THE MYSTERY OF KILLEEN CASTLE: OR A BRANDED BROW.

Lake Wakatip Mail, Issue 2643, 21 January 1908, Page 2

THE MYSTERY OF KILLEEN CASTLE: OR A BRANDED BROW.

'ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

BY A. M. AND W. I. HOWL

NINTH INSTALMENT. CHAPTER XXII. THE MIDNIGHT PROCESSION

When Evelyn reached home after encountering the Nomad queen, and later the boy Denny, she was sorely troubled in mind and very perplexed and disturbed. Had her uncle been at home she felt she must have sought bim out and demanded an explanation, ascertain if there was any truth in what she had just learned. But in this she was doomed to disappointment. On entering the library the girl found it vacant, and what was more trying still to bear was the information vouchsafed by Lady Lisle that most likely her uncle would be away the night and not return until the following day.

Determining therefore, to have a few hours of quietness in which to be alone and think over all she had lately heard, the girl again made her way to the library for a book which would act as a blind for her fit of abstraction. ncre. to her exceeding astonishment, she found Norman Lisle engaged in writing letters. Declaring they could wait, and that he was only doing them to while away the time, the young man rose and begged her to take pity on his loneliness, at the same time placing a chair for her near the open French window.

Why she accepted it she scarcely knew, but it seemed to Evelyn that any society was acceptable just then that would prevent her from pondering over her own troubles, and the terrible story she had heard that day. Norman Lisle must have noticed her abstraction, for, evidently, thinking it arose from a very different nature he said, as he found the book she wanted and handed it to her :

"Deuced dull place this to spend one's life in. Don't you think so, Evelyn ? "

The girl looked at him in surprise. "I do not find it so, Norman. I like the country, arid especially the Irish people." she answered. "I am sorry to say I cannot endorse your sentiments. Think them a horribly slow lot, and if it wasn't for one thing I would not stay in the beastly hole another hour. Would die of ennui in a week."

"You astonish me by saying that you hate the country. Why. until recently you spent most of your time scouring the neighbourhood alone. How was that, if you dislike it so ? Where was the attraction ? "

The man's manner changed. He drew nearer to the girl, and bending eagerly towards her. said passionate-

" Evelyn, is it possible you do not know—have not already guessed my secret ? Evelyn. I love you—love you dearly—madly, with every pulse and fibre of my being ! Can you not see. dearest, that you are the one attraction here? Have you not realized that for some time I fought against my passion, did all in my power to overcome it ? And why? Because I feared you did not care for me in that way. Evelyn, answer me. Is there any hope ? Can you return my affection —love mo a little? I cannot keep silent any longer—l must speak and learn my fate at once."

The girl was both amazed and nonplussed at the abruptness and suddenness of his avowal. It was her first direct offer of love, for though Hugh de Lacy had let her see very plainly that he loved her, he had not yet asked her to be his wife. No wonder then that Evelyn was taken aback for though Norman Lisle had grown very attentive of late, the idea of his loving her had not entered her head. She deemed it only friendship on his part. Despite the fact that she did not really like him, had been warned against him, a feeling of pride in the thought that she was loved, also the pity and sympathy that every woman feels for the man who loves her yet whose affection she cannot return entered her heart. Turning towards him she said, gently : "I am indeed surprised as well as pained at your words, Norman. I never guessed, never expected such an avowal as this. All I can say is. that I do not think I encouraged you to hope in any way. It could never be, for I do not care for you in that way."

The man went closer to her ; in his eyes shone a passion the lids were powerless to veil. His whole frame trembled again with emotion, as he said hoarsely:

"But I can wait. The love will come later. And surely you know, dearest, that to see you happily married is the desire of your uncle's life."

The girl rose hastily from her chair, and stood gazing out on to the terrace and lawn beyond. "It is impossible. I could never love you, Norman : and as regards that wish of my uncle's you astonish me beyond measure. I did not know of it before, but in any rase it cannot alter matters."

For a moment a startling change came over Norman Lisle's face. It grew black as a thunder-cloud, his teeth clicked together with ominous sound, ami it was only with an effort that he smothered the oath that rose to his lips ; the next he was all affability again.

