CHAPTER I. Aw, bedad, sir, I don't mind tellin' yeh a bit. Shure now that we're safe out av our thrubble it's only too glad I am t' tell th' story t' any wan that'll jist let iviry wan know that me good husband, Pat Cassidy, nivir had act or part in th' murdher av his ould uncle Tim-God rest his sowl!-this fine Christamas eve; for it's he that wasn't th' bad soart !

Well, sir, me an' Pat was coortin'-jist pullin' a coard, as th' sayin' is for close an' two year. Not that he sed much t' me for a long time; but shure, sir, usen't I t' see th' heart in his face whin he'd meet me in th' chapel-yard after mass av a Sunda', or at fair or market, or whin we'd sit discoorsin' anundher a hedge av a Sunda' evenin'? He was a fine sthrappin'-lookin' boy, wid th' best behaviour av any wan ivir I met ; but shure, sir, he'll be in in a minnit; he's only jist gettin' a creel av turf from th' stack.

It's jist about three years ago sence Pat asked me av I'd marry him. Av coorse no dacint girl cud say she would all at wanst; that 'ud be a disgrace t' her. So I kept quillin' up a bit av me apern as we war sittin' anundher th' hedge that Sunda' evenin', an' th' sorra word I sed. An', bedad, I don't mind tellin' yeh, sir, that I don't think I cud say a word wid th' joy, for I loved Pat,-well, sir, no, not as well as I love him now that he's me good husband; but I loved

him as well as any girl cud love any boy before she's marrid t' him.

Mary Rooney,' sez he,-shure it's well I rimimber iviry word he sed; an' throth I cud hardly hear his voice, faith it's th' brakin's o' me heart yeh are intirely! I'm that fond av yeh, Mary, that I'd live an th' clippins o' tin wid yeh, sooner nor in a slated house wid any wan else.'

Well, bedad, I knewn Pat was in airnest, an' it's no matther what I sed meself now; anyhow, we agreed that as soon as it was convaynant that Pat was t' spake t' th' priest. I don't know whether or not yeh know it, sir, but Pat's people war all dead, an' he was an orfin, an' he always lived wid his ould uncle, Tim Sullivan. He was allaways called ould Tim the Smaddherer,' bekase he used t whitewash an' t' do jobs av plastherin' all through th' counthry. Aw, but it's he was the miserly ould chap! Afther a while he was near bein' kilt wan day, be raison av an ould wall that he was plastherin' up givin' way an' fallin' on him. He was near dyin', so he was. An thin whin Docthor Crean sed he was as well as ivir he cud be, what d'ye think, sir, but it was found out that poor ould Tim's right hand an' arm was no use t him at all; an' there they used to hang for all th' world as dead an' as withered as av he got a fairy blast.

uncle Tim? He has such a quare look in his face sometimes, jist as though he was hidin' somethin' from me, or thinkin' somethin' quare.'

'Throth, Pat,' sez I, 'me mother sed th' same thing last Sunda' whin we saw him.'

'Did she now?' he sez, quite glad-like.

Ay,' sez I; 'an' d'ye know me mother says she thinks yer uncle must have some money saved somewhere, an' that he's afeard av bein' robbed av it now that he's not able t' use his right hand an' arm, av any wan was t' come thry and take it from him.'

Pat looked at me, an' thin he gives a smile, an' he sez in his own quare way,

'Well, now, Mary alannah, I don't say but what yer mother's as cute as a pancake; but shure what'd me uncle Tim be thryin' t' hide anythin' from me for?'

'I don't know, Pat; but yeh know he was allaways quare,' sez I.

Well, sir, to make a long story short, shure poor ould Tim Sullivan got quarer an' quarer, an' at last Pat spoke t' Father Mulcahy about it, an' asked his advice.

Lave yer uncle t' me, Pat,' sez Father Mulcahy. 'I'll soon find out what's throublin' him. I know a good dale, but it's undher sale av confession; but I'll spake t' yer uncle Tim, an' we'll aise his mind betchune uz.'

Three or four days afther, I was sittin' in th' door, doin' a little bit av sewin', whin who comes along be Dogherty's boreen but Pat? I seen he was in a great hurry, an' I got up an' wint t' meet him. His eyes was dancin' out av his head, an' he sez in a whisper,

'Whisht, Mary acushla! Shure it's a made man I am, an' a proud woman you ought t' be this day!'

He looked such a fine handsome boy that I don't deny I did feel a proud girl; but I didn't tell him that, av coorse.

'Arrah, tell me what it's all about, Pat,' sez I.

