“Well, Fergus,” said he, clasping his hand, “I heard everything, and I can tell you that every nerve in my body trembled whilst you were among them.” “Why,” said Fergus, “I knew them at once by their voices, and only that I changed my own as I did I won't say but they'd have nabbed me.” “The test of the barn was frightful; I thought you were gone; but you must explain that.” “Ay, but before I do,” replied Fergus, “where are we to go? Do you still stand for widow Buckley's?” “Certainly, that woman may be useful to me.” “Well, then, we may as well jog on in that direction, and as we go I will tell you.” “How then did you come to describe the barn--or rather, was your description correct?” “Ay, as Gospel. You don't know that by the best of luck and providence of God, I was two years and a half an inside laborer with Mr. Graham. As is usual, all the inside men-servants slept, wintrier and summer, in the barn; and that accounts for our good fortune this night. Only for that scoundrel, Steen, however, the whole thing would not have signified much; but he's a black and deep villain that. Nobody likes him but his brother scoundrel, Whitecraft, and he's a favorite with him, bekaise he's an active and unscrupulous tool in his hands. Many a time, when these men--military-militia-yeomen, or whatever they call them, are sent out by this same Sir Robert, the poor fellows don't wish to catch what they call the unfortunate Papish-es, and before they come to the house they'll fire off their guns, pretinding to be in a big passion, but only to give their poor neighbors notice to escape as soon as they can.” In a short time they reached widow Buckley's cabin, who, on understanding that it was Reilly who sought admittance, lost not a moment in opening the door and letting them in. There was no candle lit when they entered, but there was a bright turf fire “blinkin' bonnilie” in the fireplace, from which a mellow light emanated that danced upon the few plain plates that were neatly ranged upon her humble dresser, but which fell still more strongly upon a clean and well-swept hearth, on one side of which was an humble armchair of straw, and on the other a grave, but placid-looking cat, purring, with half-closed eyes, her usual song for the evening. “Lord bless us! Mr. Reilly, is this you? Sure it's little I expected you, any way; but come when you will, you're welcome. And who ought to be welcome to the poor ould widow if you wouldn't?” “Take a stool and sit down, honest man,” she said, addressing Fergus; “and you, Mr. Reilly, take my chair; it's the one you sent me yourself, and if anybody is entitled to a sate in it, surely you are. I must light a rush.” “No, Molly,” replied Reilly, “I would be too heavy for your frail chair. I will take one of those stout stools, which will answer me better.”