“That may be,” said Poll, “but still he can save the man that is to be your husband; and that’s what you ought to think of—­the time is short now, and the loss of a day may ruin all.  Listen Miss M’Loughlin:—­Mr. Phil desired me to say to you, that if you will allow him a few minutes’ conversation with you behind the garden, about dusk or a little after it, he’ll satisfy you that he can and will save him—­but it must be on the condition of seeing you, as I say.”

“Let him be generous,” she replied, “and impose no such condition.”

“He won’t interfare on any other terms,” replied Poll; “he knows, it seems, that you have an unfavorable opinion of him, and he wishes to prove to you that he doesn’t desarve it.”

Mary paused for some time, and appeared very much distressed.  I fear, thought she, it is selfish in me to think of my own feelings, or to have a moment’s hesitation in sacrificing them to his safety.  It is certainly a disgusting task to meet this man; but what ought I not to do, consistent with conscious rectitude of motive, to save my dear Harman’s life, for I fear the circumstances come to that.

“Well, then, Poll, if I meet this man, mark me, it is solely for the purpose of striving to save Mr. Harman’s life; and observe, because Mr. M’Clutchy is ungenerous enough to make my meeting him the condition of his interference.”

“That,” said Poll, “is for yourself to consider; but surely you would be a strange girl, if you refused to meet him for such a purpose.  That would be a quare way of showing your love to Mr. Harman.”

“I shall meet him, then,” said Mary, “at the stile behind the garden; and may God direct and protect me in what I purpose!”

Poll gave no amen, to this, as it might be supposed she would have done, but simply said—­

“I’m glad, Miss M’Loughlin, that you’re doin’ what you are doin’.  It’ll be a comfort maybe to yourself to reflect on it hereafther.  Good night, Miss.”

Mary bade her good night, and after closing the shutters of her room which she had come to do, retired; and with an anxious heart returned to the parlor.

M’Loughlin’s family consisted of three sons and but one daughter, Mary, with whom our readers are already acquainted.  The eldest, James, was a fine young man of twenty-three; the second, Tom, was younger than Mary, who then was entering her twenty-first; and the youngest, called Brian, after his father, was only eighteen.  The honest fellow’s brow was clouded with a deep expression of melancholy, and he sat for some time silent after Mary’s return to the parlor.  At length he said in a kind of soliloquy—­

“I wish, Raymond-na-hattha, you had been behind the Slievbeen Mountains that bitter morning you came for James Harman!”

“If he had,” said Tom, “poor James wouldn’t be where he is to-night.”

“But I hope, father,” said Mary, in a voice which though it trembled a little, yet expressed a certain portion of confidence—­“I hope as it was an accident, that there will not be any serious risk.”