its contents upon the loose hay beneath the rick, which being, as Judy had related, dry as tinder, quickly caught fire from the smouldering embers.  A strong breeze had arisen that night, and the flame had spread to the stack itself with the results which Roseen knew.  The pipe that had done all the damage, being snugly stowed away beneath the overhanging slab of stone, had told no tales; but now its evidence was conclusive, and while Judy rapturously embraced and mumbled over it, Roseen fell upon her knees and thanked God.

It was on a bright October morning that Mike was released from prison, but in spite of the joys of regained liberty and the warm congratulations of his friends, the poor fellow looked downcast and bewildered enough when he came forth into the sunshiny world.  Roseen had sent her car for him to the prison door, and Mike, releasing himself at length from the handshakes of the friends who awaited him outside, and being anxious to dispense with their escort, had induced the driver, with a hasty whispered word or two, to whip up the fast-trotting mare, which had thereupon started at a break-neck pace down the street, soon leaving the astonished convoy far behind.

“Bedad, ye are in a terrible hurry altogether,” remarked Jack McEvoy, who happened to be driving.  “I suppose ye are in a hurry to get to Monavoe.”  He laughed and winked.  “Begorrah, if the ould Masther could lift his head out o’ the grave, I wonder what he’d say at me goin’ to fetch a husband for his granddaughter out o’ Mount Kennedy gaol?”

Mike flushed to the roots of his hair and turned his back more completely on his opposite neighbour.

“Sure, ye needn’t think shame o’ that,” went on Jack, quick to perceive that the joke was not appreciated.  “If ye burnt the rick itself, there’s nobody hereabouts but ’ud say ye done right.  But your father’s breaking his heart now bekase the loss o’ the rick ’ull be out o’ your own pocket.”

“What call has he to say any such thing at all?” said Mike, glancing round fiercely.

“Och, bedad, doesn’t every one know the way it is between the two of yez?  Sure, there never was a fellow in such luck as yourself, Mike Clancy!  Ye’ll be the richest man between this and County Cork, an’ let alone the fortun’, ye’ll be havin’ the greatest jewel of a wife.  ’Pon me word, if ye was to see the Misthress now of a Sunday!”

“Who’s that?” said Mike absently.

“The Misthress—­Miss Rorke!”

“Oh, aye, of course, Miss Rorke is the Misthress now,” mused Mike to himself.

“Well, if ye was to see her in her black silky dress an’ the beautiful feathers in her hat, an’ her gould watch and chain an’ all—­’pon me word, ye’d think it was the Queen.”

Clancy did not answer, and McEvoy, more and more anxious to retrieve his former error, waxed eloquent on the subject of Roseen, her beauty, her wealth, and the bounties she lavished all round her.