from the mid-heaven; and occasionally might be seen a straggling bee hurrying homewards, careless of the flowers which tempted him in his path, and only anxious to reach his hive before the deluge should overtake him.  The stillness indeed was awful, as was the gloomy veil which darkened the face of nature, and filled the mind with that ominous terror which presses upon the heart like a consciousness of guilt.  In such a time, and under the aspect of a sky so much resembling the pall of death, there is neither mirth nor laughter, but that individuality of apprehension, which, whilst it throws the conscience in upon its own records, and suspends conversation, yet draws man to his fellows, as if mere contiguity were a safeguard against danger.

The conversation between the two young men as they returned from their labor, was short but expressive.

“Bartle,” said Connor, “are you afeard of thundher?  The rason I ask,” he added, “is, bekase your face is as white as a sheet.”

“I have it from my mother,” replied Flanagan, “but at all evints such an evenin’ as this is enough to make the heart of any man quake.”

I’ll feel my spirits low, by rason of the darkness, but I’m not afraid.  It’s well for them that have a clear conscience; they say that a stormy sky is the face of an angry God—­”

“An’ the thundher His voice,” added Bartle; “but why are the brute bastes an’ the birds afraid, that commit no sin?”

“That’s true,” said his companion; “it must be natural to be afraid, or why would they indeed?—­but some people are naturally more timersome than others.”

“I intinded to go home for my other clo’es an’ linen this evenin’,” observed Bartle, “but I won’t go out to-night.”

“I must thin,” said Connor; “an, with the blessin’ o’ God, will too; come what may.”

“Why, what is there to bring you out, if it’s a fair question to ax?” inquired the other.

“A promise, for one thing; an’ my own inclination—­my own heart—­that’s nearer the thruth—­for another.  It’s the first meetin’ that I an’ her I’m goin’ to ever had.”

“Thigham, Thighum, I undherstand,” said Flanagan; “well, I’ll stay at home; but, sure it’s no harm to wish you success—­an’ that, Connor, is more than I’ll ever have where I wish for it most.”

This closed their dialogue, and both entered Fardorougha’s house in silence.

Up until twilight, the darkness of the dull and heavy sky was unbroken; but towards the west there was seen a streak whose color could not be determined as that of blood or fire.  By its angry look, it seemed as if the sky in that quarter were about to burst forth in one awful sweep of conflagration.  Connor observed it, and very correctly anticipated the nature and consequences of its appearance; but what will not youthful love dare and overcome?  With an undismayed heart he set forward on his journey, which we leave him to pursue, and beg permission, meanwhile, to transport the reader to a scene distant about two miles farther towards the—­inland part of the country.