculiarity of the pageant is revealed to wondering eyes.

The Dutch will have their defiant masquerade no less than their enemies: the Irish parade St. Michael in derision: their's be it to show the world an effigy of St. Patrick.

Borne, like St. Michael, on a platform raised above the universal head, in proud pre-eminence behold the great St. Patrick, and his wife Sheeley!

St. Patrick is tall and gaunt, from his contest with the serpents of the emerald isle. He wears a flowing robe, which nevertheless permits his slender, manly legs to come out and be visible. He boasts a shovel hat, adorned with a gigantic sprig of shamrock: he sits upon the chest in which, if historical tradition truly speaks, the great boa constrictor of Killarney was shut up and sunk into the waters of the lake. Around his neck is a string of Irish potatoes—in his hand a shillelah.

Beside him sits his wife Sheeley, rotund and ruddy, with a coronet of potatoes, a necklace of potatoes, a breastpin of potatoes—and lastly, an apron full of potatoes. She herself resembled indeed a gigantic potatoe, and philologians might have conjectured that her very name was no more than a corruption of the adjective mealy.

The noble saint and his wife came on thus far above the roaring crowd, and as they draw nearer, lo! the saint and Sheeley are revealed.

The saint is personated by the heroic Mr. Jinks—his wife is represented by Mistress O'Calligan!

This is the grand revenge of Mr. Jinks—this is the sweet morsel which he has rolled beneath his tongue for days—this is the refinement of torture he has mixed for the love-sick O'Brallaghan, who personates the opposing Michael.

As the adversaries see their opponents, they roar—as they catch sight of their patron saints thus raised aloft derisively, they thunder. The glove is thrown, the die is cast—in an instant they are met in deadly battle.

Would that our acquaintance with the historic muse were sufficiently intimate to enable us to invoke her aid on this occasion. But she is far away, thinking of treaties and protocols, and "eventualities" far in the orient, brooding o'er lost Sebastopol.

The reader therefore must be content with hasty words.

The first item of the battle worthy to be described, is the downward movement of the noble saints from their high position.

Once in the melee, clutching at their enemies, the combatants become oblivious of saintly affairs. The shoulders of the platform bearers bend—the platforms tumble—St. Patrick grapples with St. Michael, who smashes his pewter beer-pot down upon the shamrock.

The shamrock rises—wild and overwhelmed with terror, recreant to Ireland, and quailing before Michael, who has stumbled over Sheeley.

Mr. Jinks retreats through the press before O'Brallaghan, who pursues him with horrible ferocity, breathing vengeance, and on fire with rage.

O'Brallaghan grasps Jinks' robe—the robe is torn from his back, and O'Brallaghan falls backwards: then rises, still overwhelmed with rage.

Jinks suddenly sees a chance of escape—he has intrusted Fodder to a boy, who rides now in the middle of the press.

He tears the urchin from the saddle, seizes a club, and leaping upon Fodder's back, brandishes his weapon, and cheers on his men to victory.

But accidents will happen even to heroes. Mr. Jinks is not a great rider—it is his sole weak point. Fodder receiving a blow behind, starts forward—then stops, kicking up violently.

The forward movement causes the shoulders of Mr. Jinks to fly down on the animal's back, the legs of Mr. Jinks to rise into the air. The backward movement of the donkey's heels interposes at this moment to knock Mr. Jinks back to his former position.

But his feet are out of the stirrups, he cannot keep his seat; and suddenly he feels a hand upon his leg—his enemy glares on him; he is whirled down to the earth, and O'Brallaghan has caught his prey.

The stormy combat, with its cries, and shouts, and blows, and imprecations, closes over them, and all seems lost for Jinks.

Not so. When fate seems to lower darkest, sunlight comes. O'Brallaghan has brought his stalwart fist down on Mr. Jinks' nose but once, has scarcely caused the "gory blood" of that gentleman to spout forth from the natural orifices, when a vigorous female hand is laid upon his collar, and he turns.

It is Mistress O'Calligan Sheeley come to the rescue of her husband.

O'Brallaghan is pulled from Jinks—that hero rises, and attempts to flee.

He rushes into the arms of another lady, who, in passing near the crowd, has been caught up like a leaf and buried in the combat—Miss Sallianna.

But fate is again adverse, though impartial. Mr. Jinks and O'Brallaghan are felled simultaneously by mighty blows, and the rout closes over them.

As they fall, a swaying motion in the crowd is felt—the authorities have arrived—the worn-out combatants draw off, sullenly, and the dead and wounded only are left upon the field.

The crowd retires—they have had their fight, and broken numerous heads. They have vindicated the honor of their Saints—to-morrow they are friends and neighbors again.

