It took its heavy toll of cattle, and crops, and sheep, and of little thatched cabins; but its human sacrifice was small---just Thomas Hanrahan and these two men up at Castle Angry. The long _détour_ it had to make round the foot of our noble mountain had saved many lives. The hill had stood guarding the people till the warning reached them, and now we Brandons held in greater love, if that were possible, the beneficent mountain which was called by our name. Thomas Hanrahan's body was flung up by the bog after some days, and received Christian burial; but of Sir Rupert and his bailiff nothing was ever heard. The bog had swallowed them, and when at last it stopped moving and was quiet, the ravine over which Castle Angry had stood was all a quaking bog, a menace to any living thing that should set foot upon it. With Castle Angry went all Sir Rupert's gold, the immense price which he had received long ago from the English company for the mines, of which he had robbed us Brandons. I, for one, did not grudge the evil gold to the bog. And so Harry De Lacy entered into his patrimony--a modest one now--of Angry Mountain and a score of rack-rented farms. "We shall be as poor as church mice," said Esther with dancing eyes, and red roses of happiness blown into her cheeks, "but for all that we shall make the people forget that once they hated our name." She was not a Brandon to be afraid of poverty, though her estate would be wealth compared with what we had known all our days. Harry De Lacy was growing stronger every day, and the air of beauty and race which he had worn when first we saw him was coming back to him now. As Mrs. O'Flaherty said, they would be the handsomest couple ever seen in our countryside, "and that," added the good woman, "meaning no disrespect to the handsome Brandons." They were to be married on the threshold of Lent, and to have their honeymoon in Paris, where, after a little interval, Lady O'Brien, with her faithful Martha, would join them for the Easter in Rome. It was a lovely mild February, with the snowdrops in snowdrifts under the trees in Brandon woods and primroses in sheltered places with troops of celandines, violets, and marsh marigolds. Esther was not to have a flowerless wedding. It was wonderful how Harry De Lacy recovered under the influence of happiness. The shock of the manner of his grandfather's death was but a passing one, and with his marriage waiting upon his convalescence it was wonderful what strides he made towards recovery. Dr. Rivers' pride and pleasure in his patient's progress lifted up our hearts, who had been anxious about Harry De Lacy's ultimate recovery. "He has a constitution," the doctor pronounced, "and rare recuperative powers. I should never have dared to hope for so rapid a recovery." So, after all, thank God, Esther was not to have a delicate husband, with the martyrdom of fear which that would have meant to her.