"Then there is some one else : another has forestalled me." he said, in a tone not untinged with sarcasm. Evelyn was roused at this. "I do not recognize your right to cross-examine me in this, Mr. Lisle. That was a strange assertion to make and I treat it with the contempt it deserves." "Forgive me : I must Ik> mad. I did not mean to offend, but if you only would give me some hope." "It is useless to prolong this interview. I am grieved to pain you, but my answer must be no. I will leave you now ; you will soon forget. Let us be friends still, Norman." She moved towards the door as she spoke and her quiet and unruffled demeanour seemed to arouse all his slumbering anger. Bending a white, set face towards her, he hissed, rather than said : "I will not be cast aside so easily. You know not the temperament of the man whose love you so lightly scorn. Surrender your heart if you

like to that other who is but making a convenience of you. amusing himself for the time being, but I tell you plainly, Hugh de Lacy will never be anything more to you than he is at present. His name is already coupled with another ; but even were that not so do you imagine he would marry one whose people are the bitterest foes of his race, between whom there lies a stain that can never be wiped out ?" Evel'Ti turned upon him indignantly-

"How dare you so insult me, sir ? Though you are Lady Lisle's nephew that does not compel me to listen to your vile slanders against one who is not present, and in whose hearing you would think twice before you repeated them. You forget yourself, sir ; and were there not another man in the whole world. I would not marry you, Norman Lisle." With that last parting shot she opened the door and passed haughtily out. As her footsteps died away in the distance the young man laughed sardonically. "I am sadly afraid you did not do justice to the part of the anxious pleading lover, my boy. Women like to hear a man pleading and begging for their favours. Hah ! I suppose I should have gone down on my knees and all the rest of that confounded sycophancy, but it is not in my line. I am no abject slave, was not built that way : and besides it has been generally the other way about. Women have been content to shower thoir favours upon me. Is it likely then, that I shall take this refusal lightly ? No : her fortune is necessary to me. therefore the girl, though a not-desired encumbrance must also be won. Norman Lisle, they say all things come to those who wait. I will both wait and will watch, and I swear the girl and her fortune will yet be mine in spite of all !"

With these amiable and philanthropic thoughts running through his brain Norman Lisle began gaily to whistle a popular opera tune ; then, having carefully returned to his pockets his unfinished letters, also left the room.

For the remainder of the evening Evelyn kept her own apartments. She had no further desire to meet any one that day : in fact so many things crowded into her brain, she had learned so much in such a short space of time that she was completely overwhelmed and puzzled. She tried to reason it out calmly. All that the Nomad queen had told her. together with her warning, now came back with double force. What could it mean ? Then would follow the sickening reality that she possessed not one real friend upon whom she could rely for help and advice, for after her late mooting with Hugh de Lacy in company with tho peasant girl, and the subsequent announcement of Norman's that his name was coupled with another's, felt, she could not apply to him again.

That night she did not rest, but tossed restlessly upon her pillow unable to decide what course to pursue It was after midnight when, unable to woo sleep, Evelyn arose, ami hastily dressing, began to pare the room. CJoing towards the window, she looked out to the lnndscn|>o beyond. It was a lovely scene her eyes rested upon. Beyond her stretched the gardens, skirted by a stately park, out of which rose the pinnacles and Hot hie roof of the old grey-stone crypt or mausoleum where reposed the remains of her dead-and-gone ancestors.

The picture was so peaceful and lovely, though the moon only crept at intervals from behind the veil of dark clouds that the girl stood entranced, thinking how strangely at variance was nature just then with her own troubled mind. Even as she stood thus lost in contemplation she suddenly started back with a low exclamation of surprise as, all at once a light emanated from behind the thick grove of trees surrounding the little chapel. Could it only be fancy on her part. or was she mad or dreaming ? The lights had grown stronger ; the small grey-stone chapel was now brilliantly illuminated. Could it be that the building was on fire ? Did that also account for the weird, flickering glimmer advancing slowly, as it were from the sea coast, and gradually becoming more distinct each second ?

Determined to learn the cause, the girl opened the old-fashioned casement and leaned out.

Presently a wailing sound, not unlike the soughing and sobbing of the wind arose on the night air. Now high, then low. anon soft and very mournful, like the despairing cry of some creature in mortal agony, then loud and shrill, as though bidding defiance to its enemies. Satisfied at last that the constant light which filled the old crypt was not fire, and feeling a nervous presentiment creeping over her, the girl, more frightened than she cared to admit, was about to retire, close the window, and thus shut out the horrible sound when another noise, the unmistakable tramp of many feet was borne to her ear.

