Bartle’s face became livid; but he was perfectly cool;—­indeed, so much so that he smiled at this last condition of Fardorougha.  It was a smile, however, at once so ghastly, dark, and frightful, that, by any person capable of tracing the secret workings of some deadly passion on the countenance, its purport could not have been mistaken.

“God knows, Fardorougha, you might let that pass—­considher that you’ve been hard enough upon us.”

“God knows I say the same,” observed Honora.  “Is it the last drop o’ the heart’s blood you want to squeeze out, Fardorougha?”

“The last drop!  What is it but my right?  Am I robbin’ him?  Isn’t it due?  Will he, or can he deny that?  An’ if it’s due isn’t it but honest in him to pay it?  They’re not livin’ can say I ever defrauded them of a penny.  I never broke a bargain; an’ yet you open on me, Honora, as if I was a rogue!  If I hadn’t that boy below to provide for, an’ settle in the world, what ’ud I care about money?  It’s for his sake I look afther my right.”

“I’ll allow the money,” said Bartle.  “Fardorougha’s right; it’s due, an’ I’ll pay him—­ay will I, Fardorougha, settle wid you to the last farden, or beyant it if you like.”

“I wouldn’t take a farden beyant it, in the shape of debt.  Them that’s decent enough to make a present, may—­for that’s a horse of another color.”

“When will I come home?” inquired Bartle.

“You may stay at home now that you’re here,” said the other.  “An’ in the mane time, go an’ help Connor put that hay in lap-cocks.  Anything you want to bring here you can bring afther your day’s work tonight.”

“Did you ate your dinner, Bartle?” said Honora; “bekase if you didn’t I’ll get you something.”

“It’s not to this time o’ day he’d be without his dinner, I suppose,” observed his new master.

“You’re very right, Fardorougha,” rejoined Bartle; “I’m thankful to you, ma’am, I did ate my dinner.”

“Well, you’ll get a rake in the barn, Bartle,” said his master; “an’ now tramp down to Connor, an’ I’ll see how you’ll handle yourselves, both o’ you, from this till night.”

Bartle accordingly—­proceeded towards the meadow, and Fardorougha, as was his custom, throwing his great coat loosely about his shoulders, the arms dangling on each side of him, proceeded to another part of his farm.

Flanagan’s step, on his way to join Connor, was slow and meditative.  The kindness of the son and mother touched him; for the line between their disposition and Fardorougha’s was too strong and clear to allow the slightest suspicion of their participation in the spirit which regulated his life.  The father, however, had just declared that his anxiety to accumulate money arose from a wish to settle his son independently in life; and Flanagan was too slightly acquainted with human character to see through this flimsy apology for extortion.  He took it for granted that Fardorougha spoke truth, and his resolution received