“You are certain you don’t mind being left here by yourself?” said George, pouring some more sherry down the throat of their unconscious patient; “you seem to have made a good job with the bandages, but I am afraid his arm is broken, and he seems in a bad way--a very bad way.” They looked at one another gravely. Supposing he were to die, with no one by him but Betty?--for Cuckoo had actually left the field, and was nowhere to be seen. “You must take your coat,” said the girl, “and place his head in my lap; it will answer as well, but before you go, bring me some water in your hat.” “Here it is,” he said, speedily returning with his dripping property. “And I’ll fix his saddle for you to sit on, instead of this wet field.” “No, please don’t,” she vainly remonstrated, “there is no time to lose, you must not think of _me_.” Nevertheless George thought a good deal about Betty, as he galloped into Ballingoole, in search of Dr. Moran. What a brave girl she was, remaining there alone, with, for all they knew, a dying man. She was just the sort of girl to stand beside one at a pinch; now he came to think of it, her face was of the heroic type. As to Cuckoo! he scarcely dared to let his mind dwell on his shameless hysterical young relative, whom he presently overtook proceeding homewards at a kind of shambling run. “Cuckoo!” he called out sternly, “I am ashamed of you.” “I am going for help,” sobbed Cuckoo, who was what is known among the lower orders as “roaring and crying.” “Is--is--he dead yet?” “Go to the first cabin you come across, and borrow a door and a blanket,” shouted her brother, and then pushed on, and was so expeditious, that within an hour the wounded man had been removed from the scene of his accident, and conveyed home carefully in the charge of Dr. Moran. Augustus Moore, nick-named “Ghosty,” on account of his white face, lint locks, and spare figure, was the eldest son of Colonel Moore of Roskeen, a county magnate, who possessed not only lands, but money. He had been accustomed to see Betty Redmond ever since she was a small child, and he liked her, but something stronger than mere liking awoke in his bosom, when he came to his senses, and found himself lying with his head in Betty’s lap at the foot of Coolambar Hill. He was so stunned, and bruised, and weak, that he firmly believed that he had entered on his last hour; but Betty’s presence cheered him. She bathed his face, moistened his dry lips, restored his confidence, and gave him heart in one sense, whilst she took it away in another.