Almost simultaneously she caught sight of a number of people advancing slowly with something in their midst from out the darkness beyond. For a moment her breath came thick and fast as the thought that there must be a shipwreck or an accident flew like lightning through her brain.

Yes. surely that was the solution—it accounted for the mournful sobbing of the people. Those flickering lights were but the lanterns of the boatmen who were bringing a drowned or injured companion to the Castle as the nearest haven of refuge.

Hut as quickly as this idea crossed her mind it was dispelled, as she saw the silent procession make, not towards the house, but wend its way slowly and reverently towards the little crypt. The strange figures had by this reached the open clearing fronting the mortuary chapel, and, as if it was to Ik*, the moon suddenly emerged from behind a passing cloud, lighting up the weird scene as though it were broad day. Now. for the first time, the terrible significance of what she beheld burst upon Evelyn.

This was a funeral procession. What she had taken for a stretcher in reality was a coflin being borne to its last resting place in the vault. And horror of horrors ! could her eyes deceive her. be playing her false ? Was not that her uncle, the Knight of Killeen, who with bowed head and ghastly while face, followed as chief mourner? While that other—that tall stately ligure who walked beside him and immediately behind the coflin and b?arcrs, weeping and cry-

ing as though her heart would break —surely she had seen her before ? Then as the woman raised her head, and the moonlight fell full upon her pale, tear-stained face, the girl staggered back in amazement. The man was indeed her uncle, Sir Geoffrey Fitzgerald ; his companion in grief, and evidently second mourner, no less a person than his old enemy, Judith, the Nomad queen, the avowed foe and enemy of his race. Even as the girl watched in dumbfounded amazement, too terrified to move or cry out, once more the pitiful wailing rose upon the still night air, while slowly and solemnly, the procession passed along, finally disappearing through the very portals of the sacred building itself.

CHAPTER XXin. THE MYSTIC CEREMONY. As the mystic or supernatural bridal procession—for such they now felt convinced it was—drew near their hiding-place both Tim and Kitty gazed eagerly, though with a certain sense of reverent awe, upon the pair. For a moment it seemed to the carman that both the faces were strangely familiar ; Kitty, too, had pretty much the same idea and was also staring hard at the other two figures who kept at a respectful distance behind, when suddenly the torches were extinguished, and the place plunged in darkness, with the exception of the faint glimmer of moonlight which still streamed in fitfully through the mullioned windows, and almost roofless walls of the old building. In awe and terror the two lovers still kept their position, for despite Kitty's boasted courage she was not nearly so brave when, to use her own expression, it came to having dealings with the supernatural. In fact it was she who now pressed her lover to remain where they were till all traces of the ghostly visitants had vanished from the spot.

This Tim was quite willing to do, and it was not till the wedding party were lost to view, and the old monk had also followed in their footsteps, that the trembling girl at length consented to leave her hiding-place, and, assisted by her lover's strong arm, hastened with all speed from the haunted abbey. It certainly would be some time ere cither of them put foot near that spot. The girl's anxiety, to sec the ghost had quite disappeared, and in its stead remained a strange, nervous premonition that she was never intended to be a bride—or, at least, not the wife of Tim Brogan.

The fact that the weird, spectral ceremony she had witnessed represented living people she knew seemed an indication that something terrible—a great calamity was about to overtake her and those immediately concerned, while without a shadow of a doubt it was a warning to her and Tim not to become man and wife. No wonder, then, with such thoughts as these running riot through her mind, and a presentiment of evil hanging over her, that Kitty's manner changed towards her lover, and she became more distant and cold, likewise rather cranky and snappy.

For some time Tim ignored this, putting it down to the fact that she had received a terrible shock that night, and by the aid of a little coaxing she would soon get all right again.

"Ycrrah. Kitty, darlint, an' what ails you, at all, at all ? Shure, it's niver takin' heed an' frettin' over what we saw in the abbey ? It's a pity we wint near it at all. at all. Bedad, it was givin' it a wide berth we should have been. But what wid us has their spirit marriage to do, anyway, avic ? " Kitty burst into tears.

