THE MYSTERY OF KILLEEN CASTLE: OR A BRANDED BROW.

Pelorus Guardian and Miners' Advocate., Volume 19, Issue 21, 17 March 1908, Page 7

THE MYSTERY OF KILLEEN CASTLE: OR A BRANDED BROW.

'ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

CY A. H. AND W. I. ROWE.

NINTH INSTALMENT. CHAPTER XXII. TOR MIDNIGHT PROCESSION. When Evelyn reached home after (Countering the Nomad queen, and later the boy Denny, she was sorely troubled in mind and very perplexed iiud disturbed. Had her uncle been at home she felt she must have nought him out and demanded an explanation, ascertain if there was any truth in what she had just learned. Hut in this she was doomed to disappointment. On entering tho 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 he 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. Here, to her exceeding astonishment, she found Norman Lisle engaged in writing letters, Declaring i !vy could wait, and that he was only doing them to while away the time, tho young man rose and begged her to tako 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 sho had heard that day. Norman Lisle must have noticed her abstraction, for, evidently, thinking it aroso from a very, different nature he said, as he found tho book she wanted and handed it to her : "Deuced dull place this to spend one's life in. Don't you ; think so, livelyn ? " The girl looked at him in surprise. "1 do not find it so, Norman. I liko tho country, and 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 dio of ennui in a week." "You astonish'me by saying that you hate tho country. Why, until recently you spent most of your time scouring the neighbourhood alone. How was that, if you dislike it so ? Whero was the attraction ? " Tho man's manner changed. He drew nearer to the girl, and bonding eagerly towards her, said passionately : " Evelyn, is it possible 3'ou do not know—have not already guessed my secret ? Evelyn, I lovo 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 wfyy? Because I feared you did not care for me- in that way. Erelyn, answer me. Is there any hope? Can you return my afleotion—love me a little? I cannot keep silent any longer—l must speak and learn my fate at snee." Tho girl was both amazed and nonplussed at the abruptness and suddonnoss 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, tho idea of his loving her had not entered her head. She deemed it only, friendship on his part. Despite the fact that sho did not really like him, had been warned against him, a feeling of pride in tho 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." Tho man went closer to her ; in his eyes shono a passion the lids were powerless to veil. His whole frame trembled again with emotion, as ho said hoarsely : "But I can wait. Tho lovo will come later. And surely you know, dearest, that to sec 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 be» ond moasuiv. I did not know of it before, but in any case 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, and it was only with an effort that ho smothered the oath thut 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 mo in this, Mr. Lisle. That was a strange assertion to make and I treat it with the contempt it deserves." "Forgive me ; I must be 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." Sho moved towards the door as she woke and her Quiet and vuruifled de-

mt-anour socmen to arouse all his slumbering anger. Bonding 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 tho 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 ?" Evelyn 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 9he 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. Bah! I* suppose I should have gone down on my knees and all tho 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 their 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 clay ; 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 meeting with Hugh dc 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 hira 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 aroso, and hastily dressing, began to pace the room. Going towards the window, she looked out to the landscape beyond. It was a lovely scene her eye 9 rested upon. Beyond her stretched the gardens, skirted by a stately park, out of which rose the pinnacles and Gothic roof of the old grey-stone crypt or mausoleum where reposed the remains of her dead-and-gono 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 jlost in contemplation she suddenly started back with a low exclamation of surprise as, all at once a light emanated from be- ( hind 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 admi-fr, 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 solutionit 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. But 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 be, the moon suddenly emerged from behind a passing cloud, lighting up the weird scene as though It wort* broad day, Now, tor

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 coffin 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 white face, followed as chief mourner ? While that other—that tall stately figure • who walked beside him and immediately behind the coffin and bearers, weeping and crying 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 £Xni. 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 muilioned 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 I the haunted abbey. It certainly would be some time ere either of them put foot near that spot. The girl's anxiety; to see 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. "Yerrah, Kitty, darlint, an' what ails you, at all, at all ? Shure, it's niver takin' heed ah' 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 wo 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 ! Begorra, I've often beerd tell as how lovers that see spirits and ghosts, a fairy weddin' or annythin' in the shape av the supernathural should niver got 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 ? " But Kitty refused to be comforted, and only, wept the more. "Tim, Tim," she wailed. "It's all comin' thrue what me aunt cut fur me in those cards. Yerrah, 'twas a dreadful bad fortune an' heitps av throuble she foretold for us both." "Be jabers, but that was kind av her an no mistake ! " returned Tim, drily. "An' shure 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? Bedad, an' it's the considerate woman she is entoirely. An' .maybe, as she wint so far sho 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 Brogan, an' that you'd niver have a penny in yer pocket widout 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 Amcrky when ye got a chance of makin' yer fortune," sobbed Kitty. "Begorra, that's a He on the face of it ! " replied Tim hotly. "I niver had a chance av any fortin ; an' shure, whin 1 got to Ameriky an' took a walk up New York itself, an' saw how the place was that full of people nil rushin' here an' there, hither fid thither like so many pigs set loose at n fair, says I to myself, "Tim Brogan. this is no place fur

