Heavily and lazily creep those moments during which an impatient lover awaits the approach of his mistress; and woe betide the wooer of impetuous temperament who is doomed, like our hero, to watch a whole hour and a half in vain. Many a theory did his fancy body forth, and many a conjecture did he form, as to the probable cause of her absence. Was it possible that they watched her even in the dead hour of night? Perhaps the grief she felt at her father's refusal to sanction the match had brought on indisposition; and--oh, harrowing thought!--perhaps they had succeeded in prevailing upon her to renounce him and his hopes forever. But no; their affection was too pure and steadfast to admit of a supposition so utterly unreasonable. What, then, could have prevented her from keeping an appointment so essential to their future prospects, and to the operations necessary for them to pursue? Some plan of intercourse--some settled mode of communication must be concerted between them; a fact as well known to herself as to him. “Well, well,” thought he, “whatever's the reason of her not coming, I'm sure the fault is not hers; as it is, there's no use in waitin' this night any longer.” Flanagan, it appeared, was of the same opinion, for in a minute or two he made his appearance, and urged their return home. It was clear, he said, that no interview could take place that night, and the sooner they reached the barn and got to bed the better. “Folly me,” he added; “we can pass through the yard, cross the road before the hall-door, and get over the stile, by the near way through the fields that's behind the orchard.” Connor, who was by no means so well acquainted with the path as his companion, followed him in the way pointed out, and in a few minutes they found themselves walking at a brisk pace in a direction that led homewards by a shorter cut. Connor's mind was too much depressed for conversation, and both were proceeding in silence, when Flanagan started in alarm, and pointed out the figure of some one walking directly towards them. In less than a minute the person, whoever he might be, had come within speaking distance, and, as he shouted “Who comes there?” Flanagan bolted across the ditch, along which they had been going, and disappeared. “A friend,” returned Connor, in reply to the question. The other man advanced, and, with a look of deep scrutiny, peered into his face. “A friend,” he exclaimed; “faith, it's, a quare hour for a friend to be out. Who are you, eh? Is this Connor O'Donovan?” “It is; but you have the advantage of me.” “If your father was here he would know Phil Curtis, any way.'' “I ought to 'a known the voice myself,” said Connor; “Phil, how are you? an' what's bringin' yourself out at this hour?”