"Oh, it's terrible bad luck that'll folly us now, Tim ! Hegorra. I've often heerd tell as how lovers that see spirits and ghosts, a fairy weddin' or annythin' in the shape av the supernathural should niver get married fur it's the height av bad luck that will attend thim if they do." Tim's face fell at this. "Faix what's that yer sayin' Kitty avourneen ? Take back those words, me darlint ; ye don't mane as how you'd give me up. It's not breakin' me heart an' your own. acushla. for some silly old superstition, loike that you'd be ? " Hut Kitty refused to be comforted, and only wept the more.

"Tim, Tim." she wailed. "It's all comin' thrue what mo aunt cut fur me in those cards. Ycrrah. 'twas a dreadful bad fortune an' heaps av throuble she foretold for us both."

"Be jabers. but that, was kind av her an no mistake ! " returned Tim, drily.

"An' shurc enough she said as how we two 'ud niver come together ; but that if we did, it 'ud be all throuble and sorrow, an' that a fair-headed man 'ud come betune us."

The carman drew himself up, then looking calmly and roguishly at his sweetheart said, insinuatingly : "An' yer aunt said that ? Bcdad, an' it's the considerate woman she is cntoirely. An' maybe, as she wint so far she tould ye also who the fair man was she had in her eye fur ye?" "No, thin, she didn't. She only said as how ye were a terrible rollin stone Tim Hrogan, an' that you'd niver have a penny in yer pocket widntit it burning a hole there. She axed me, too, why ye left the railway, an' said ye'd stick at nothin', not even stay in Amerky when ye got a chance of makin' yer fortune," sobbed Kitty.

"Bcgorra, that's a lie on the fare of it ! " replied Tim hotly. "I niver had a chance av any fort in ; an' shure. whin I got to Ameriky an' took a walk up New York itself, an' saw how the place was that full of people all rushin" here an' there, hither and thither like so many pigs set loose at. a fair, says I to myself.

"Tim Rrognn. this is no place, fur the loikes av ye or any dacent man. Wisha. the paple here—God help thim —haven't enuf for thimsclvcs, or if so. why should they all be in such a disperatc hurry? "It was as good as a day at the races any time ; an' bedad. when I slopped wan av the bouchals an' axed him was it a fair day, an' in which direction lay the market, the poor gossoon stared at me as if I'd twenty heads, an* sidlin' off quite skeered-loike, he replied, 'I guess, stranger, there ain't no flies on me, an' I niver hecrd tell av a market hereabouts. Ycr out in yer reckoning I calkerlate, an' it's the stores ye want. First turnin' on the right past Sixty-seventh-street will bring ye into Hroadway then four blocks along ye'll meet a big building. , Yc can't miss it, fur it's a regular skyscraper.'

"Wcll, this completely bowled me over as the sayin goes. 'Hoult on,

youngster,; cries "i ;""taKe n'aisy. Shure the world 'll be afther ye.' But the gossoon rushed off like a streak av lightning fur fear I'd be axin' him more questions ; an' thin a terrible lonely feeling came over me, agra. 'Tim,' says I, ' 'twould be a quare country this to live in entoirely. much less bring any decent colleen to. Why, Kitty, asthore, ye be dead in a wake, an' shurc it's a grass widdy I'd be thin, allanah." Kitty had partly dried her tears during Tim's story, and now she said, stiffly :

"Why couldn't I live there as well as others, Tim Brogan ? My aunt says as it's a free country, an' the fortins made there are great." "Faix, she's right there, anyhow. It's a free country in every sinse of the word. Faith, ye are free to starve there any day as mesclf found out afore many hours were over me, passin' hundreds av paplc, an' not wan av thim havin' the dacency to ax a man if he had a mouth on him. Bedad, it's a dhry welcome if a free wan they do be'givin' ye there, anyhow."

Kitty began to look sympathetic. "An' ye niver dropped across wan av yer own out beyant there, Tim? Shure, they say Ned Burns is a groat man entoirely, an' that Pat Donovan is rollin' in money. He'll be senator or President at the White House wan av these days." "Porther more loikely. They an' the lift boy are big fellows out yonder, I can assure ye, Kitty." "Are they now ? You surprise me, Tim. An' be the same token, why didn't ye thry fur something av that sort yerself instead av comin' home again in a few days ? " inquired Kitty half crossly. "Begorra, bekase I'm not such a fool as I look, avourneen, an' can see as far through a stone wall as any man livin'. It didn't take me long to size up Ameriky I can tell you, big as' it is. It soon dawned upon me that all the fortins wan hears of here were like Paddy Nolan's great castles, all av thim built in the air. Far-off cows have long horns, acushla, an' it doesn't stand to sinse if Pat Donovan was rollin' in wealth that he'd let his old mother still live in the ramshackle, tumble-down mud cabin beyant." Kitty eyes were gradually being opened.

