"At the foot of the valley runs a bright clear stream, with a bridge over it?"

"There did run a stream there," said Burnett; "but Peter Pike turned it into his milldam, as I told him, contrary to nature and Act of Parliament; so that now there's a bridge without any water under it."

The traveller's countenance fell, but it brightened immediately, and he continued, " And farther down that stream are the ruins of an old abbey; and under the south window of that abbey stands a broad, flat, marble stone?"

Ay, true enough," said Burnett; "I've pegged my top on it many a time when I was a boy."

"Peter Pike, then, has not turned that stone into his milldam," persisted the stranger, smiling; "and as it remains there-why, my friend, our fortune's made-that's all!"

"I don't see I don't understand-You've not insensed me into it yet," said Burnett.

"The time's not come for telling all; I have said enough to prove to you, that without ever having been here before, I knew exactly what I have told, and more too, which, when I have had some refreshment, you shall know."

What the Irish peasant has to give, he gives freely, be it much or little. Hospitality has been called the virtue of savage life; be it so; its exercise is delightful to the wayfarer. As the evening advanced, it was evident that notwithstanding Grace's desire to hear all the stranger had to communicate, he was not disposed to gratify her curiosity, and she and her brother were soon dismissed to their beds. There was a half-finished closet inside Grace Burnett's little room, which served (if truth must be told) as the nursing chamber of a pet calf, which she was rearing with more than ordinary care; for the creature was milk-white, devoid of spot or blemish, and consequently regarded with superstitious tenderness. As the stranger was to occupy Mick's bed, the poor natural was content to share the calf's straw; but when his sister went to cover him with a supernumerary blanket, she found him sitting, his arms enfolding the neck of his favourite dog, and his eyes staring with the expression of one who listens attentively.

"Go to sleep, Michael."

"Whisht!" exclaimed the boy, holding up his finger.

"What ails you, Astore?'

"Whisht!" he again repeated.

"Lie down, Michael."

"No, no; I saw-whisht!—I saw what Lanty Pike kills the birdeens with, peepin', peepin', peepin' in the strange man's breast-I saw the muzzle of it-he he! Uncle's the fool, if uncle trusts him-whisht!"

The astonishment occasioned by the stranger's story at once faded from Grace's mind; but if it did, her first impression revived with tenfold strength. How was her uncle to make his fortune? What connection could he have with the traveller's dream, or the broad flat stone in the old grey abbey ?-Her spirit sunk within her. A tythe-proctor had been murdered about two years before, and thrown into the gravel pit. Her heart beat feebly within her bosom, and half creeping, half staggering to the door of her chamber, she put her eye close to the latch-hole, and saw to her astonishment her uncle evidently preparing to accompany

the stranger out, though the night was dark and stormy; the traveller was already equipped, and Black Burnett was putting on his "big coat." Nor did it escape the girl's observation, that the whisky bottle was nearly empty, and that though the stranger was perfectly sober, her uncle's cheek was flushed and his step unsteady. She was about to let them see that she was not gone to bed, and to entreat her uncle not to go forth that night, when she remembered that their cottage was a good step" from any other dwelling, and that if their mysterious guest intended violence, he could easily overpower a half-drunken man and a feeble girl; poor Michael was always counted as nothing. She saw her uncle take up his spade from out the corner, and notwithstanding the stranger's entreaties to be permitted to carry it, she was pleased to observe he persisted in his determination to bear it himself. A tremor she could not account for came over her, and as they closed the outer door, she nearly fainted.

Black Burnett and his visiter proceeded on their way in the direction of the gravel pits.

"You're sure of the road?" inquired the stranger.

"Am I sure that this is my own hand?" replied Burnett; first the gravel pits-then the bridge-no, then the elm-then the bridgethen the ould abbey-then the flat stone! Ah! what will the neighbours say, when Grace flourishes off to mass on a side-saddle? and to think of your bringing me such news just as I'd got into the doldrums about the lease. Three days-three nights, I mean-since you dreamt of the goold?"

"Three, exactly."

"Under the flat stone?"

"Ay! do let me carry the spade; and see, as we seem to be on the edge of the gravel pit, had you not better walk next to it? you know it, and I don't."

"I thought you said you war up to every turn of the crag, through the drame?"

Ay, to be sure; but give me the spade."

