"How dare you say such a thing as that to me?" says the squire, pushing back his chair and growing a lively purple. "Are you going to tell me next you mean to marry her?" "I certainly do," says Brian; "and," with a glance of good-humored defiance at the squire, "I'm the happiest man in the world to-day because she last night told me she'd have me." "You shan't do it!" says the squire, now almost apoplectic. "You shan't do it!--do you hear? I'm standing in your poor father's place, sir, and I _forbid_ you to marry one of that blood. What! marry the daughter--of--of--" something in his throat masters him here,--"the niece of Priscilla Blake, a woman with a tongue! Never!" "My dear George, you wouldn't surely have me marry a woman _without_ one?" "I think all women would be better without them; and as for Priscilla Blake's, I tell you, sir, Xantippe was an angel to her. I insist on your giving up this idea at once." "I certainly shan't give up Miss Beresford, if that is what you mean?" "Then I'll disinherit you!" roars the squire. "I will, I swear it! I'll marry myself. I'll do something desperate!" "No, you won't," says Brian, laughing again; and going over to the old man, he lays his hands upon his shoulders and pushes him gently back into his chair. "When you see her you will adore her, and she sent her love to you this morning, and this, too," laying a photograph of Monica before the Squire, who glances at it askance, as though fearful it may be some serpent waiting to sting him for the second time; but, as he looks, his face clears. "She is not like her mother," he says, in a low tone. "I never met such a remorseful old beggar," thinks Desmond, with wonder; but just at this moment a servant enters with a message to the squire; so the photograph is hastily withdrawn, and the conversation--or rather discussion--comes to an end. "Two of the tenants are asking to see you, sir," says the butler, confidentially. "What two?" "Donovan, from the East, and Moloney, from the Bog Road, sir." "Very well; show Moloney into the library, and tell Donovan to wait downstairs until I send for him." "Yes, sir." "Well, Moloney, come to pay your rent?" says the squire, cheerfully, entering the library and gazing keenly at the man who is awaiting him there. He is a fellow of ordinary build, with a cringing, servile expression and shifting eyes. He smiles apologetically, and shuffles uneasily from one foot to the other as he feels the squire's eye upon him. "No, sir; I can't bring it, sir. I'd be in dhread o' my life wid the boys to do it." "I don't know who the gentlemen in question you designate as 'the boys' may be," says the squire, calmly. "I can only tell you that I expect my rent from you, and intend to get it." "That's what I come to spake about, yer honor. But the Land League is a powerful body, an' secret too; look at the murdher o' Mr. Herbert and that English Lord in Faynix Park, and the rewards an' all, an' what's come of it?"