One beautiful and touching scene is left for aftertimes—one picture which even the historic muse might have paused near, and admired.

Two lovely dames contend for the privilege of holding a bloody warrior's head, whose nose is injured.

It is Mr. Jinks, Miss Judith, and Miss Sallianna.



CHAPTER LXVIII.

THE END OF THE CHAIN.

We are conscious that the description of the great battle just given is but a poor and lame delineation, and we can only plead defective powers in that department of art—the treatment of battle-pieces.

We cannot describe the appearance of the battle-field after the combat, any more than the contest.

Wounded and crack-crowned, groaning and muttering heroes dragging themselves away—this is the resume which we find it in our power alone to give.

One hero only seems to be seriously injured.

He is a man of forty-five or fifty, with a heavy black beard, thick sensual lips, and dog-like face. He is clad roughly; and the few words which he utters prove that he is a German.

The fight has taken place opposite Mr. Rushton's office, and thither this man is borne.

Mr. Rushton growls, and demands how he had the audacity to break the peace. The man mutters. Mr. Rushton observes that he will have him placed in the stocks, and then sent to jail. The German groans.

Suddenly Mr. Rushton feels a hand upon his arm. He turns round: it is Redbud.

"That is the man who sold me the necklace, sir!" she says, in a hesitating voice. "I recognize him—it is the pedlar."

Mr. Rushton starts, and catches the pedlar by the arm.

"Come!" he commences.

The pedlar rises without assistance, sullenly, prepared for the stocks.

"Where did you get this necklace? Speak!"

The lawyer's eyes awe the man, and he stammers. Mr. Rushton grasps him by the collar, and glares at him ferociously.

"Where?"

In five minutes he has made the pedlar speak—he bought the necklace from the mother of the young man standing at the door.

"From the Indian woman?"

"Yes, from her."

Mr. Rushton turns pale, and falls into a chair.

Verty hastens to him.

The lawyer rises, and gazes at him with pale lips, passes his hand over his brow with nervous, trembling haste. He holds the necklace up before Verty there, and says, in a husky voice—

"Where did your mother get this?"

Verty gazes at the necklace, and shakes his head.

"I don't know, sir—I don't know that it is her's—I think I have seen it though—yes, yes, long, long ago—somewhere!"

And the young hunter's head droops, thoughtfully—his dreamy eyes seem to wander over other years.

Then he raises his head and says, abruptly:

"I had a strange thought, sir! I thought I saw myself—only I was a little child—playing with that necklace somewhere in a garden—oh, how strange! There were walks with box, and tulip beds, and in the middle, a fountain—strange! I thought I saw Indians, too—and heard a noise—why, I am dreaming!"

The lawyer looks at Verty with wild eyes, which, slowly, very slowly, fill with a strange light, which makes the surrounding personages keep silent—so singular is this rapt expression.

A thought is rising on the troubled and agitated mind of the lawyer, like a moon soaring above the horizon. He trembles, and does not take his eyes for a moment from the young man's face.

"A fountain—Indians?" he mutters, almost inarticulately.

"Yes, yes!" says Verty, with dreamy eyes, and crouching, so to speak, Indian fashion, until his tangled chestnut curls half cover his cheeks—"yes, yes!—there again!—why it is magic—there! I see it all—I remember it! I must have seen it! Redbud!" he said, turning to the young girl with a frightened air, "am I dreaming?"

Redbud would have spoken. Mr. Rushton, with a sign, bade her be silent. He looked at the young man with the same strange look, and said in a low tone:

"Must have seen what?"

"Why, this!" said Verty, half extending his arm, and pointing toward a far imaginary horizon, on which his dreamy eyes were fixed—"this! don't you see it? My tribe! my Delawares—there in the woods! They attack the house, and carry off the child in the garden playing with the necklace. His nurse is killed—poor thing! her blood is on the fountain! Now they go into the great woods with the child, and an Indian woman takes him and will not let them kill him—he is so pretty with his long curls like the sunshine: you might take him for a girl! The Indian woman holds before him a bit of looking-glass, stolen from the house! Look! they will have his life—oh!"

And crouching, with an exclamation of terror, Verty shuddered.

"Give me my rifle!" he cried; "they are coming there! Back!"

And the young man rose erect, with flashing eyes.

"The woman flies in the night," he continues, becoming calm again; "they pursue her—she escapes with the boy—they come to a deserted lodge—a lodge! a lodge! Why, it is our lodge in the hills! It's ma mere! and I was that child! Am I mad?"

And Verty raised his head, and looked round him with terror.

His eye fell upon Mr. Rushton, who, breathing heavily, his looks riveted to his face, his lips trembling, seemed to control some overwhelming emotion by a powerful effort.

The lawyer rose, and laid his hand upon Verty's shoulder—it trembled.

