The Emigrants Of Ahadarra. William Carleton

from whatever source it might, it was impossible to dismiss certain vague suspicions as connected with the mendicant's daughter. He determined, however, to watch her narrowly; and somehow he could not divest himself of the impression that she saw through his design. This incident occurred a few days after the robbery.

      Jemmy Burke, though in many respects a man of easy and indolent character, was nevertheless a person who, as is familiarly! said, “always keep an eye to the main chance.” He was by no means over-tidy either in his dress or farming; but it mattered little in what light you contemplated him, you were always certain to find him a man not affected by trifles, nor rigidly systematic in anything; but at the same time you could not help observing that he was a man of strong points, whose life was marked by a course of high prosperity, that seemed to flow in upon him, as it were, by some peculiar run of good fortune. This luck, however, was little less than the natural result of shrewd mother-wit, happily applied to the: ordinary transactions of life, and assuming the appearance of good fortune rather than of sound judgment, in consequence of the simplicity of character under which it acted. Ever since the night of the robbery, he had devoted himself more to the pipe than he had ever been known to do before; he spoke little, too; but what he did say was: ironical, though not by any means without a tinge of quiet but caustic humor.

      Hycy, on entering the parlor, found him! seated in an arm-chair, smoking as usual, whilst his mother, who soon came down stairs, appeared dressed in more than her usual finery.

      “What keeps Patsy Dolan wid the car?” she inquired. “Hycy, do you see any appearance of him?”

      “No, ma'am,” replied the son; “I didn't know you wanted him.”

      Jemmy looked at her with a good deal of surprise, and, after whiffing away the smoke, asked—“And well, Rosha—begs pardon—Mrs. Burke—is it a fair question to ax where you are bound for?”

      “Fair enough, Mr. Burke,” she replied; “but I'm not goin' to answer it.”

      “You're bound for a journey, ma'am, I think?”

      “I'm bound for a journey, sir.”

      “Is it a long journey, Mrs. Burke?”

      “No, indeed; it's a short journey, Mister Burke.”

      “Ah!” replied her husband, uttering a very significant groan; “I'm afraid it is.”

      “Why do you groan, Mr. Burke?”

      “Oh it doesn't signify,” he replied, dryly; “it's no novelty, I believe, to hear a man—a married man—groan in this world; only if you wor for a long journey, I'd be glad to give you every assistance in my power.”

      “You hear that, Hycy; there's affection?” she exclaimed—“wishin' me to go my long journey!”

      “Would you marry again, Mr. Burke?” asked the worthy son.

      “I think not,” replied Jemmy. “There's gintlemen enough o' the name—I'm afraid one too many.”

      “Well,” exclaimed his wife, assuming something as near to her conception of the look of a martyr as possible, “I'm sufferin' at all events; but I know my crown's before me.”

      “Sich as it is,” replied her husband, “I dare say it is.”

      “I'll not be back for a few hours, Hycy; an'—but here's the car. Come fardher up, Patsy.”

      Hycy politely handed his mother out, and assisted her on the car. “Of course, he'll discover it all,” said he, laughing.

      “I know he will,” she replied; “but when it's over, it's over, and that's all.”

      Jemmy now met his son at the hall-door, and asked him if he knew where his mother had gone.

      “I really cannot undertake to say,” replied the other. “Mrs. Burke, father, is a competent judge of her own notions; but I presume to think that she may take a drive upon her own car, without being so severely, if not ungenerously catechised about it. I presume to think so, sir; but I daresay I am wrong, and that even that is a crime on my part.”

      His father made no reply, but proceeded at an easy and thoughtful pace to join his men in the field where they were at labor.

      Hycy, after his mother's return that evening, seemed rather in low spirits, if one could form any correct estimate of his character by appearances. He was very silent, and somewhat less given to those broken snatches of melody than was his wont; and yet a close observer might have read in his deportment, and especially in the peculiar expression of his eye, that which seemed to indicate anything rather than depression or gloom. His silence, to such an observer, might have appeared rather the silence of satisfaction and triumph, than of disappointment or vexation.

      His father, indeed, saw little of him that night, in consequence of the honest man having preferred the hob of his wealthy and spacious kitchen to the society of his wife and son in the parlor. The next morning, however, they met at breakfast, as usual, when Hycy, after some ironical compliments to his father's good taste, asked him, “if he would do him the favor to step towards the stable and see his purchase.”

      “You don't mane Crazy Jane?” said the other, coolly.

      “I do,” replied Hycy; “and as I set a high value on your opinion, perhaps you would be kind enough to say what you think of her.”

      Now, Hycy never for a moment dreamt that his father would have taken him at his word, and we need hardly say that he was a good deal disconcerted at the cool manner in which the other expressed his readiness to do so.

      “Well, Mr. Burke,” he proceeded, when they had reached the stable, “there she is. Pray what do you think of her?”

      The old man looked at her from various points, passed his hand down her limbs, clapped her on the back, felt her in different places, then looked at her again. “She's a beauty,” said he, “a born beauty like Billy Neelin's foal; what's this you say you paid for her?”

      “Thirty-five pounds.”

      “Tare-an-ounty, Hycy, she's dog chape—thirty-five!—why she's value for double the sum.”

      “Nearly,” replied Hycy, quite elevated and; getting into good humor; “is she not really now, father, a precious bit of flesh?”

      “Ah! you may swear that, Hycy; I tell you you won't act the honest man, if you don't give him fifteen or twenty pounds over an' above what you paid him. Tom Burton I see's too simple for you. Go and do what I bid you; don't defraud the poor man; you have got a treasure, I tell you—a beauty bright—an extraordinary baste—a wonderful animal—oh, dear me! what a great purchase! Good-bye, Hycy. Bless my sowl! what a judge of horseflesh you are!”

      Having uttered these words in a tone of grave and caustic irony, he left his worthy son in a state of chagrin almost bordering on resentment, at the strong contempt for Crazy-Jane, implied by the excessive eulogium he had passed upon her. This feeling, however, was on reflection considerably checked by his satisfaction on finding that the matter was taken by his father so coolly. He had calculated on receiving a very stormy lecture from him the moment he should become aware of his having the animal in his possession; and he now felt rather relieved that he should have escaped so easily. Be this as it may, Hycy was now in excellent spirits. Not only had Crazy Jane been secured, but there were strong symptoms of his being in cash. In a few days after the incident of the stable, he contrived to see Philip Hogan, with whom he appointed a final meeting in Cavanagh's kiln on the night of the Kemp; at which meeting, Teddy Phats and the other two Hogans were also to be present, in order to determine upon the steps which he ultimately proposed to take, with a view to work out his purposes, whatever those purposes may have been.