I tell you I won't; hav'n't you the bag that's to carry home the red goold? Lord, how they will all stare! Grace sha'n't put off ould uncle then with a bottle of whisky; I'll have a whole cask! Whir, man alive! can't you walk straight, as I do? you almost had me over the edge of the pit, and there's good six feet wather in the bottom of it. There, just where the moon shines, is the clm-tree, and—

In all human probability the word would have been his last, for the murderer's grasp was on the arm of his intended victim, but that Michael-the half-idiot Michael-with a whoop and a halloo, bearing a lighted stick in his hand, rushed so closely by them that the sparks of his wild brand starred the stranger's coat; while Snap, hearing his master's voice, barked either in glee or anger.

"Hurroo! hurroo! Uncle, uncle, here's the light for your's or the devil's pipe! Hurroo! night-rovers-ill-gatherers! hurroo! hurroo!" and shouting and jumping, Michael kept before his uncle, now tossing his torch into the air, and then whirling it round his head.

"Send the cub to his den," said the stranger, in so fierce a tone of voice, that the inebriated Burnett noted the change, and turned to look at his companion.

"Send the idiot home," he continued, " or, by the Lord, I'll send him somewhere else;" and, as he spoke, he drew a pistol from his vest.

The sight of the weapon sobered the old man in a moment: "Stop, stop!" he exclaimed, "if you hurt a hair of that boy's head, you'll pay for it-that's all. You're no true man to draw a pistol on such a natural as that;-besides, what use have you for the fire-arms?"

"Use," repeated the traveller; "why, you know your country has not the reputation of being the quietest in the world. So, for my own personal safety"

"Quietest!"—repeated Burnett,-"I'll trouble you not to say anything against the country. I'm thinking you're not the sort I took you for, to offer to fire at a poor natural, whom every man in the parish would fight to purtect; and then to abuse Ould Ireland!"

"My good friend," interrupted the stranger, "let me beg of you to send that boy home; to trust our secret with an idiot would be absurd in the extreme."

"As to getting Michael in, when Michael would rather be out, I might as well tie a rat with a sugan. There's no use in gainsaying the poor natural. So I'm thinking the night is so wild, and that craythur so bent upon watching what I'm after, that we'd better go back ;-tomorrow night will do as well."

"If you'd just let me frighten him with a flash in the pan, it would send him to bed as gentle as a fawn."

"Flash in the pan! God help you, man alive!-the whisper of a pistol even would send Michael over the whole town land before you could say Bannacher; and he'd have a crowd round us that would beat a priest's funeral to nothing. No, no; all we've for it to-night, is to go back and be asy."

Burnett was determined, and his companion was compelled to submit, after trying in vain to impress upon the farmer's mind, that as it was the third night after the dream it was particularly favourable for such an adventure.

"Sure, the gould is there, and if it has stayed there for maybe a hundred or two years, what's to take it away now, or before to-morrow night?" argued Black Burnett; but I much doubt if the idea would have influenced him, had not the sight of the pistol awoke his suspicions, or as he said himself, if something had not come over him" that turned him homeward.

66

The next morning the stranger lingered about the cottage, making himself familiar with every winding and path in the vicinity, and trying, as it is called, to "make friends" with Michael. Michael, however, was true to his first feelings, and eyed the visiter as a shy dog may often be observed to regard a person who has treated him secretly with harshness, and yet would wish to be on outward terms of civility. He offered him gingerbread-Michael threw it in the fire; nuts-he flung them back into his lap. In the favour of Grace he made no progress either. His compliments were unregarded; and to complete his mortification, the favoured carpenter came there for a day or two. He could not help thinking that the carpenter had been sent for, either by Grace or Michael, as a spy upon his actions. He saw that every movement he made, every word he spoke was watched, and whatever plan of action he had formed was evidently frustrated for the present. Black

Burnett talked to his guest eagerly of the anticipated treasure; whatever suspicions or fears had been awakened in his mind had passed away with the darkness of night, and his habitual incaution and natural obstinacy tended to make him as easy a prey as a murderer could desire. The next night it blew a perfect hurricane-the sort of storm which a strong man cannot stand in-and the thunder and lightning sported in their fierceness with the winds and rain. The door of the cottage was forced in more than once; and as the fire gleamed upon the stranger's face (for he had gathered himself up, silent, moody, and disappointed, in Burnett's chimney-corner), Grace could hardly forbear thinking him the incarnation of an evil spirit. If superstition detracts from our wisdom, it adds to our poetry; it is the high-priest of a poetic mind, and I much doubt if a vivid imagination could exist without it. There is often more genuine poetry in the mind of an Irish peasant than critics would deem possible. The weather was such that no one dared venture out; and the more terrific the storm, the more Michael rejoiced. He leaped-he clapped his hands; he seemed to his sister as if under the impression that his uncle owed his safety to the war of elements, which shook to the foundation their humble dwelling. At intervals the visiter and his host would look out upon the night, but it was only to return with discomfited aspects to their seats.