"So you met none av the Clare bhoys that arc doin' so well out there ? " she asked.

"Xc'r a wan that was rollin' in riches, but a few poor craythurs hangin round the docks an' wharves lookin' fur work. Bedad it was a 'Cead mille failthe ! ' those poor exiles gave us, an' no mistake. Their hearts were full, an' whin I axed thim to dhrink to the success av ould Ireland an' forthune to meself in the new counthry faith, they out an' tould me all.

'* 'Take our advice, good man,' says they, 'an' if it's yer fortin ye've come to seek, the best thing ye can do while ye've a penny in yer pocket is to spind it in gettin' home again. Shure, if ourselves had the manes, it's not in this inhospitable country we'd stay, where there is nothin' but hurry scurry the whole livelong day, an' part, av the night, too, if wan wants to earn a crust at all.' "An' is that, the way wid it out there ? " inquired Kitty, in surprise. "Rugorra. thin, it is. Faix, the counthry is overcrowded they tell me."

"Hiink av that now » What'll (hey do at all. whin more people land there ? The place'll be packed entoirely, nn' lots jmore emigrants lavin' here this week. An' be the same token, Tim Hickey an' his sister arc havin' a 'live wake ' afore they start. Couldn't you tell thim, Tim, that there isn't any more room in Ameriky an' they'll soon be crnshin' wan another into the say?"

The carman darted a suspicious glance at his sweetheart, but seeing the girl was in earnest, answered unhesitatingly : "Well, ye see. 'twould do no good, anyhow, asthore ; they udn't belave till they see fur thimselves as I did. Uegorra it isn't every wan has the insight to size a place up in a few hours, then shake its dust off their feet an' walk home be the next boat as T did. thanks to Cod But it is practising an ullaloo fur a funeral, ye arc'? Come, alannah, I'll sing ye a nate little song to brighten ye up.

"Whist, ye divils, now can't ye be aisy, like a cat when she's lickin' the cramc, An' I'll give ye a song jist to plaze ye. about meself, Dcrraot M' Shane? Yc'H own when 1 toll yc me story, I'm a genius adornin' me race. For though I've no brass in mc pockets, be me sowl, I've got lots in me face."

"Had scan to ye, don't I know that same 7 But it strikes mc ye used precious little av it when ye were out there beyant," returned Kitty.

"Yerrah, it's a dale better I've done fur meself an' the cause, too. Shure, it's elbow room we have in the ould counthry, anyhow, an' it's shure av a bite an' a sup we are, likewise a few feet of holy consecrated ground in which to lay our weary bones when the time arrives. Bedad, but it's a grate work I've on hand now. asthore, an' it should pay well in the long run."

"Pay well ! Now work ! Yorrah, it'.s not to]tin" mo yc arc lavin' the squire's employment yc arc ! Yer nivcr Ihinkin' av changin' again?" criotl Kitty, in alarm. "Faith (Hi ; it's not talkin' of or'dinary employment f am now. Since my return from Ameriky I've joined the Anti-Emigration League. J'm an agent of theirs." "I suppose they'll pay yon well for that ? " said practical Kitty. Tim looked the disgust he felt. "Faix, it's surprised at yc I am, Kitty Murphy. Shurc, ye're not patriotic at all. at all. Nfc'r a penny, will I get from th' society, an' " drawing himself up and casting a look of withering scorn upon her — "d'ye think I'd stoop so low as to take it aither ? Isn't it for the good av the counthry, I'm doin' it ? It's honorary agent I am." Kitty was silent. She was thinking what her aunt would say to Tim's reasons for coming back from America, also what she would think of his honorary position, and this caused her to sigh deep'ty.

"Come, me darlint. Bedad, it's no use cryin' over spilt miilk, an' if it's still frettin' over those spirits, an' their marriage ye are, why the best thing I can do is to give yc another token, don't plaze interrupt till I've at least finished the chorus.

