“O, Barney,” said she, “that's the pleasantest news I heard this month o' Sundays--sich dancin' as we'll have! and maybe I won't foot it, and me got my new shoes and drugget gown last week;” and here she lilted a gay Irish air, to which she set a-dancing with a lightness of foot and vivacity of manner that threw her whole countenance into a most exquisite glow of mirthful beauty. “Granua,” said her mother, reprovingly, “think of yourself and what you are about; if you worn't a light-hearted, and, I'm afeard, a light-headed, girl, too, you wouldn't go on as you do, especially when you know what you know, and what Barney here, too, knows.” “Ah,” said Barney, his whole manner immediately changing, “have you heard from him, poor fellow?” “Torley's gone to the mountains,” she replied, “and--but here he is. Well, Torley, what news, asthore?” Her husband having passed a friendly greeting to Barney, sat down, and having taken off his hat, lifted the skirt of his cothamore (big coat) and wiped the perspiration off his large and manly forehead, on which, however, were the traces of deep care. He did not speak for some time, but at length said: “Bridget, give me a drink.” His wife took a wooden noggin, which she dipped into a churn and handed him. Having finished it at a draught, he wiped his mouth with his gathered, palm, breathed deeply, but was still silent. “Torley, did you hear me? What news of that unfortunate boy?” “No news, Bridget, at least no good news; the boy's an outlaw, and will be an outlaw--or rather he won't be an outlaw long; they'll get him soon.” “But why would they get him? hasn't he sense enough to keep from them?” “That's just what he has not, Bridget; he has left the mountains and come down somewhere to the Infield country; but where, I cannot make out.” “Well, asthore, he'll only bring on his own punishment. Troth, I'm not a bit sorry that Granua missed him. I never was to say, for the match, but you should have your way, and force the girl there to it, over and above. Of what use is his land and wealth to him now?” “God's will be done,” replied her husband, sorrowfully. “As for me, I can do no more in it, nor I won't. I was doing the best for my child. He'll be guided by no one's advice but his own.” “That's true,” replied his wife, “you did. But here's Barney Casey, from the big house, comin' to warn the tenantry to a bonfire that's to be made to-night in Rathfillan, out of rejoicin' for the misthress's son that's come home to them.” Here Barney once more repeated the message, with which the reader is already acquainted. “You are all to come,” he proceeded, “ould and young; and to bring every one a backload of sticks and brusna to help to make the bonfire.” “Is this message from the masther or misthress, Barney?” asked Davoren. “O, straight from himself,” he replied. “I have it from his own lips. Troth he's ready to leap out of his skin wid delight.”