She looked up with an affectionate smile into his face, although there trembled a tear upon her eyelids, as she spoke—­

“Do not ask me, my dear Frank; nor don’t think the circumstance of much importance.  It is a little secret of mine, which I cannot for the present disclose.”

“Well, my love, I only ask to know if the woman that left you was Poll Doolin.”

“I cannot answer even that, Frank; but such as the secret is, I trust you shall soon know it.”

“That is enough, my darling.  I am satisfied that you would conceal nothing from either your family or me, which might be detrimental either to yourself or us—­or which we ought to know.”

“That is true,” said she, “I feel that it is true.”

“But then on the other hand,” said he, playfully, “suppose our little darling were in possession of a secret which we ought not to know—­what character should we bestow on the secret?”

This, though said in love and jest, distressed her so much that she was forced to tell him so—­“my dear Francis,” she replied, with as much composure as she could assume, “do not press me on the subject;—­I cannot speak upon it now, and I consequently must throw myself on your love and generosity only for a short time, I hope.”

“Not a syllable, my darling, on the subject until you resume it yourself—­how are Widow Carrick’s sick children?”

“Somewhat better,” she replied, “the two eldest are recovering, and want nourishment, which, with the exception of my poor contributions, they cannot get.”

“God love and guard your kind and charitable heart, my sweet Mary,” said he, looking down tenderly into her beautiful face, and pressing her arm lovingly against his side.

“What a hard-hearted man that under agent, M’Clutchy, is,” she exclaimed, her beautiful eye brightening with indignation—­“do you know that while her children were ill, his bailiff, Darby O’Drive, by his orders or authority, or some claim or other, took away her goose and the only half-dozen of eggs she had for them—­indeed, Frank, he’s a sad curse to the property.”

“He is what an old Vandal was once called for his cruelty and oppression—­the Scourge of God,” replied Harman, “such certainly the unhappy tenantry of the Topertoe family find him.  Harsh and heartless as he is, however, what would he be were it not for the vigilance and humanity of Mr. Hickman?  But are you aware, Mary, that his graceful son Phil was a suitor of yours?”

“Of mine—–­ha, ha, ha!—­oh, that’s too comical, Frank—­but I am not—­Had I really ever that honor?”

“Most certainly; his amiable father had the modesty to propose a matrimonial union between your family and his!”

“I never heard of it,” replied Mary, “never;—­but that is easily accounted for—­my father, I know, would not insult me by the very mention of it.”

“It’s a fact though, that the illegitimate son of the blasphemous old squire, and of the virtuous and celebrated Kate Clank, hoped to have united the M’Loughlin blood with his!”