possession, his elbow on the chimney-piece,
his foot on the fender, bringing that poor
weak idiot to his trumps?  The very first
word out of the latter's mouth was, 'Oh,
Doctor, I'm afraid I can't go with you
to-morrow.' ”

The girls were aghast. Polly clasped
her hands;  her pretty brow contracted,
and her eyes darted sparks of coquettish
fury. Katey's face assumed a sort of
devotional seriousness and pain.

"'There is business,' " he went on, 'and
Mr. Morrison says he must go into the papers
to-morrow with me. Oh, I should so like to
go,'  he says. 'Oh, nonsense, hang business,'
I says. 'We'll all put our heads together,
and work through it the day after. We
have your place kept and all.'  Then that
cold-blooded prig turns on me: 'Pray
don't interfere with our family arrangements,
Doctor. You are, I believe, Mr.
Leader's doctor?'  Did you ever hear of
such cool impudence? I could have just
given him a slap well across his face.
'Pray don't interfere!  And I think,' he
went on, 'as we may now consider him
quite restored to health, all professional
and other attendance may cease. You can
go back to the barracks, Cecil, instead of
staying at this place, or, what would be
better, we shall both keep each other
company up at Leadersfort. I am getting a
few rooms done up on purpose.'  I tell you,
girls, the game is up."

This phrase, taking the less coarse shape
of disappointment and despair, could be
read in the faces of all present.

"The low hound!" said the Doctor.
"There he is, stuck up at the castle—full
powers, ready to poke his nose into every-
thing; and that miserable Cecil, in terror
of his life of him and his cold ways. Oh,
I wish my grave was ordered!  It's to be
always beginning and never ending for
Peter. Who was the pagan rascal who had
always to be shoving a block of stone up a
hill?  Well, he's me. Only I give up the
job from this moment, and th' infarnal
granite may whiz away down on its own
course!"

This was, indeed, felt to be disastrous
news. Public report had already stamped
Randall Morrison as preternaturally cold
and clever, with " a head of fifty years on
the shoulders of twenty;"  as a fellow
certain to have the best of any bargain; cold,
insolent, even towards the natives there;
able "to see into motives"— always a
magician-like gift for inhabitants of any Little
Pedlington. The instincts of the two
girls whispered to them that this arrival
was likely to be fatal. They, too, had
noticed the uncongenial look in the face of
the young man, his air of superiority;  and
felt certain that he was likely to frustrate
knavish tricks of all kinds, as he would call
them. Even the few glances he had given
at the family on that memorable Sunday
were to the same effect;  and they felt
"inferior" in his presence. The Doctor's
news was quite accurate. Young Mr.
Randall Morrison was to be the new agent.
Poor Miller, who had carried on matters
successfully, though in jog-trot fashion, for
the last twenty years, was to be shouldered
out. He was old-fashioned, slow; let the
tenants have too much their own way.
He had not, indeed, been formally ejected;
but it was well known that Mrs. Leader
had set her face against him; and that poor,
weak Mr. Leader was holding out but faintly.
Mr. Morrison was established at Leadersfort,
viceroy, as it were;  had been seen in the
town, and had actually dined last night
with "that hound Ridley."

"He's at the bottom of it all," said
the Doctor, "I'd bet my diploma. When .
I met him yesterday there was a cock-
crowin' air about him. The low informer!
He just wrote over to tell them the young
fellow was in danger—the precious sprig of
the Leader stock was near being broken off
and clapped in Peter Findlater's button-hole.
But is not this the old story repeated and
repeating since the days of Malcahy and
his gold watch-guard?  All the combination
in the world is against the Irish. God
knows it's bad enough in their own country,
where they're all hewers of wood and
pumpers of water;  but here, they make a
sworn Leg and Covenant against us!  I
declare I'm sick and scraped at my very
heart's core!"

Katey offered comfort. "Peter, dear,
I'm ashamed of you. You, with all your
cleverness, what have ye to be afraid of?
What harm are we doing?  Nothing to be
ashamed of. Isn't Polly fit for the Viceroy
of Egypt himself?  Didn't Captain Bellamy,
the aide-de-camp at Dublin Castle, say she
ought to be seen by the queen?  Arn't the
Findlaters as good as any Leader among
them, and better?  Hadn't they all the land
about Cork before the English came over
and took it?  Why, I think it's doing that
poor young man the greatest service and
honour!"

"Pish! ye talk like a child, Katey.
Don't bother me now."

"But I must speak, Peter. He has