“Father,” added Connor, also deeply moved, “don't distress yourself about me--don't, father dear. Let things take their chance; but come or go what will, any good fortune that might happen me wouldn't be sweet if it came by givin' you a sore heart.” At this moment the barking of the dog gave notice of approaching footsteps; and in a few moments the careless whistle of Bartle Flanagan was heard within a few yards of the door. “This is Bartle,” said Connor; “maybe, father, his answer may throw some light upon the business. At any rate, there's no secret in it; we'll all hear what news he brings us.” He had scarcely concluded when the latch was lifted, but Bartle could not enter. “It's locked and bolted,” said Fardorougha; “as he sleeps in the barn I forgot that he was to come in here any more to-night--open it, Connor.” “For the sake of all the money you keep in the house, father,” said Connor, smiling, “it's hardly worth your while to be so timorous; but God help the county treasurer if he forgot to bar his door--Asy, Bartle, I'm openin' it.” Flanagan immediately entered, and, with all the importance of a confidant, took his seat at the fire. “Well, Bartle,” said Connor, “what news?” “Let the boy get his supper first,” said Honor; “Bartle, you must be starved wid hunger.” “Faith, I'm middlin' well, I thank you, that same way,” replied Bartle; “divil a one o' me but's as ripe for my supper as a July cherry; an' wid the blessin' o' Heaven upon my endayvors I'll soon show you what good execution is.” A deep groan from Fardorougha gave back a fearful echo to the truth of this formidable annunciation. “Aren't you well, Fardorougha?” asked Bartle. “Throth I'm not, Bartle; never was more uncomfortable in my life.” Flanagan immediately commenced his supper, which consisted of flummery and new milk--a luxury among the lower ranks which might create envy in an epicure. As he advanced in the work of destruction, the gray eye of Fardorougha, which followed every spoonful that entered his mouth, scintillated like that of a cat when rubbed down the back, though from a directly opposite feeling. He turned and twisted on the chair, and looked from his wife to his son, then turned up his eyes, and appeared to feel as if a dagger entered his heart with every additional dig of Bartle's spoon into the flummery. The son and wife smiled at each other; for they could enjoy those petty sufferings of Fardorougha with a great deal of good-humor. “Bartle,” said Connor, “what's the news?” “Divil a word worth telling; at laste that I can hear.” “I mane from Bodagh Buie's.” Bartle stared at him; “Bodagh Buie's!--what do I know about Bodagh Buie? are you ravin'?” “Bartle,” said Connor, smiling, “my father and mother knows all about it--an' about your going to Una with the letter. I have no secrets from them.”