Finiston the dismal tale of her distress. But first, ought she not to wait to see if Bid would come and fetch her? She waited till past sunset, and yet Bid had not appeared; the truth being that the old woman was engaged with Miss Martha, and knew that the Kearneys would not think of departing till she went to see them off. Bid would not quit Monasterlea till Miss Martha and Paul were fairly started on their journey.

But Mary Kearney had not patience to wait for this. As soon as twilight began to fall she started with her children and walked to Monasterlea. Paul was walking up and down the road with his head bent on his breast, and his hands clasped behind him in that dreary restless way which was habitual with him now. He stopped now and then and passed his hand over his forehead, and threw up his face with a look of pain, as if he strove to recover his memory at one bound, whereas it would only return to him by slow degrees. Sometimes he stamped his foot in despair, or kicked the pebbles out of his path, as if they had angered him. His mood was indeed changing, and it were well that he was out of the country. Suddenly, Mary Kearney and her children came round him, it being still just light enough for people to see each other dimly. They came lightly along in their bare feet, and surrounded him swiftly and suddenly, Paul starting as if ghosts had risen up to confront him. This sensitiveness in itself was evidence of a change; a few days ago he would not have started if the strangest visions on earth had passed under his eyes. "God save you, Misther Paul!" "Mrs. Kearney!" cried Paul, looking keenly in her face.

46

See that now!-how well he knew me, an' it dark!" said the woman. "Lord love you, Misther Paul! it's you that had the wish for us. We have walked the roads back to get a word wid you."

"What is it ?" said Paul, with something of his old air. It seemed as if the start with which he had greeted these old friends had helped him in his struggle, and shaken some of the mists out of his brain.

"It's on'y our little trouble, sir. I mane that Simon-that's the miser-I mane yer uncle, sir, has threwn a heap o' us out of our houses, Misther Paul. O' course you know that, sir, an' some o' us is dead, an' undher groun' out o' his road, an' some o' us is gone across the say. Some is gone to

beggary, but I'm here yet mysel', sir, wid the little girshes an' gossoons. An' I made bould to tell mysel' that if I seen a sight o' yer honor you would remember ye had a wish for us, an'd put a word in wid yer uncle to let us go back to our little house. We built it a'most oursel's, sir, when he threwn us out before, an' little Nan's gettin a clever han' at the basket makin'. The gossoons'll be men after a bit, plase the Lord; an' there's not an idle bone in them, an' they'll pay it back to yer honor."

Paul stood listening, somewhat like a deaf man who suddenly found that he could hear; his eyes fixed on the woman while he devoured all her words. "Is

"Simon put you out!" he said. that what you have told me? Simon, the miser, put you out? You and how many others ?"

66

"I did not know it," said Paul, or I should have seen to it before. You may go now, my woman, and I will settle with Simon."

He walked quickly up to the cottage; May met him on the garden path, and looked at him in amazement; his eyes were flaming, his mouth was moving nervously. He was walking straight towards the door, and did not see her.

"Paul!" she said. "Oh, what is the matter ?"

"Nothing," he said, fiercely, "only I am going to settle with Simon. This has been a long time delayed. I was born to do it; and look at me, a man come to my time of life, and my work still undone ! I have been astray this long time; I had quite forgotten my duty; but a messenger has just come to remind me of it. Simon has driven out the people to die about the world. He has repeated the sin of the first Finiston; it now remains for the last one to punish him, and put an end to this foul race!"

He pushed into the hall and took his gun down from the wall.

May said, "What are you going to do? Come in here and tell me.' And she drew him into the parlour and turned the key in the lock behind them.

"Do ?" cried Paul. "Why, of course, I will shoot him through the heart. I often told you," he said, testily, "that I have got to do this thing, and you would not believe me. But now you shall have proof of it."

"Very well, but you must wait a little: You have nothing to load your gun with; your things have not arrived."

"That is most provoking. How soon will they be here ?"

66

Oh, in about half an hour; in the mean time you can rest yourself, so as to be better able for your work." She shook up the pillows on the couch, and he flung himself impatiently upon them, taking out his watch to count the minutes; while May, hovering about the room, began telling some laughable story. After a time he gave her his attention and put away the watch. Presently, she began to sing softly a drowsy lullaby, which she had heard mothers singing to their babies in the cabins; and Paul listened to her tranquilly, having quite forgotten his passion as well as the cause of it. At last he lay so still that she turned her head cautiously to observe him, and found that he was asleep. She brought wrappings and covered him, so that he might rest there safely during the night, for it was now eleven o'clock, and she hoped he would not wake till the morning. She locked him in the room, and the household went to rest.

Yet May could not sleep, only lay staring at the little pools of moonlight on the floor, and wondering about the ending of this sad drama, in which she played so sore a part. Would Paul ever get well again? Would he, indeed, seek the miser when he wakened on the morrow, and accomplish in his madness that doom which he had dreaded before the madness came? She could not sleep while there was so much to be prayed for: that Paul might be saved from impending evil, and guided into the keeping of good and faithful hands.