"Me ancestors shure tbey were famous an' at Doonybrook gained a great name,

Me aunt" she "sold famous good whisky, an' I'm famous for drinkin' that same. I'm famous, like Master Adonis, with his head full av nothin but curls At crackin' the heads av the bhoys—ay, an' breakin' the hearts of the girls. CHORUS. "In rainy or sunshiny weather I'm full of good humour an' joy ; Then take me in parts all together, be my sowl, I'm the broth av a bhoy."

"Shure, an' as it is such a fine opinion of your own qualifications ye have it's a wondher ye didn't bring over wid ye one of those American heiresses who seem to be goin' abcggin' fur any one to pick up," returned Kitty, half-saucily. "Begorra, not me. I'm not such a traitor to me own land, and, besides, if what I've heerd tell is correct, faith if hangin' wid diamonds they'd be dear at the price. Besides acushla, didn't I know that a certain little colleen was waitin' and prayin' anxiously fur me in the ould spot ? Come, cheer up, alannah, an' we'll tell Father Nolan all about it, likewise Masther Hugh ; and faith it is betther fur us to be takin' advice from clever, intelligent paple than be listening to the croakin' av a silly old woman who tells fortunes from cards and reads the future in the tay-cups. An' be jabers, if his riverencc did not spake agin those self-same practices from the altar, an ' says he, 'Shure it's the divil's work an' ye'rc not to take notice av drames, charms, or any such-like foolery, fur it's agin the Commandments.' So come along avourneen. chase dull care away be jokin' wid me in the last two verses of me song

"A great architect was me father as iver walked over the say, Shure, he built Teddy Murphy's mud cabin, an' didn't he likewise build me ? He built him a nate little pig-sty, which made all the Connaught bhoys stare : An' he built, too, some very fine castles, but they were all av thim built in the air."

"Bedad, but I'm afthcr thinkin' that's as far as our own castles will go, Tim," remarked Kitty, with an assumption of anger ; but the twinkle in her eye as she said it reassured the carman, and it did not take a great amount of persuasion on his part to get her to consent to refer the matter to "his riverence, an' Masthcr Hugh," who would, of a surety know what the warning really meant and whose advice, according to Tim, was simply infallible.

Completely restored now to good humour she declared that Tim was the finest singer round the countryside, and joined lustily in the last verse and chorus, which ran as follows :

T T'd scorn to be rude to a lady, though Miss Fortune an' I can't agree : I flew over on wings from Green Erin do you see anything green about me ? An' while wid this stock av good spirits at care shure me fingers I'd snap, Fur T'm as rich as a Jew widout money, an' as free as a rat in a trap. CHORUS. "In rainy or sunshiny weather I'm full av good humour an' joy : Then take mc in parts all together, be my sowl, I'm a broth av a bhoy."

CHAPTER XXIV

THE DISAPPEARANCE OF NORAH

CLANCY

The morning following the intcrI view with his father, Hugh dc Lacy I left home in anything but a placid j frame of mind. In fact, so great I had been the young man's abstrac- | tion since, that Tim, despite his own anxiety to unburden his mind regarding his adventure of the previous evening as well as explain his sweetheart's scruples in the matter, refrained from mentioning it. Hugh was the bearer of a message from his father to Matthew Cleary, and he also wished to consult the latter himself; but the young man scarcely knew which he desired most —the detection of the murderer, the bringing home of the crime to Sir Geoffrey Fitzgerald, of the discovery that the Knight of Killeen was innocent of his brother's death. For the sake of that sweet and as yet unspoiled flower whom he now acknowledged he loved with all the fervour and strength of a young man's devotion and could scarcely wish to bring trouble and disgrace upon her head, for, he reasoned, it was always the innocent who suffered most in cases of this kind ; and, again, even though the murder of her father was avenged, it would be a terrible blow to Evelyn to learn that the death of him she loved, whose memory, she so cherished, was connived at, and accomplished by his own brother, the uncle she wished to love and respect. It was a terrible predicament for him to be placed in—the thought of causing pain to her he loved—indeed agony ; yet what could he do ? The young man's mind was torn with conflicting emotions—his heart rent with grief for her on one side, while on the other his own love of kindred, the thoughts of the injuries and wrongs sustained by his family at these people's hands, was as bitter as wormwood to his proud nature. He must —honour demanded that he i should—vindicate his poor helpless aunt's character. She must be. avenged at least, if not righted in the eyes of tlie world. No woman of their race, a daughter of the proud, haughty line of the Dc Lacys. must be suffered to bow down and groan under the weight of an accusation so vile, so utterly repugnant to every true woman. Tt was a terrible stain upon their hitherto untarnished escutcheon to think that they, whose ancestors were formerly the Lords of Meath, to whom Henry 11. had bequeathed the broad acres and entire appurtenances of that, kingdom, who on the female side claimed to have Royal blood in their veins, because although of Norman j extraction, their predecessor, the j great Hugh dc Lacy, had married an j Irish princess, daughter of King ! Roderick O'Connor, should have a stigma like this cast upon them. The Dc Lacys were now, as the saying is, more Irish than the Irish themselves. Was it a matter for wonder, then, that a family who could trace back their pedigree in | such a glorious manner—who through | intermarriage with the De Burghs, j Lords of Connaught, boasted that j the proudest and purest blood in Ire- i land circulated in their veins—re- ! sented this ? Hugh's blood boiled i