the loikes av ye or any dacent man. Wisha, the paple here—God help thim —haven't enuf for thimselves, or if so, why should they all be in such a disperate hurry." "It was as good as a day at the races any time ; an' bedad, when I stopped 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 heerd tell av a market hereabouts. Yer out in yer reckoning I calkerlate, an' it's the stores yo want. First turnin' on the right past Sixty-seventh-street will bring ye into Broadway then four blocks along ye'll meet a big building. Ye can't miss it, fur it's a regular skyscraper.' "Well, this completely bowled me over as the sayin goes. 'Hoult on, youngster,' cries I; 'take it 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 dacent colleen to. Why, Kitty, asthore, ye be dead in a wake, an' shure 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 fortius 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 meself found out afore many hours were over me, passin' hundreds av paple, 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, anj> how." Kitty began to look sympathetic. "An' ye niver dropped across wan av yer own out buoyant 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' homo 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 sizo 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 No'lan'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 oyes were gradually being j opened. "So you mot none av the Clare bhoys that are doin' so well out there ? " she asked. "Ne'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 tho way wid it out there? " inquired Kitty, in surprise. "Bogorra. thin, it is. Faix, the counthry is overcrowded they tell me." "Think av that 1 now ! What/11 they do at all, whin more people land there ? The place'll be packed entoirely, an' lots more emigrants lavin' here this week. An' be tho same token, Tim Hickey an' his sister are 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 crushin' 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. Begorra 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 I did, thanks to God But it is practising an ullaloo fur a funeral, ye are ? Come, alannah, I'll sing ye a nato little song to brighten ye up. "Whist, ye divils, now can't ye be aisy, like a cat when she's lickin' the crame, An' I'll give ye a song jist to plaze ye, about meself, Dermot M' Shane? Ye'll own when I tell ye me story, I'm a genius adornin' me race, For though I've no brass in me pockets, !••: me sowl, I've got lots in me face." "Bad scan to ye, don't I know that same ? But it strikes me 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 olbow 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. Iledad, but it's a grate work I've on hand now, asthore, an' it should pay well in the long run." "i'ay well ! New work ! Yerrah, it's not tellin' me ye are lavin' the squire's employment ye are ! Yer niver thinkin' av changin' again?" cried Kitty, in alarm. "Faith no ; it's not talkin' of or-

dinary employment I am now. Since my return from Ameriky I've joined the Anti-Emigration League. I'm an agent of theirs." "I suppose they'll pay you well for that?i' said ' cal Kitty. Tim looked Lie. disgust he felt. "Faix, it's surprised at ye I am, Kitty Murphy. Shure, ye're not patriotic at all, at all. Ne'r a pennsi 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 fur 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 deeply. "Come, me darlint. Bedad, it's no use cryin' over spilt milk, an' if it's still frettin- over those spirits, an' their marriage ye are, why the best thing I can do is to give ye another token, don't plaze interrupt till I've at least finished the chorus. T 'Me ancestors shure they were famous an' at Donnybrook 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' abeggin'. 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 riverence did not spake agin those self-same practices from the altar, an ' says he, 'Shure it's the tlivil's work an' ye're 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 ho likewise build me ? He built him a nate little pig-sty, which made all the Opnnaught bhoys stare ; An' he built, too, some very fine castles, but they were all av thira built in the air," "Bedad, but I'm afther 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 groat amount of persuasion on his part to get her to consent to refer the rnatter to "his riverence, an' Masther 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 : "I'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 I'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 me 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 interview with his father, Hugh de Lacy left, home in anything but a placid frame of mind. In fact, so great had been the young man's abstraction 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 Geoli'roy Fitzgerald, of the discovery that the Knight of Killeen was innocent of his brother's death. For the sake cf that sweet and as yet unspoiled flower whom he now acknowledged he loved with all the fervoui 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 in he placed in—the thought of c""- : :i' j'.i'n to her he loved—indeed ef <>:..., y.--t what could he do? The young man's mind was torn with conflicting emotions—bis heart rent

