Heaven mend me! Aff I didn't lave the horses
all this time, an' niver," he ejaculated, catching
sight of his forgotten team, who had dragged
the plough after them to the adjoining meadow,
and were grazing there.

A sudden thought struck him, and he hastily
returned to the house with his face flushed. As
he entered the kitchen he ran against the smith,
Martin Leary, who was staring about him.

"Martin, you're thrue an' honest, I know, an'
you'd do a good turn as soon as any man I
know," said Pat Moran, abruptly.

"There's me hand on it," returned the smith,
bringing down his black fist on the other's
shoulder. In a few words he was told what was
required of him, and also of the bright thought
that had just occurred to Pat Moran.

"Here! Let me at it," cried the smith,
enthusiastically grasping his chisel and hammer.
Thereupon the farmer led him into the
little room, where Kate was administering hot
tea and smoking griddle-cake to the poor fellow,
who ate and drank almost mechanically, with
his eyes fixed on the pretty face and busy hands
that ministered to him.

"Here, Tim's some one to do you a good turn.
Hould out your hands, me boy! Peggy," turning
to his wife, who was devoutly groaning and
telling her beads in a corner, "go an' get me
ould clothes, an' Kitty, run for that yellow clay
in the kitchen-garden! Run!" She did as she
was bid, and when she returned with the clay,
was desired to keep out of the room for a few
minutes.

"Mother, honey, what are they doing?" she
inquired.

"Sorra bit o' me knows, acushla. On'y your
father has some plan in his head. Oh! Kitty,
agra, I'm thrimblin to think of the throuble he
may be gittin into.—Och, Pat, honey, what are
ye goin' to do at all?" she cried, addressing
her hushand, who came out of the bedroom,
dressed in his best blue swallow-tailed coat,
corduroys, and new grey stockings.

"I'm goin' to show this new sarvint boy
where he's to plough, afore I go to the fair;"
said the farmer, with a wink to the two women,
who stared open-eyed at the change of the
condemned man with the fatal prison garb dripping
with mud and sand, and fettered wrists, into a
careless easy-going looking young labourer, in
a suit of well-worn and patched frieze and
corduroy, dirty and clayey, with lumps of
clay sticking on his brogues, a rakish
"caubeen" slouched over his eyes, and a black
"dhudeen" between his lips.

"Now come on! 'Tis time you were at your
work; his name's Maurice Slattery, Kate, an'
he's wud us this month back!"

"Oh, father, honey! Oh, Pat, acushla!"
cried the wife and daughter, with admiration.

The young man taking the pipe from his
mouth, said solemnly, "May God for iver bless
you, Pat Moran, an' you Mrs. Moran, and you,
Kate, an' you, Martin Leary," and he grasped
their hands all round.

"Come, 'tis six o'clock," said the farmer. "You
know where the plough is, Maurice Slattery.
You've a new piece of iron to melt, Martin. An',
Kate, you've to bury them clothes. Come an' I'll
show you where."

Half an hour afterwards he was riding slowly
to the fair on his young horse which was to be
sold, casting cautious glances backward at the
field by the river, where he could see his horses
ploughing, and his new servant boy toiling
quietly after them.

Such confusion and excitement had not been
known for years in the old cathedral town.
Police there were none in those days; but the
whole garrison had turned out in search of
the escaped felon. Groups of red-coats
perambulated the streets, the roads leading to the
country, and even the lanes and meadows.
Hundreds of country folk who had come in to
see the execution, also crowded the town. The
throng on the prison-hill was so dense that the
farmer could scarcely proceed a step. They
were all talking vociferously in Irish or English,
every one giving his or her version of the
wonderful story. Some declared that the prisoner
had not escaped, and that it was a device of
the authorities to conceal some foul play.
When Pat Moran had elbowed his way with
great difficulty almost to the prison-gates, he
looked eagerly for the objects of his search,
some of Tim's own people, whom he discovered
sitting and standing together in an excited group.

"Pat Moran, d'ye bleeve this?" said one of
the men, hoarsely, clutching the farmer's coat.
"D'ye bleeve that poor Tim has got out of their
cursed thrap?"

"John Welsh, Tim did get out!"

"Whisht! Lord save us!" they all broke
in with one voice.

"'Tisn't safe to say more. I'm thrimblin'
that some o' them fellows wid the brass buttons
will hear me," glancing towards the turnkey,
dimly visible behind the iron grating; "but
you, John Welsh, an' you, Mick Power, come
wud a car to-night to the cross-roads beyant
the ferry, at twelve o'clock, an' there'll be a
friend to see ye. Whisht, for your sowls!"

The prison warders were not long in discovering
by what means the captive had effected
his escape, and from the opening, the search
was carried above-ground to the mouth of the
sewer where it emptied itself into the river.
A venturesome spirit even crept up a few
dozen yards of the black passage, but speedily
returned, vowing that nothing could live half
an hour in it. Nevertheless, they sought for
footmarks on the river brink; but the friendly
tide had been before them. Still, on the
supposition that he might have lived to reach the
river, and swim across, a party of prison
officials and soldiers was ferried over, and
marched in a body to Farmer Moran's house.

Kate was busy feeding chickens, and her
mother peeling potatoes, when they both caught
sight of the gleam of scarlet and white cross-
belts, and heard loud tones and footsteps.

"Lord, be good and marciful to us