Willy Reilly. William Carleton

and ever will consider them so, at least so long as they deprive myself and my Catholic fellow-countrymen of their civil and religious rights.”

      “That is strong language, though,” observed the other, “at this time of day.”

      “Mr. Reilly,” said the squire, “you seem to be very much attached to your religion.”

      “Just as much as I am to my life, sir, and would as soon give up the one as the other.”

      The squire's countenance literally became pale, his last hope was gone, and so great was his agitation that, in bringing a glass of wine to his lips, his hand trembled to such a degree that he spilled a part of it. This, however, was not all. A settled gloom—a morose, dissatisfied expression—soon overshadowed his features, from which disappeared all trace of that benignant, open, and friendly hospitality towards Reilly that had hitherto obtained from them. He and the baronet exchanged glances of whose import, if Reilly was ignorant, not so his beloved Cooleen Bawn. For the remainder of the evening the squire treated Reilly with great coolness; always addressing him as Mister, and evidently contemplating him in a spirit which partook of the feeling that animated Sir Robert Whitecraft.

      Helen rose to withdraw, and contrived, by a sudden glance at the door, and another as quick in the direction of the drawing-room, to let her lover know that she wished him to follow her soon. The hint was not lost, for in less than half an hour Reilly, who was of very temperate habits, joined her as she had hinted.

      “Reilly,” said she, as she ran to him, “dearest Reilly! there is little time to be lost. I perceive that a secret understanding respecting you exists between papa and that detestable baronet. Be on your guard, especially against the latter, who has evidently, ever since we sat down to dinner, contrived to bring papa round to his own way of thinking, as he will ultimately, perhaps, to worse designs and darker purposes. Above all things, speak nothing that can be construed against the existing laws. I find that danger, if not positive injury, awaits you. I shall, at any risk, give you warning.”

      “At no risk, beloved!”

      “At every risk—at all risks, dearest Reilly! Nay, more—whatever danger may encompass you shall be shared by me, even at the risk of my life, or I shall extricate you out of it. But perhaps you will not be faithful to me. If so, I shudder to think what might happen.”

      “Listen,” said Reilly, taking her by the hand, “In the presence of heaven, I am yours, and yours only, until death!”

      She repeated his words, after which they had scarcely taken their seats when the squire and Sir Eobert entered the drawing-room.