"You are—dreaming—," he gasped. Suddenly, a brilliant flash darted from his eye. With a movement, as rapid as thought, he tore the clothes from the young man's left shoulder, so as to leave it bare to the armpit.

Exactly on the rounding of the shoulder, which was white, and wholly free from the copper-tinge of the Indian blood, the company descried a burn, apparently inflicted in infancy.

The dazzled eyes of the lawyer almost closed—he fell into the old leather chair, and sobbing, "my son! my son Arthur!" would have fainted.

He was revived promptly, and the wondering auditors gathered around him, listening, while he spoke—the shaggy head, leaning on the shoulder of Verty, who knelt at his feet, and looked up in his eyes with joy and wonder.

Yes! there could be no earthly doubt that the strange words uttered by the boy, were so many broken and yet brilliant memories shining from the dim past: that this was his son—the original of the portrait. The now harsh and sombre lawyer, when a young and happy man, had married a French lady, and lived on the border; and his little son had, after the French fashion, received, for middle name, his mother's name, Anne—and this had become his pet designation. His likeness had been painted by a wandering artist, and soon after, a band of Delawares had attacked the homestead and carried him away to the wilderness, and there had remained little doubt, in his father's mind, that the child had been treated as the Indians were accustomed to treat such captives—mercilessly slain. The picture of him was the only treasure left to the poor broken heart, when heaven had taken his wife from him, soon afterwards—and in the gloom and misanthropy these tortures inflicted upon him, this alone had been his light and solace. Retaining for the boy his old pet name of Anne, he had cried in presence of the picture, and been hardened in spite of all, against Providence. In the blind convulsions of his passionate regret, he had even uttered blasphemy, and scouted anything like trust in God; and here now was that merciful God leading his child back to him, and pardoning all his sin of unbelief, and enmity, and hatred; and saying to him, in words of marvellous sweetness and goodness, "Poor soured spirit, henceforth worship and trust in me!"

Yes! his son Arthur, so long wept and mourned, had come to him again—was there before him, kneeling at his feet!

And with his arms around the boy, the rugged man bent down and wept, and uttered in his heart a prayer for pardon.

And we may be sure that the man's joy was not unshared by those around—those kind, friendly eyes, which looked upon the father and son, and rejoiced in their happiness. The very sunshine grew more bright, it seemed; and when the picture was brought forth, and set in his light, he shone full on it, and seemed to laugh and bless the group with his kind light—even the little laughing child.



CHAPTER LXIX.

CONCLUSION.

Our chronicle is ended, and we cannot detain the reader longer, listening to those honest kindly voices, which have, perhaps, spoken quite as much as he is willing to give ear to. Let us hope, that in consideration of their kindness and simplicity, he may pardon what appeared frivolous—seeing that humanity beat under all, and kindness—like the gentle word of the poet—is always gain.

The history is therefore done, and all ends here upon the bourne of comedy. Redbud, with all her purity and tenderness—Verty, with his forest instincts and simplicity—the lawyer, and poet, and the rest, must go again into silence, from which they came. They are gone away now, and their voices sound no more; their eyes beam no longer; all their merry quips and sighs, their griefs and laughter, die away—the comedy is ended. Do not think harshly of the poor writer, who regrets to part with them—who feels that he must miss their silent company in the long hours of the coming autumn nights. Poor puppets of the imagination! some may say, what's all this mock regret? No, no! not only of the imagination: of the heart as well!

This said, all is said; but, perhaps, a few words of the after fate of Verty, and the rest, may not be inappropriate.

The two kind hearts which loved each other so—Verty and Redbud—were married in due course of time: and Ralph and Fanny too. Miss Lavinia and the poet of chancery—Mistress O'Calligan and the knight of the shears—Miss Sallianna and the unfortunate Jinks—all these pairs, ere long, were united. Mr. Jinks perfected his revenge upon Miss Sallianna, as he thought, by marrying her—but, we believe, the result of his revenge was misery. Mistress O'Calligan accepted the hand of Mr. O'Brallaghan, upon hearing of this base desertion; and so, the desires of all were accomplished—for weal or woe.

Be sure, ma mere lived, with Verty and Redbud all her days thereafter; and our honest Verty often mounted Cloud, and went away, on bright October mornings, to the hills, and visited the old hunting lodge: and smoothing, thoughtfully, the ancient head of Longears, pondered on that strange, wild dream of the far past, which slowly developed itself under the hand of Him, the Author and Life, indeed, who brought the light!

And one day, standing there beside the old hunting lodge, with Redbud, Verty, as we still would call him, pointed to the skies, and pressing, with his encircling arm, the young form, said, simply:

"How good and merciful He was—to give me all this happiness—and you!"

THE END.