Pete took only a moment for consideration. Yes, he had got the money, and he would lend it. Cæsar looked at Pete; Pete looked at Cæsar. “He's talking all this rubbish,” thought Cæsar, “but he knows where the girl has gone to. He knows who's taken her; he manes to kick the rascal out of his own house neck and crop; and right enough, too, and the Lord's own vengeance.” But Pete's thoughts were another matter. “The ould man won't live to redeem it, and the young one will never try--it'll do for Philip some day.” II. For three days Pete bore himself according to his wont, thinking to silence the evil tongues of the little world about him, and keep sweet and alive the dear name which they were waiting to befoul and destroy. By Tuesday morning the strain had become unbearable. On pretences of business, of pleasure, of God knows what folly and nonsense, he began to scour the island. He visited every parish on the north, passed through every village, climbed every glen, found his way into every out-of-the-way hut, and scraped acquaintance with every old woman living alone. Sometimes he was up in the vague fore-dawn, creeping through the quiet streets like a thief, going silently, stealthily, warily, until he came to the roads, or the fields, or the open Curragh, and could give swing to his step, and breath to his lungs, and voice to the cries that hurst from him. Two long weeks he spent in this wild quest, and meanwhile he was as happy as a boy to all outward seeming--whistling, laughing, chaffing, bawling, talking nonsense, any nonsense, and kicking up his heels like a kid. But wheresoever he went, and howsoever early he started on his errands, he never failed to be back at home at seven o'clock in the evening--washed, combed, in his slippers and shirt-sleeves, smoking a long clay over the garden gate as the postman went by with the letters. “She'll write,” he told himself. “When she's mending a bit she'll aise our mind and write. 'Dear ould Pete, excuse me for not writing afore'--that'll he the way of it. Aw, trust her, trust her.” But day followed day, and no letter came from Kate. Ten evenings running he smoked over the gate, leisurely, largely, almost languidly, hut always watching for the peak of the postman's cap as it turned the corner by the Court-house, and following the toes of his foot as they stepped off the curb, to see if they pointed in his direction--and then turning aside with a deep breath and a smothered moan that ended in a rattle of the throat and a pretence at spitting. The postman saw him as he went by, and his little eyes twinkled treacherously. “Nothing for you yet, Capt'n,” he said at length. “Chut!” said Pete, with a mighty puff of smoke; “my business isn't done by correspondence, Mr. Kelly.” “Aw, no; but when a man's wife's away----” began the postman.