“I have reason to put every confidence in what my son says,” replied Val very coolly, “and he is not a villain, Mrs. Tyrrell—­so I wish you a good morning, ma’am!”

This virtuous poor woman flushed with a sense of outraged modesty, with scorn and indignation, left the room; and with a distracted mind and a breaking heart, sought her orphan, whose innocent face of wonder she bedewed on her return home with tears of the bitterest sorrow.

It is not our intention to describe at full length the several melancholy scenes which occurred between poverty and dependence on one side and cold, cruel, insolent authority, on the other.  It is needless and would be painful to tell how much age and helplessness suffered at the hands of these two persons; especially at those of Phil, whose chief delight appeared to consist in an authoritative display of pomp and natural cruelty.

The widow had not been more than a minute gone, when the door opened, and in walked, without note or preparation, a stout swarthy looking fellow named M’Clean.  “Well, Tom,” said Val, “is this you?”

“Brother M’Clean,” said Solomon, “how are you?”

“What would ail me?” said M’Clean, “there’s nothing wrong with me but what money could cure—­if I had it.”

“And you have no money, Tom!” said Val, smiling, “that, Tom, is a bad business—­for we never wanted it more than we do at present.  Seriously, have you the rent?”

“D—­n the penny, brother M’Clutchy; and what’s more, won’t have it for at least three months.”

“That’s bad again, Tom.  Any news?—­any report?”

“Why, ay—­there was a gun, or a pistol, or a pike, or something that way, seen with the Gallaghers of Kilscaddan.”

“Ha—­are you sure of that?”

“Not myself sure; but I heard it on good authority; but I think we had better make sure, by paying them a visit some night soon.”

“We will talk about that,” said Val; “but I am told that you treated priest Roche badly the other night.  Is that true?”

“Why, what did you hear?” asked M’Clean.

“I heard you fired into his house; that you know was dangerous.”

“All right,” said Phil; “what right have.  Popish priests to live under a Protestant government?  By my sacred honor, I’d banish them like wild cats.”

“No,” said M’Clean, in reply to Val, “we did not; all we did was to play ‘Croppies lie Down,’ as we passed the house, and fire three volleys over it—­not into it; but if there was e’er a one among us with a bad aim you know, that wasn’t his fault or ours; ha—­ha—­by Japers,” said he in a low, confidential whisper, “we frightened the seven senses out of him, at any rate—­the bloody Papist rascal—­for sure they are all that, and be d——­d to them.”

“Capital doctrine—­and so they are, Tom; light, Tom; so you frightened the bog Latin out of him! ha! ha! ha!”

“Ha—­ha—­ha—­by my sowl we did, and more maybe, if it was known; I must be off now.”