For many hundred yards total silence prevailed among our pedestrians. Even Kate Mulvey seemed at a loss what first to say, or whether she ought to be the first to say anything.

Winny, seeing that her poor dog was getting on famously, was rather pleased, "since the thing did happen," that it had been brought to so satisfactory an end after all; and by whom? Her poor dog might have been killed, and would, undoubtedly, but for Emon-a-knock's fortunate arrival at the last moment, and his prompt and successful assistance. There was poor Bully-dhu now, walking to all appearances almost as well as ever, and tied up in his handkerchief. She was glad that the road had become by this time comparatively deserted, for she was timid and frightened, she knew not why. Perhaps she was afraid she might meet her father. She was thinking with herself, too, how far Emon would come with them, and who they might meet who knew them, before he turned back. Emon-a-knock's heart was wishing Kate Mulvey at "Altha Brashia," but his head was not sorry that she was one of the party, for common-sense still kept his heart in subjection.

Thus it was that silence prevailed for some time. Bully-dhu was the first to break it. Whether it was that the whiskey had got into his head, or, as the present fashion would say, that he was "screwed," I know not; but he felt so much better, and had so far recovered his strength and spirits, that he had almost pulled the handkerchief from Emon's hand, and cut an awkward sort of a rigadoon round Winny, barking, and looking up triumphantly in her face. Could it have been that while the others had been thinking of these other things, he had been deluding himself with the notion that he had been the victor in the battle?

"Poor fellow," said Winny, patting him on the head, "I do think there's nothing very bad the matter with you after all. Emon, I am beginning to believe you."

"I hope you will always believe me, Winny Cavana," was his reply, and he again sunk into silence.

She could not think why he called her Cavana, and "yet her color rose;" I believe that is the way your experienced novelists would express it in such a case.

A longer silence now ensued. None of the three appeared inclined to talk—Emon less than either. Kate Mulvey, who had always plenty to say for herself, seemed completely dumb—foundered, I was going to add, but I find the word will do as well, perhaps better, in its purity. But, notwithstanding their silence, they were shortening the road to Rathcash. Winny was framing some pretty little speech of thanks to Emon for the trouble he had taken, and for his kindness; but she had so often botched it to her own mind, that she determined to leave it to chance at the moment of parting. Kate had no such excuse for her silence, and yet she was not without one, which to herself quite justified it.

Some few desultory remarks, however, were made from time to time, followed by the still "awkward pause," until they had now arrived at the turn in sight of Kate Mulvey's house.

Emon was determined to go the whole way to the end of the lane turning up to Winny Cavana's. He had not sought this day's happiness; he had studiously avoided such a chance; but circumstances had so far controlled him, that he could not accuse himself of wilful imprudence. Emon knew very well that if a fair opportunity occurred, he would in all probability betray himself in an unequivocal manner to Winny, and he dreaded the result. Up to the present he was on friendly and familiar terms with her; but once the word was spoken, he feared a barrier would be placed between them, which might put an end to even this calm source of happiness. That he loved Winny with a disinterested but devoted love, he knew too well. How far he might hope that she would ever look upon his love with favor, he had never yet ventured to feel his way; and yet his heart told him there was something about herself, which, if unbiassed by circumstances, might bid him not despair. But her rich old father, who had set his heart upon a marriage for his daughter with Tom Murdock, and a union of the farms, he knew would never consent. Neither did he believe that Winny herself would decline so grand a match when it came to the point.

Emon had argued all these matters over and over again in his mind; and the fatal certainty of disappointment, added to a prudent determination to avoid her society as much as possible, had enabled him hitherto to keep his heart under some control.

Kate Mulvey, though "book-sworn" by Winny, if she did not exactly repeat any of the confidential chat she had with her friend about Tom Murdock and himself, felt no hesitation in "letting slip" to Emon, for whom she had a very great regard, a hint or two just casually, as if by accident, that Tom Murdock "was no great favorite" of Winny Cavana's—that the neighbors "were all astray" in "giving them to one another"—that if she knew what two and two made, it would all "end in smoke;" and such little gossiping observations. Not by way of telling Emon, but just as if in the mere exuberance of her own love of chat. But they had the desired effect, now that Emon was likely to have an opportunity of a few words with Winny alone, for Kate was evidently preparing to turn up to her own house when they came to the little gate.

Emon had heard, even in his rank of life, the aristocratic expression that "faint heart never won fair lady;" and a secret sort of self-esteem prompted him to make the most of the fortuitous circumstances which he had not sought for, and which he therefore argued Providence might have thrown in his way, "What can she do," thought he, "but reject my love? I shall know the worst then; and I can make a start of it. I'm too long hanging about here like a fool; a dumb priest never got a parish; and barring his acres and his cash—if he has any—I'm a better man than ever he was, or ever will be."

