“Mark Ratigan is snug and comfortable as a laborin' boy wid Magistrate Driscol that's in--hem--but listen to me, now if you should meet Mark anywhere down the country, you're neither to call him Mark nor Ratigan, otherwise you may be the manes of hangin' the poor boy.” “Throth, an' by all accounts, he'll come to the gallows yet.” “Well, and many a betther man did. I expect him and Hourigan both here tonight.” “An' what name does he go by now?” she asked. “By the name of Phil Hart; and remember when there's any stranger present, you're never to call him anything else--but above all things, and upon the peril of your life, never call him Mark Ratigan.” “And do you think,” replied his wife, “that I won't take care not to do it? But, Frank, tell me what was Mogue Moylan doin' here the night before last?” “Only to let me know that he and a Misthor M'Carthy--a great friend of his and of two good creatures--Magistrate Driscol and Procthor Purcel--wor to come out shootin' on the mountains to-day and to ax if I would prevent them.” “An' did you give them lave?” she inquired. A very peculiar expression passed over the dark grim features of her husband. “Did I give them lave?” he replied; “well, indeed, you may take your davy, I did. Why would I refuse a dacent gintleman, and a friend of Mogue Moylan's lave to shoot? Poor dacent Mogue, too, that loves thruth and religion so well--ha! ha! ha!--whisht!--here's some one.” The words were scarcely uttered, when our friends, M'Carthy and Mogue, made their appearance in the caretaker's house, both evidently in a fatigued state, especially M'Carthy, who had not been so well accustomed to travel over mountain scenery as his companion. “Well, blessed be God that we have got the roof of a house over us at last!” exclaimed Mogue. “Frank Finnerty, how are you? an' Vread, achora, not forgettin' you--my hand to you both, but we're lost--especially this gentleman, Mr. M'Carthy--a great friend of Mr. O'Driscol's and Procthor Parcel's--but a betther man than either o' them, I hope.” “I am fairly knocked up, I admit,” said M'Carthy--“in fact, I am more jaded than I ever was in my life.” “Take a chair, sir,” said Finnerty; “you are welcome at all events, and I am glad to see you, or any friend of Mogue's; take this chair, sir--and--here, Mogue, do you take a stool; you must be both in a sad state, sure enough.” “Thank you, Frank,” replied Mogue, “oh, then, bad cess to it for a dirty mist--God pardon me for cursin' the poor mist though, for sure it wasn't it's fault, the crathur of a mist we oughn't to curse anything that God has made, but indeed I'm a great sinner that way, God forgive me; howandever as I was sayin', only for it afther all, Mr. Francis, it's atin' your comfortable dinner, or rayther drinkin' your fine wine you'd be now at Mr. Purcel's illigant table, instead of bein' here as you are, however, sure it's good to have a house over our heads any way.”