"Oho!" he cried, "oho! A Dublin thramp,
did ye say? Faix, an' we didn't know what
fine company we were in! I think you an' me
has met before this, young woman. A thief,
neighbours," he went on, his voice rising with
his anger as the remembrance of his wrong
came fully back upon him; " the very thief that
stole the coat I was tellin' ye of, in the pawn-
broker's shop in Dublin. Then I wish ye good
luck o' the wife ye have picked, Misther
Haverty. Dacent girls isn't good enough for
ye, so ye have one that'll do ye credit!"

Molly never heard Haverty's answer nor the
murmurs of the people, for at the first word of
accusation she shot through the crowd and
disappeared from the door.

When the motherly woman got up next
morning and began to bustle about her tidy
cottage, she found her "turkey red" hanging
on a pin behind the kitchen door, and Molly's
old ragged gown that had hung in its place
gone. Trembling with agitation, she counted
her half-dozen tea-spoons, and felt that her
"stocking" was safe in its nook up the chimney.
Then "thank God," said the motherly woman,
"I knewed she was dacent, but she might ha'
said good-bye to a body, an' not come slippin'
in an' out in the night, like a sperrit!"

That was the last that was neard of Molly.
John Haverty refused to believe what the drover
asserted, and swore before all the people that it
was a calumny. The Rooneys having passed on
from the place, there was no one to bear witness
against Molly's character, and nothing to prove
her guilty, but her own sudden flight. Haverty
had the river dragged, rode to the neighbouring
villages, and inquired at the cottages on
the roadsides, but not a trace of Molly was
found.

Two years passed, and the facts of Molly's
appearance and disappearance in the district
were told as a romantic story, and Haverty was
pointed to as the young man who had been so
"quarely crossed in love." Nevertheless, his
farm was thriving, and his uncle, who had long
since forgiven him for falling in love with the
tramp who had so considerately taken herself
off, did not despair of making a capital match
for him yet, though Katty Nee was married.

Meantime, the earth had not swallowed up
Molly. She had rushed to the river first, but
when she stood on the brink of the water and
saw the sun rising above her head, she felt that
after all death was worse than anything that had
happened to her yet. She wandered at random,
with much fatigue and suffering, through
deserted paths in the hills, till she made her way
at last to the dwelling of a herd who lived at
the other side the brow of the tallest mountain
that looked on the valley where so many strange
haps had befallen her in so little a space of
time. Here she arrived opportunely and was
hired as a servant, and here she remained.

Molly worked well and learned many things;
her employers were friendly and found her work.
They were perched up so high on the mountain
that they seemed to live beside the sun; the air
they breathed was so sweet, and the active life
they led so healthful, that Molly grew strong in
body and cheerful in mind, and could romp with
her master's children, and mock the larks with
her singing, for the children's delight. By
winter-time she had spun herself a peasant's
dress of crimson flannel, with knitted blue
worsted stockings for her feet.

The third year had begun, when on an autumn
day John Haverty walked the hills with his
black-thorn in hand, seeking this herd who had
charge of many cattle, wanting to put a flock
under his care. Coming round a heathery rock
very high in the blue air, he met Molly face to
face, coming along the narrow path with a
bundle of purple heath on her shoulder. Molly
herself, but bright, sunburnt, and buxom, hardly
a trace of the old Molly left to know her by.

"Molly!" cried Haverty.

"Yes!" said Molly.

He caught her hand in delight.

"No," said Molly, drawing it away, and with
a proud lip. "Ye mustn't shake hands with a
thief."

"Look here!" said John. "Do ye think I
ever believed yon lyin' ruffian?"

"It was no lie, though," said Molly, hanging
her head. "It was thrue."

"Whisht! Avourneen," said Haverty. "An'
what if ye did? Is it for the stalin' o' a rag o'
a coat you'd make such a murther, an' you
hungry, or—or somethin', I'll be bound?" he
added, hesitatingly, with a pathetic look of
appeal to her for a justification of herself.

"I was starved!" sobbed Molly, "an' my
father was dyin' an' callin' for what I hadn't to
give him. I never was taught any betther, but
I've saved up the price o' the coat, all my wages
these years, an' you'll give it to him, plase,
when ye see him again. An' when you talk to
yer wife about me, don't call me Molly the
thief, nor Molly the thramp, but just a friend o'
yours that ye were kind to when she was in
throuble."

"I have no wife," said Haverty, "an' I'll
never have wan but you."

John Haverty had his will, for they were
married the next morning on their way home to
the snug farm-house in a nest of trees where
Haverty lived with his mother. Darby, the
drover, was paid to hold his tongue, and no one
else dared believe a word against Haverty's wife;
and Haverty's wife and the motherly woman are
bosom friends.

Now ready, in One Volume, post 8vo,
AUNT MARGARET'S TROUBLE.
London: CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193, Piccadilly.

The Right of Translating Articles from ALL THE YEAR ROUND
is reserved by the Authors.