again, and he longed to efface the insult, wipe out the slur cast upon their name by the man who was once their friend, the family who in former times had shared in their triumphs as well as defeats until the name of De Lacy was scarcely mentioned except in connection with that of Fitzgerald.

It was a poor return certainly, a base and cowardly way of repaying past favours and friendship ; and the more the young man pondered over it the worse it appeared in his eyes. Had it been other times, the feud could have been easily settled at the point of the sword, but that was impossible in these days of the prosaic nineteenth century, so it only made the young man's thirst for revenge all the stronger and keener. He would unmask this villain, come what might, even though he broke his own heart, spoiled his life in the attempt ; for, of course, once he exposed her uncle's perfidy and crime, it was not to be expected that Evelyn would view him with favour. Indeed, more likely she would hate him —hate him with a fierce, unquenchable hatred—for thus bringing the family skeleton to light, dragging an honoured name, one as old and proud as his own into the very dust. Hugh dc Lacy was. however, a true member of the stock from which he sprang, and much as he might suffer j by the move he contemplated, he was determined to carry it through. 1 Justice must be done at all costs, ! and oh, if it were only possible for retribution to overtake the guilty, and still save his darling, his inno!cent, peerless Evelyn, from partaking in the suffering. His heart cried out that it was not fair, that she had not sinned, therefore should not suffer ; but on the other hand there was no possible escape that he could see, no way out of the difficulty, and in justice to both the living and the dead, Hugh decided the criminal must be unearthed even at the risk of two broken hearts—his own and Evelyn's.

All this time the squire's son had been walking briskly along. He preferred it to cither riding or cycling when in a troubled state of mind, when suddenly be became aware that someone was calling him by name : "Hugh ! Hugh ! "

He turned in astonishment to sec a dark, slender iigure engaged in digging what Hugh took to be so many holes in a meadow not far from where he stood. So great had been his abstraction that though at any other time he could not have failed to see her, he would have passed on unconscious of her presence had not the well-known voice sounded distinctly on his ear.

"Frances ! Aunt Frances ! " he cried, in surprise, going towards her. "Dear aunt, whatever brings you here? " he continued, as in bewilderment he turned from the spade she held in. her soft white hand to the holes at which she had been at work.

For an instant a light such as Hugh never remembered having seen in those dull eyes before lighted up her face, as, walking nearer him, she said, in a whisper : "Hush ! Be careful ; the very fields have ears. I came to search for—to find my papers. You—you know what I refer to, dear boy ; but —but you—you won't betray mc ? It only makes Lawrence sad and angry when I mention it. You are not cross, Hugh ? You —you will help me in my search. They arc here —buried I tell you. I hid them somewhere here."

She pointed dramatically as she spoke to a larga tree round which she had been digging, then continued "I know I did ; but it was so long, ago now I cannot recall the exact spot. But you won't tell, will you, , dear ? Else they might come and search—they who want them, you | know."

