416 The Irish Priest and his Niece. [OCT. 



broke within me 1" she answered, smothering her emotions as well as 

 she was able. 



" You're a big fool I" was the answer of the Priest, who turned away 

 to the invitation of an awkward, red-haired man, with a jug of fresh- 

 made punch in his hand. 



Let us now return to the Priest's house, seated in a comfortable field, 

 at the termination of the valley beyond the village. It is midnight. 

 Mrs. Finnegan's chickens, presented according to promise, are long since 

 gone to roost. Peggy, the priest's niece, alone is up and waking in the 

 lonely domicile. Suppose a picture of the scene were painted by some 

 Irish Wilkie (if such, an artist there be, now that Grattan is no more), 

 it would represent the following interior : 



A snug, warmly-carpeted room ; on the left, a fire blazing and spark- 

 ling with those best of ignitible materials seasoned logs and good turf ; 

 at the back, a well-furnished cupboard, in which glasses and decanters, 

 brightened by constant use, hold a prominent place. A table in the 

 centre, covered with a crimson cloth, upon which stands an oddly-< 

 assorted mixture a whiskey-bottle (corked, we must add, in justice to 

 the lady) a couple of tumblers and glasses a work-basket, filled with 

 various-coloured muslins and ribands some half-finished baby-linen 

 a weekly newspaper an Italian iron a dirty pack of cards, scattered 

 about a pill-box and some labelled phials, fresh from the apothecary's. 

 There sits Peggy at her solitary employment ; her busy fingers plying 

 her nightly task of preparation for a domestic event to come ; and her 

 scarcely-audible voice humming, to beguile time, one of the melancholy 

 popular airs of the country. Occasionally she pauses from her sad 

 labours, and looks vacantly at the progress she has made. Her eyes, 

 never beautiful, but peculiarly soft in their expression are red, perhaps 

 with weeping. Then a low sigh breaks out from her lips, she makes a 

 violent effort to rally, snatches up her work hastily, and resumes the 

 tedious toil with unconscious rapidity. She looks like the victim of cir- 

 cumstances out of which she cannot escape. If she be unhappy, she 

 is fascinated by a charm that will not permit her to murmur. She dare 

 not complain ; she would neither be credited nor comforted by the -mul- 

 titude. Even her relatives, those who love her best and most truly, 

 would shrink from her appeal. She is doomed to suffer without hope. 

 Her crime admits of no worldly consolation. The tempter is the dis- 

 penser of salvation ; and were she to denounce him, fearful would be the 

 punishment inflicted on her, through the agency of her superstition and 

 her ignorance. 



It is midnight, and a vulgar outcry at the door announces the return 

 of Father Macdermott. But he does not come alone : he is accompanied 

 by Mrs. Martin. Peggy hastens to admit them, and, in the next 

 moment, she feels the embrace of her despairing mother. 



" Is the kettle schreeching hot ?" demands the Priest. 



" It's only boiling its life out, waiting for you these three long hours," 

 answers Peggy. 



A silence of a few minutes ensues, during which the Priest, whose 

 celerity in these matters is proverbial, has mixed two tumblers of strong 

 punch, one for Mrs. Martin (nothing loth), and the other for himself. 



There sit the group, enjoying their bitter dissipation : the mother of 

 a lost girl the priestly seducer and the ruined victim of unholy 

 passion ! 