In the midst of her sad thoughts she heard a noise; and sat up and listened intently. Surely that had been the sound of a window opening! She did not wait a moment, for there was but one thought in her mind. She went swiftly to the parlour door and opened it softly, softly. The moon shone into the room; the window was wide open; and Paul was gone.

She dressed herself rapidly and fled out of the house, hurrying down the garden and out on the road. She could see a long way before her in the clear midsummer night, which is scarcely night at all. Paul was not to be seen, but her lively terror could only lead her flying feet in one direction. She sped, like the wind, towards Tobereevil, thinking as she went along of the likelihood of the mansion being well

barred up, so that no one, not even a madman, could make his way inside the walls. She should find Paul wandering about the avenue, or in the woods, or about the windows; would find him and bring him home.

Her heart beat so thickly and her feet went so fast that she had often to pause for breath, leaning against a hedge or tree, straining her eyes everywhere in hopes of seeing a figure, either behind her or before her on the road. At last she was obliged to go more quietly, lest, having utterly exhausted herself, she should faint at the sight of Paul, and be of no further use to him.

The beautiful calm country lay all around her, the hills wrapped in solemn shadow, but with lustrous peaks, majestically crowned with stars in the sky; sad glimmering fields and moors with all their human lights extinct at the moment; the patient and melancholy land that had suffered and smiled and been beautiful under the tread of many afflicted generations, born to a cruel time, but perhaps to a kind eternity. "How long, oh Lord, how long?" seemed written over the wistful face of the valley. The woods had caught no tender glance from the moon, but rolled in black masses against the sky, as if the surges of their wicked restlessness would flood the fair face of the heavens, drowning the innocent stars which grew like blossoms of light therein. Thus appeared the woods in the last hour of their magnificent pride and might, even while there was a red spot in the midst of them that glowed and pulsed like an angry thought in their heart.

May did not notice it, as she pierced her way through the crowding trees to the avenue. She had seen smoke and flames in the distance when she first set out on the road; but fire-wreaths were common on the mountain now, and the sight had been no surprise.

As she drew near the dreary mansion she sickened at the thought of approaching it with such a terrible fear in her mind. Was it not altogether fantastic this journey of hers in the midnight? How could she have allowed terror so to work upon herknowing Paul as she did, and that he would not hurt a fly? A man quite unarmed! What harm could he do to another, even if Simon's doors and windows were not locked and barred? Perhaps, even now he was safe at home, having returned to his rest after roving a little, in his wild way, about the fields. Admitting

these thoughts, she leaned tremblingly against a tree, and again strained her eyes towards the thickets and across the moors. The grey early dawn came creeping over the scene; frown after frown dropped from the trees, and groups and masses of unknown something threw off their sombre mystery, and became broken-down fences, clumps of ragged hedge, pieces of ruined wall, or bushes of unsightly shape! The bogs showed their dreariness, the river threw up a steel-like ray, and the marshes gave forth pale glimmers of beautiful hues: a grey look of awe was on the face of the waking world, as if the coming of a new day had been a fearful and unexpected boon. The dull shoulder of the mansion rose above some bristling trees; and there was a great roar in the air coming from the distance. May noticed it without thinking of it, for every one knew of the grumbling of the woods; but the trees of Tobereevil had never made such a sound as this before.

She told herself that she had much better go home, yet could not bear to turn till she had first walked round the mansion to see that the fastenings were all untouched, and that no wandering footsteps, save her own, were about the place. There was a dreadful fascination for her in the nearness of the stern grey walls; she could not turn her eyes away, and began walking quickly towards them.

She had been there but once before, and did not quite know her way among the vagrant bushes and straggling trees to the front of the house. She found herself at the back, and walked round many sides and gables, noticing with relief how well the windows were barred, and thanking God for the miser's caution, which was good for something at last. "When the back is so well guarded," thought she, "it is not likely that the front will be found neglected. The door will be locked and bolted." Then May came stealing round the last corner of the house. But the halldoor was lying open!

A cry of anguish rose in her heart, but the sound of it did not come through her lips, as she drew near the open door hoveringly, as a blessed spirit might approach the mouth of hell, seeking for some lost one, sorely afraid to enter, yet impelled by the love that is stronger than death. She could not but go in; her feet carried her across the hall, moved by the same fascination which had drawn them towards the trees. Away to the right was the door

through which Paul had passed with Simon on the day when they had first met as uncle and nephew, when Paul had consented to share the miser's interests and to touch the miser's gold. That door led, as she knew, to Simon's sitting-room; and it also lay open. A second threshold was crossed-she advanced a few steps, and did not need to go further. Simon was sitting in his chair; his head lay back so that the face was almost hidden, his arm hanging over the chair, the long skeleton fingers nearly touching the ground. The old man was a corpse; his breast covered with blood, and blood lying round about him on the floor.

