On the third evening after his departure, as part of the family of the Costigans were seated round the fire, Ned, our friend Dennis’s younger son, ran in all in a hurry, exclaiming, “News, friends, news! there’s a runaway match on the road to-night, for Denny Doran met a couple on horseback, sweepin’ like the win’ into Waxford, an’ he’ll take his oath Pat Magrah was the man, let who will be the woman!” “An’ Kate Kavanagh was sartinly the woman!” exclaimed Dennis Costigan, in undisguised delight, while his son James turned as pale as death. But the joy of the one and despair of the other was of short duration; for in the next instant Kate Kavanagh herself rushed in breathless, and apparently in much uneasiness. “Where’s Mary Costigan?” cried she anxiously, and examining the group round the fire. All seemed surprised and alarmed at her anxious appearance and inquiry, and Mrs Costigan repeatedly called her daughter, but got no answer. “Oh! ’tis too true!” said Kate; “an’, Misther Costigan, I’m sorry to have to say it. The scapegrace you brought to this neighbourhood has carried off your own daughter! My father met them on the road to Waxford, an’ knew them.” It would be impossible to describe the confusion of the family at this announcement. For a time all were stupified with astonishment. Then the brothers, giving vent to their rage in curses, sprang to their feet, and rushed out of the house; while the father, stung by many conflicting feelings, hung his head and remained powerless. “My child! my tendher dutiful child!” cried the distracted mother, wringing her hands in an agony of weeping. “My child! my child!” “Whisht! woman,” at last roared the farmer in a voice of thunder, unwilling to let his supposed enemy have the satisfaction to see their distress and confusion. “Whisht, I say! what has she done but got a good husband, what they are all strivin’ for, young an’ ould? Whisht, I say! or if ye must lament, lament that ye didn’t keep sitch notions out of her head till she was sixteen, any how.” “She was full seventeen, Dennis,” interposed the mother, in all her grief, as a woman anxious to defend her sex. “Don’t say the craithur was forward beyant her years, for she was full seventeen last October.” Up started the farmer. “We’ll soon end that argamint,” said he, seizing a candle, and striding furiously towards the parlour; “I have her age down in black an white, in my pocket-book.” They could hear him unlock his desk and searching amongst papers; then followed impatient mutterings, and at length a loud groan as if body and soul were parted. All now rushed to the parlour, where they found poor Costigan the image of heart-broken despair. He stood with his eyes fixed and his face as pale as marble: one hand grasped a pocket-book that seemed torn and empty, while the other hung listless by his side. “Marcy ov Heaven!” exclaimed the trembling wife, clinging to him for support, “what new misforthin’ has befallen us now?”