"Uncle," said Grace, drawing him gently aside, "Uncle, darlint, I want to spake a word to ye; it's about the lease, uncle. Matthew (her lover) has tould me that the landlord himself will be passing through Ross to-morrow, and he doesn't want any of us to know it, because he's always bothered about leases and the like; and you are sensible no Irish gentleman in the world likes to be tormented about business of any kind—he'd rather let it take its own course without toil; but Matthew says, uncle, that maybe as my mother nursed him, and poor Mike-weak though he is-is his own foster-brother-if I watched and could get a glimpse of him, he'd spake to me anyhow." "I wouldn't be under a compliment to him for the lase," replied Burnett proudly. "Maybe, Grace, it's more than himself I'll have one of these days.'

"Sure it's no compliment, if we pay the were never a gale behindhand in your life. trusting to drames you are”

same as another; and you And, uncle, honey! if it's

"You're not going to prache to me, are you?" said the impatient man, interrupting her.

"No, not prache, only there's a look betwixt yon man's two eyes that has no marcy in it. Uncle, a-cushla-take care of him!"

"You're a little fool-a worse natural than Mike-that's what you are!"

"But you'll take care-and about the lase?"

"Let me alone, will you? Grace, you're a spiled girl-that's what you are--and it's myself spiled you," replied Burnett, turning again to look out on the night, which, fortunately for him, was worse than ever. It was long past two before the family retired to rest; but Grace's head was too full to sleep. She was up with the lark; a calm and beautiful morning had succeeded the storm. Matthew, her handsome lover, was soon roused from his light slumbers in the barn, and she councilled with him long and earnestly upon her plans.

"The terror of that strange man leaves my heart when the daylight comes," said the innocent girl, "and yet I don't like to quit him alone with Mike and uncle. Mike thinks he'd have pitched uncle into the gravel-pits, Thursday night, but for him ;-to be sure, there's no minding what Mike says."

Matthew thought differently; he said he had observed that, at times, her brother evinced much intelligence.

"The landlord will be in Ross about eleven, you say; and it's a long walk from this. A weary on the drames! But for the dramer, uncle himself would go, I know;-and yet there's thruth in them at times and it was wonderful how he knew us all."

Matthew smiled...

"Can't I go myself, and you stay here ?" she continued.

No; Matthew would not do that. What, let her go alone, as if no one cared for her, to meet her young and handsome landlord!-He didn't care about the lease-not he-but, to suffer her to go alone! If she thought it would make her mind easy, his brother Brien, the stonemason, should go to work at the New Pier "forenent" the house, and he would be a safeguard.

That was a pleasant proposal; and in her eager desire to obtain a promise from the landlord that he would grant her uncle a lease of years, she more than half persuaded herself that her fears were imaginary. "At all events," she argued, "no harm can happen him in the bames of the blessed sun. I'll be back before night; and if I do but bring the promise the written promise from the landlord-uncle will be in a good humour; and then, maybe-maybe I'd coax him over to give up the drame, and take a fresh oath against the whisky!"

Poor, poor Grace!

She wakened Michael, and telling him to take care of his uncle, promised him some fresh gingerbread if he was a good boy, and kept his promise; and having first left the breakfast ready, set off on her adventure, escorted by as true a lover and as sensible a friend as ever fell to the lot of a country-girl.

Matthew is a perfect jewel in his way-sober, attentive, and industrious;-fond of his home-of his wife, and children;-worthy to be held up as a pattern to all the married men in his country, whether poor or rich. I honour Matthew, and think him-(and that is saying a great deal) as good as any English husband of my acquaintance. When Black Burnett got up, he was not a little annoyed at finding that pretty Grace had disappeared contrary to his desire; and though he well knew the cause of her absence, for once he had the prudence to keep his own council, saying only to his guest that she had gone to Ross. During the early part of the day, the visiter walked about as he had done before; but at noon the mason saw a strange boy give him a piece of paper-a note or parcel-he could not tell which, it was so squeeged" between their hands; but something of that sort it certainly was.

After dinner, the stranger proposed that he should accompany Black Burnett a little way on the Ross Road, to meet Grace on her return; nor did he object to poor Michael bearing them company. The stonemason (honest Brien) thought, after a little time, he would follow in the distance; though from the earliness of the hour, and the road being