'Just this,' he sez, still in a whisper, as av he was afeard av any wan listenin'. 'Father Mulcahy got th' soft side av me uncle Tim, an' what d'ye think, Mary alannah? but th' ould fella has been puttin' money by for many a year, an' he sez it's all for me, as I was like a good son t' him.'

Poor Pat got very red whin he tould me that, an' I sez-an shure it was only th' truth, not a word more nor less

'So yeh war, Pat, as good a son as ivir brathed.'

'Well, th' say a good son makes a good husband, Mary,' sez he; 'anyhow let me tell yeh the rest av me story. What d'ye think but me uncle Tim has close upon a hundhred an' twinty pounds, an' he keeps it all in our own cabin?

'Pat!' sez I; for who'd ivir think ould Tim Sullivan cud have such a fortune?

'Ay,' sez Pat, he has been hidin' it away iverywhere, an' now Father Mulcahy got him t' promise t' take it in t' Misther Bradley t' th' bank in Clonmel where they'd take care av it for him, an' there'd be no fear av him bein' robbed.'

'Bedad, it's a great day for uz, Pat,' sez I.

'It is, Mary,' he sez; 'an' now what I want yeh t' do is this: me uncle Tim wants t' go t' th' bank t'-morrow, so I can't go wid him, for I have t' go t' Bracken fair wid the two pigs, so I want yeh t' take me uncle into th' bank wid yeh.'

'Av coorse I will,' sez I; for throth I'd do more nor that for Pat.

'Yeh see, bekase av his withered hand an' arm I don't like him t' go alone,' sez Pat; 'for it's lonely crassin' th' mountains; an' thin some blackgards might know he had th' bit av money, an' set an him.'

'Throth I'm not much use av th' did, Pat,' sez I, laughin'; an' Pat laughed too, for it was only in fun what he was sayin' about any wan doin' anythin' t' th' ould uncle.

Och! Wirra, wirra! Shure wasn't it th' black bitther mornin' that riz th' next day? Ould Tim kem down t' our cabin, dhrivin' th' low-backed car wid a chaff bed an' it, an' a blue quilt over that for me t' sit on.

'Well, God be wid yeh both!' sez me mother, as we war goin' away; an' she threwn an ould shoe afther uz for luck, an' it hit ould Tim Sullivan's withered hand.

He turned round quite quick, an' his face got red, an' he was goin' t' throw t' shoe back; only I cried out,

'Tim agrah, for th' love av God, an' don't throw back th' luck!'

'Arrah, whisht, girl,' he sez, in his quare angry way, 'why wouldn't I throw it back?'

'Bekase it's unlucky,' sez I; an' shure, sir, I cudn't say more nor that. But Tim Sullivan wasn't like other people.

"Divil may care," sez he, 'as Punch sed whin he lost mass! I'll taiche yer mother t' make game of me dead hand-so I will!' an' wid that he threwer back th' ould shoe, an', och hone a-rie, shure not a lie I'm tellin' when I say he threwn back the luck too.

On we wint over the mountains, A vehicle without springs, and with wheels formed of solid pieces of wood, the only kind of car which stands the wear and tear of the mountain roads.

for it was a good seven miles t' Clonmel. Ould Tim didn't spake much; an' sez I t' him,

'Arrah, Tim, what are yeh bringin' in the sack av piatees for, for it's not even the marketday?'

'Ax no quistions,' he sez, quite short, an ye'll be tould no lies.'

'Throth,' sez I,-but, shure, I was only in fun all th' time,- it's me own opinion, Tim, that yeh have all th' money in the sack, an' that it's not piatees at all.'

Ould Tim gives a jump, an' sez, Now look here, Mary Rooney, yer not goin' t' come over me that away. It's nothin' t' you

where I keep th' money.'

Afther that th' sorra word more he sed until we kem t' th' bank in Bagwell-sthreet. It's a grand house, shure enough. So we wint up th' steps, ould Tim carryin' th' sack av piatees on his back. The very first person we met was Michael Neale, a third cousin av me mother's, an' there he was, dhressed like a gintleman, in a blue coat an' brass buttons, bekase he was th' sarvint at th' bank.

'Arrah, Mary Rooney,' sez he, 'it's glad I am t' see yeh; an' how are you, Tim, an' where are yeh goin' wid the piaties!'

'Never mind,' sez Tim. 'I want t' see the masther; I want Misther Bradley.'

'Hadn't yeh betther lave th' piatees here,' sez Michael; an' shure he was right too.

But no, bedad! Ould Tim tuk no notice av what Michael sed; but in athrough th' glass doors he walked, an' me follyin' him.

'Young man,' sez ould Tim t' a gintleman in a glass case, 'where's yer masther?'

"Who?' sez he.

'Yer masther,' says Tim. 'I suppose yeh want Misther Bradley?' says he.