Miss Folliard stood with her snowy hand in that of the fortune-teller, perfectly indifferent to her art, but not without strong feelings of disgust at the ordeal to which she submitted. “Now, Molly,” said the squire, “what have you to say?” “Here's love,” she replied, “love in the wrong direction--a false step is made that will end in misery--and--and--and--” “And what, woman?” asked Miss Folliard, with an indignant glance at the fortune-teller. “What have you to add?” “No!” said she, “I needn't speak it, for it won't come to pass. I see a man of wealth and title who will just come in in time to save you from shame and destruction, and with him you will be happy.” “I could prove to you,” replied the _Cooleen Dawn_, her face mantling with blushes of indignation, “that I am a better prophetess than you are. Ask her, papa, where she last came from.” “Where did you come from last, Molly?” he asked. “Why, then,” she replied, “from Jemmy Hamilton's at the foot of Cullaniore.” “False prophetess,” replied the _Cooleen Bawn_, “you have told an untruth. I know where you came from last.” “Then where did I come from, Miss Folliard?” said the woman, with unexpected effrontery. “From Sir Robert Whitecraft,” replied Miss Folliard, “and the wages of your dishonesty and his corruption are the sources of your inspiration. Take the woman away, papa.” “That will do, Molly--that will do,” exclaimed the squire, “there is something' additional for you. What you have told us is very odd--very odd, indeed. Go and get your dinner in the kitchen.” Miss Folliard then withdrew to her own room. Between eleven and twelve o'clock that night a carriage drew up at the grand entrance of Corbo Castle, out of which stepped Sir Robert Whitecraft and no less a personage than the Red Rapparee. They approached the hall door, and after giving a single knock, it was opened to them by the squire himself, who it would seem had been waiting to receive them privately. They followed him in silence to his study. Mr. Folliard, though a healthy-looking man, was, in point of fact, by no means so. Of a nervous and plethoric habit, though brave, and even intrepid, yet he was easily affected by anything or any person that was disagreeable to him. On seeing the man whose hand had been raised against his life, and what was still more atrocious, whose criminal designs upon the honor of his daughter had been proved by his violent irruption into her chamber, he felt a suffocating sensation of rage and horror that nearly overcame him. “Sir Robert,” he said, “excuse me; the sight of this man has sickened me. I got your note, and in your society and at your request I have suffered him to come here; under your protection, too. May God forgive me for it! The room is too close--I feel unwell--pray open the door.” “Will there be no risk, sir, in leaving the door open?” said the baronet.