with grief for her oh one side, while oh 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 should—vindicate his poor helpless aunt's character. She must be avenged at least, if not righted in the eyes of the world. No woman of their race, a daughter of the proud, haughty line of the De Lacys, must be suffered to bow down and groan under the weight of an accusation so vile, so utterly repugnant to every true woman. It 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 Eoyal blood in their veins, because although of Norman extraction, their predecessor, the great Hugh de Lacy, had married an Irish princess, daughter of King Roderick O'Connor, should have a stigma like this cast upon them. The De Lacys were now, as the saying is, more Irish than the Irish themselves. Was it a matter for wonder, then, that a famUy who could trace back their pedigree in such a glorious manner—who through intermarriage with the De Burghs, Lords of Connaught, boasted that the proudest and purest blood in Ireland circulated in their veins—resented this ? Hugh's blood boiled 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 de Lacy was, however, a true member of the stock from which he sprang, and much as he might suffer by the move he contemplated, he was determined to carry it through. Justice must bo done at all costs, and oh, if it were only possible for retribution to overtake the guilty, and still save his darling, his innocent, 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 tho other hand there was nq possible escape that he could see, no way out of the difficulty, and in justice to both the living and the dead, Hugh decided tho criminal must be unearthed even at the risk of two broken hearts—his own and Evelyn's, ' All this time tho squire's son had been walking briskly along. He preferred it to either riding or cycling when in a troubled state of mind, when suddenlj' bo became awaro that someone was calling him by name : "Hugh ! Hugh I " He turned in astonishment to see a dark, slender figure 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, the 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 soon 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 me ? It only makes Lawrence sad and angry when I mention it. You aro .not cross, Hugh ? .You—you will help me in my search. They are here—buried I tell you. I hid them somewhere here." She pointed dramatically as she spoke to a large tree round which she had been digging, then continued "I know'l did ; but it was so longago 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 or hopeless misery nnd despair. Could it li<' possible (hat what she said was (rue ? Her papers. Did such things really exist, and, if so. what else could they be but a murriage 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 tho day, be removed But even as this hope entered his breast Frances herself dispelled it by her next words and wild, excited manner. Her eyes filled with tears her voice trembled again with fear nnd loathing as, clinging to him, she cried, wildly : "Don't let them know I was hero. They don't credit what I say—believe me a lunatic, a dishonoured woman. None, not bven my own flosh and blood, will listen. They say I

rave, pity me, and think I dishon* oured 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 I loved '? " Here Frances broke down completely, and, burying her face in her hands, sobbed aloud. Hugh was stunned ; never before had ho heard his aunt speak so much of her troubles. In fact he understood but dimly that she had lost 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 ones more, was the fact that she had de-i clared they had stolen her child, den liberately separated her son front her. • j Could this be true, or was it bu<J: another fancied grievance of herß-f a chimera of her weak, distorted! brain? But even as this thoughtl occurred to him another also rose before his mind. His father had unn doubtedly said that Francee became a mother, and that to hide her disn grace and save the family honour ha had fried to keep it secret. Jii strange, uncomfortable feeling came over him as he remembered nothing further had been said on the subject;' his parent had made no allusion to whether the baby had'lived or died. Now he rocollocted the shock had been so severe, the revelations so groat, that it had quite driven all minor details from his mind. He had never once asked what had be-* come of the child, taking it, for granted that owing to the fright re ceived 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 be both passionate and very severe, when occasion merited, loth to forgive such an injury dea.lt him and his. Yet he did not think him capable of such an act as that. Then again, Frances's own words and rambling statpments, 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 timo than it takes to write it he had turned once more to his unfortunate relative "Aunt," he said, gently, "come with mo, dear, This is no occupation for a lady, you know, What will people say, think, when they see you digging like this ? " Frances gazed at him steadily for somo seconds, Then a little cry of pain and anguish escaped her, and she drew quickly away from him. "You too, bolievo what X said if false—that I imagine, made it all' up I " 'she cried, fiercely. "I had hoped for sympathy, help, from you,; but now that hope has vanished.; There is none, then, to credit m$ 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 go*t ing towards ger, placed his arm gen-» tly round her, at the same time try* ing to comfort her with the follow.-i ing words : "Dear Aunt Frances, do not think! for a moment that I do not sym-t' pathizo with you in your deep troiw ble. I feel indeed, deeply sorry and would willingly do all in my powen ( to assist you. But the part you ore adopting will never do. It will only) make you ill, overtax your fraiß strength too much, if you persist in this searching alone and unaided." Tho woman laid her head like a tired child upon the broad shoulden of her nephew. "Hugh," she replied, gently, ''who else is there to do it ? I am alone*, not oven my own brother will extend a helping hand. He scouts the idea' that tho certificate exists, refuses myj, request to have the field dug up to; find it. But I will succeed yet; iH' must, it shall bo 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 Do Lacy, that I was, after all, an honest woman. Then, oh, then* perhaps he will restore to me mjs lost one, give me back my child." To be Continued.