a bias from the impression, which, however, his better nature determined to subdue.  In this uncertain state of mind he turned about almost instinctively, to look in the direction which Fardorougha had taken, and as he observed his diminutive figure creeping along with his great coat about him, he felt that the very sight of the man who had broken up their hearth and scattered them on the world, filled his heart with a deep and deadly animosity that occasioned him to pause as a person would do who finds himself unexpectedly upon the brink of a precipice.

Connor, on seeing him enter the meadow with the rake, knew at once that the terms had been concluded between them; and the excellent young man’s heart was deeply moved at the destitution which forced Flanagan to seek for service with the very individual who had occasioned it.

“I see, Bartle,” said he, “you have agreed.”

“We have,” replied Bartle.  “But if there had been any other place to be got in the parish—­(an’ indeed only for the state I’m in)—­I wouldn’t have hired myself to him for nothing, or next to nothing, as I have done.”

“Why, what did he promise?”

“Three pounds a year, an’ out o’ that I’m to pay him fifteen shillings that my father owes him still.”

“Close enough, Bartle, but don’t be cast down; I’ll undertake that my mother an’ I will double it—­an’ as for the fifteen shillings I’ll pay them out o’ my own pocket—­when I get money.  I needn’t tell you that we’re all kept upon the tight crib, and that little cash goes far with us; for all that, we’ll do what I promise, go as it may.”

“It’s more than I ought to expect, Connor; but yourself and your mother, all the counthry would put their hands undher both your feets.”

“I would give a great dale, Bartle, that my poor father had a little of the feelin’ that’s in my mother’s heart; but it’s his way, Bartle, an’ you know he’s my father, an’ has been kinder to me than to any livin’ creature on this earth.  I never got a harsh word from him yet.  An’ if he kept me stinted in many things that I was entitled to as well as other persons like me, still, Bartle, he loves me, an’ I can’t but feel great affection for him, love the money as he may.”

This was spoken with much seriousness of manner not unmingled with somewhat of regret, if not sorrow.  Bartle fixed his eye upon the fine face of his companion, with a look in which there was a character of compassion.  His countenance, however, while he gazed on him, maintained his natural color—­it was not pale.

“I am sorry, Connor,” said he slowly, “I am sorry that I hired with your father.”

“An’ I’m glad of it,” replied the other; “why should you be sorry?”

Bartle made no answer for some time, but looked into the ground, as if he had not heard him.

“Why should you be sorry, Bartle?”

Nearly a minute elapsed before his abstraction was broken.  “What’s that?” said he at length.  “What were you asking me?”