“She is now speaking to you,” she returned. “Shawn, you cannot but know that I have long loved you; and I now tell you that I love you still--ay, and a thousand times more than ever Grace Davoren did.” “You!” said Shawn, recoiling with indignation; “is it you, a spy, a fortune-teller, a go-between, and, if all be true, a witch; you, whose life and character would make a modest woman blush to hear them mentioned? Why, the curse of heaven upon you! how dare you think of proposing such a subject to me? Do you think because I'm marked by the laws that my heart has lost anything of its honesty and manhood? Begone, you hardened and unholy vagabond, and leave my sight.” “Is that your language, Shawn?” “It is; and what other language could any man with but a single spark of honesty and respect for himself use toward you? Begone, I say.” “Yes, I will begone; but perhaps you may live to rue your words: that is all.” “And, perhaps, so may you,” he replied. “Leave my sight. You are a disgrace to the name of woman.” She turned upon her heel, and on the instant bent her steps towards Rathfillan House. “Shawn-na-Middogue,” she said as she went along, “you talk about revenge, but wait till you know what the revenge of an insulted woman is. It is not an aisy thing to know your haunts; but I'll set them upon your trail that will find you out if you were to hide yourself in the bowels of the earth, for the words you used to me this night. _Dar manim_, I will never rest either night or day until I see you swing from a gibbet.” Instead of proceeding to the little town of Rathfillan, she changed her mind and turned her steps to Rathfillan House, the residence, as our readers are aware, of the generous and kind-hearted Mr. Lindsay. On arriving there she met our old acquaintance, Barney Casey, on the way from the kitchen to the stable. Observing that she was approaching the hall-door with the evident purpose of knocking, and feeling satisfied that her business could be with none of the family except Harry, he resolved to have some conversation with her, in order, if possible, to get a glimpse of its purport. Not, indeed, that he entertained any expectation of such a result, because he knew the craft and secrecy of the woman he had to deal with; but, at all events, he thought that he might still glean something significant even by her equivocations, if not by her very silence. He accordingly turned, over and met her. “Well, Caterine, won't this be a fine night when the moon and stars comes out to show you the road home again afther you manage the affair you're bent on?” “Why, what am I bent on?” she replied, sharply. “Why, to build a church to-night, wid the assistance of Mr. Harry Woodward.” “Talk with respect of your masther's stepson,” she replied, indignantly.