This was the ghastly spectacle on which May and the cold dawn looked in through door and window. A terrible cry-of more than fear, of more than horror-rent open May's lips, and made the old house echo as it had never before echoed, even to the cries of the lamenting winds. Simon did not stir-nor was anything startled within the cursed walls except the echoes. May tried to fly, with some vague idea about saving some one spinning round and round in her dizzy head; but, though the spirit might will the body would not obey, and she fell on the floor of the hideous chamber. For a long time she lay there silent, motionless, dead-like a second victim to whatever hatred had spilt an old man's blood on the floor by her side. While the long spell of silence lasted the light grew clear in the room, and the dreadful sight it looked upon became more fully revealed in all its details. It was a colourless, grey morning, the sun had not yet risen, and yet there was a bright red glow lying on the ground outside, and creeping like a gilding round the window frames. It shone in through the panes, and danced with fearful frolic over the awful figure in the chair, glancing on May, and dying her white dress as the feeling of life returned gradually into her body. At the risk of bringing madness with it, consciousness came creeping back to her.

She wakened to life again, struggling with a pain at her heart, which seemed trying to crush it, that she might have death and peace; but her healthful youth would not have it so, and out of her struggle came recollection, and with it the strong will and self-forgetting impulse which had already carried her so far in this adventure. rose to her feet, and staggering, indeed, and still half-stunned, and covering her eyes with her hands, that she might not behold

She

"I think I am," he said. "I feel like a sane man. I am more in my right senses at least than you are!"

Still she looked at him wonderingly and fearfully.

"Do you remember last night ?" she

said.

"Yes," he answered, smiling, and willing to humour her. "I do remember last night; should you like to hear an account of it? I wakened with the moonlight, where you allowed me to fall asleep on the sofa, in your parlour. I could not go to sleep again, and turned out to enjoy the night, and to think over a crowd of things which came into my head. I got up into the hills, and soon saw that the woods were burning. I watched them for some time, knowing that there was nothing for it but to let them burn themselves to death" May shuddered.

"And then I suddenly thought about Simon; and was hurrying down to save him when, as I say, I caught sight of you." May listened; still looking at him with that pale, unsatisfied gaze.

"But, before all that?" she urged him. "Do you remember what happened in the evening, and yesterday, and the day before?"

"Of course, I do," he said. "On the day before yesterday I escorted Miss Archbold to Camlough, and returned to Monasterlea yesterday evening. I came home late and very tired, and was allowed to sleep upon your sofa. How this came to be is the only thing I am not perfectly clear about. But why do you question me like this, and what does it all signify ?".

May looked half relieved, yet still terrified.

"Paul," she said, "it was April when you went to Camlough with Katherine Archbold, and now it is July."

"May, you are dreaming!" he cried.

"Oh Paul, oh Paul! it is you who have been out of your senses. You went to Camlough, you became ill and lost your mind, and they kept you there. I went and stole you away that you might be cured. While you were gone Simon ill-used the people, and they were in distress. Last night they told you this, and, in your madness, you threatened to murder Simon. I soothed the idea out of your mind, and you fell asleep. Afterwards, when you awoke, I heard you quit the house, and followed you in terror lest the idea of doing harm might still be working in your mind. found Simon's door open; and, oh God,

I

Neither, neither-we are both too wide awake. It is all true that I have said. But you did not murder Simon, Paul? Your senses had returned to you when you wakened out of your sleep? You know what you have been doing all the time since you left the house ?"

Paul reeled under her words, and leaned heavily against a tree. May stood before him like a figure of snow, and waited for his answer. The fire hissed and roared, and they neither saw nor heard it.

"I remember all distinctly," he said at last; 66 I have not the slightest doubt. My mind has been sound and clear since I wakened out of my sleep and left the house. I know what I have been doing; and I did not murder Simon. Must I believe all that you tell me?-it is unspeakably strange and awful!”

"He did not do it," said May, speaking. to herself in a kind of rapture. "He did not do it at all-he did not even know of it. Stay, Paul; indeed I will not faint. I have turned a little blind, but, indeed, I shall not faint."

He held her up in his arms till the swooning sensation left her. Suddenly a sharp cry broke from her.

"The curse is now at an end," she said; "the last miser is dead! Even the prophecy is fulfilled-murdered !" she shuddered.

"Not by a kinsman of his own," said Paul.

"No," said she, "but still the curse is ended; and you are free and need fear no more."

"I do not fear anything," he said, “unless it be pain for you."

It was very plain, indeed, that whatever mischievous powers had hitherto irritated and maddened Paul, had at last given up their hold of him, and had left him in possession of the faculties that God had given him. He spoke and moved with a calm and self-contained air which May had never noticed as belonging to him. Thoughtful and awe-struck as he was at this moment, there was still no trace of that confusion of trouble-that gloom and nervous dread-which had always been so painfully visible in him when grief or perplexity had thrust themselves in his way. Even in his