The pale gentle face was raised so pleadingly to his, the eyes bore such an expression that Hugh was completely taken aback. Surely, if insane "on all other topics his aunt spoke rationally and sensibly now. There were no traces of madness in that face, no wild look about the eyes ; only pain and sorrow—a look of hopeless misery and despair. Could it Ik- possible that what she said was true ? Her papers. Did such things really exist, and, if so, what else could they be but a marriage certificate ? What other did women prize so ? Heavens if this were but true, if it were only possible, what sorrow and pain, what misery and disgrace might have been avoided—could even now, though ; late in the day, be removed But even as this hope entered his J breast Frances herself dispelled it by her next words and wild, excited j manner. Her eyes filled with tears : her voice trembled again with fear and loathing as, clinging to him, she cried, wildly : "Don't let them know I was here. They don't credit what I say—believe me a lunatic, a dishonoured woman. None, not even my own flesh and blood, will listen. They say I rave, pity me, and think I dishonoured my name and race. It is false, false, and I will yet prove it so ! If I am mad, 'tis their conduct has driven me so. What woman could have endured what I have done and lived through it ? Hugh, they are cruel, cruel ! They tore mother and child asunder, robbed me of my boy. my beautiful son, then treat it as fancy when I call for him. Is not that sufficient to have turned any woman's brain, coming as it did on top of my other terrible shock, the murder of him T loved ? " Here Frances broke down completely, and, burying her face in her hands, sobbed aloud.

! Hugh was stunned ; never l>cfore Iliad he heard his aunt speak so much of her troubles. In fact he understood but. dimly that she had lost i her reason when a girl through the ! death of her lover. Like many other | family matters he had taken it for granted, always kind and considerate to his unfortunate relative, yet never doubting that her intellect was weak her mind gone beyond all recall. Now. with the new hope that, after all, perhaps the family might have misjudged, blamed her in the wrong, came the idea that she spoke more plainly and sensibly that he thought her capable of: but. on the other hand, as well as her strange excitement causing him to doubt her once more, was the fact that she had declared they had stolen her child, deliberately separated her son from her.

Could this be true, or was it but another fancied grievance of hers—a chimera of her weak, distorted brain ? But even as this thought occurred to him another also rose before his mind. His father had undoubtedly said that Francee became a mother, and that to hide her disgrace and save the family honour he

Had tried to keep it secret. A strange, uncomfortable feeling came over him as he remembered nothing further had been said on the subject; his parent had made no allusiqn to whether the baby had lived or died.

Now he recollected the shock had been so severe, the revelations so great, that it had quite driven all minor details from his mind. He had never once asked what had become of the child, taking it for granted that owing to the fright received by the mother, and her subsequent delicate health, that the poor little mite had died. Yes, that must be so. Nothing would compel the squire to separate the mother and child, he felt certain. He knew that his father could Imj both passionate and very severe, when occasion merited, loth to forgive such an injury dealt him and his. Yet he did not think him capable of such an act as that.

Then again, Frances's own words and rambling statements, coupled with her strange conduct caused him to doubt her words. Had she not, too, acted like a mad woman at the ball, rushing into the midst of the assembled company and publicly declaring Evelyn to be the daughter of the man who had caused her own shame and downfall.

All these thoughts and more passed like lightning through Hugh de Lacy's brain, and in much less time than it, takes to write it he had turned once more to his unfortunate relative.

"Aunt," he said, gently, "come with me, dear. This is no occupation for a lady, you know. What will people say, think, when they sec you digging like this ? " Frances gazed at him steadily for some seconds. Then a little cry of pain and anguish escaped her, and she drew quickly away from him.

"You too, believe what I said is false—that I imagine, made it all up ! " she cried, fiercely. "I had hoped for sympathy, help, from you, but now that hope has vanished. There is none, then, to credit my story ; all judge me as guilty."

Here a sob broke from her pale lips, her bosom heaved, her slight frame shook again with the violence of her emotion.

Hugh was greatly touched, and going towards ger, placed his arm gently round her, at the same time trying to comfort her with the following words :

"Dear Aunt Frances, do not. think for a moment that I do not sympathize with you in your deep trouble. I feel indeed, deeply sorry and would willingly do all in my power to assist you. But the part you are adopting will never do. It will only make you ill, overtax your frail strength too much, if you persist in this searching alone and unaided."

The woman laid her head like a tired child upon the broad shoulder of her nephew.

"Hugh," she replied, gently, "whe else is there to do it ? I am alone, not even my own brother will extend a helping hand. He scouts the idea that the certificate exists, refuses my request to have the field dug up to find it. But I will succeed yet ; it must, it shall be found. The world will one day recognize me as a wife, my brother acknowledge he was wrong in his judgment, that I have brought no disgrace on the name of De Lacy, that I was, after all., an honest woman. Then, oh, then, perhaps he will restore to me my lost one, give me back my child."

To be Continued