These were his thoughts as they approached the gate, and his heart began to tremble as Kate Mulvey said:

"Winny, dear, I must part with you here. I saw my father at the door. He came to it two or three times while we were coming up the road; and he made a sign to me to go in. I'm sure and certain he's half-starved for his dinner, waiting for me!"

"Well, Kitty, I suppose I can't expect you to starve him out-and-out, and I'll bid you good-bye. I'm all as one as at home now, I may say. Emon—I—won't bring you any further."

"You're not bringing me, Winny; I'm going of my own free will."

"Indeed, Emon, you have been very kind, and I'm entirely obliged to you for all your trouble; but I won't ask you to come any further now."

Kate's father just then came to the door again; and she, thinking that matters had gone far enough between Emon and her friend in her presence, bid them a final good-bye, and turned up to her father, who still stood at the door, and who really did appear to be starving, if one could judge by the position of his hands and the face he made.

The moment had now arrived when Emon must meet his fate, or call himself a coward and a poltroon for the remainder of his natural life, be it long or short.

He chose the least degrading and the most hopeful alternative—to meet his fate.

As Winny held out her hand to him, and asked him to let out the dog, he said:

"No, Winny; I'll give him up to you at the end of the lane; but not sooner."

Winny saw that remonstrance would be no use. She did not wish to quarrel with Emon, and she knew that at all events that was no time or place to do so.

They had not advanced many yards alone, when Winny stopped again, as if irresolute between her wishes and her fears. She had not yet spoken unkindly to Emon, and she had tact enough to know that the first unkind word would bring out the whole matter, which she dreaded, in a flood from his heart, and which she doubted her own power to withstand.

"Emon," she said, "indeed I will not let you come any further—don't be angry."

"Winny, you said first you would not ask me, and now you say you will not let me. Winny Cavana, are you ashamed of any one about Rathcash, or Rathcashmore, seeing you walking with Emon-a-knock?"

"You are very unjust and very unkind, Emon, to say any such thing. I never was ashamed to be seen walking with you; and I'm certain sure the day will never come when you will give me reason to be ashamed of you, Emon-a-knock;—there now, I seldom put the two last words to your name, except when I wish to be kind. But there is a difference between shame and fear, Emon."

"Then you are afraid, Winny?"

"Yes, Emon, but it is only of my father—take that with you now, and be satisfied, but don't fret me by persevering further. Let the dog go—and good-bye."

All this time she was counting the pebbles on the road with her eyes.

"No, Winny, I'll not fret you willingly; but here or there it is all the same, and the truth must come out. Winny, you have been the woodbine that has twined itself and blossomed round my heart for many a long day. Don't wither it, Winny dear, but say I may water and nourish it with the dew of your love;" and he would have taken her hand.

"Not here, Emon," she said, releasing it; "are you mad? Don't you see we're in sight of the houses? and gracious only knows who may be watching us! Untie your handkerchief and give be the dog. For goodness sake, Emon dear, don't come any further."

"No, Winny, I'd die before I'd fret you. Here's the dog, handkerchief and all: keep it as a token that I may hope."

"Indeed, Emon, I cannot—don't ask me."

Emon's heart fell, and he stooped to untie the handkerchief in despair, if not in chagrin, at Winny's last words.

But Bully-dhu appeared to know what his mistress ought to have done better than she did herself. It was either that, or Emon's hand shook so, that when endeavoring to untie the knot, the dog got loose, "handkerchief and all," and, turning to his mistress, began to bark and jump up on her, with joy that he had gained his liberty, and was so near home. Winny became frightened lest Bully-dhu's barks might bring notice upon them, and she endeavored to moderate his ecstacy, yet she felt a sort of secret delight that she was in for the handkerchief in spite of herself. She was determined, therefore, not to send poor Emon-a-knock away totally dejected.

"There, Emon dear; for God's sake, I say again, be off home. I'll keep it in memory of the day that you saved my poor dog from destruction—there now, will that do?" and she held out her hand.

"It is enough, Winny dear. This has been the happiest day of my life. May I hope it has only been the first of a long life like it?"

"Now, Emon, don't talk nonsense, but be off home, if you have any wit —good-bye;" and this time she gave him her hand and let it lie in his.

"God bless you, Winny dearest, I oughtn't to be too hard on you. Sure you have raised my heart up into heaven already, and there is something now worth living for." And he turned away with a quick and steady step.

"She called me 'dear' twice," he soliloquized, after he thought she had fairly turned round. But Winny had heard him, and as she took the handkerchief from Bully-dhu's neck, she patted him upon the head, saying, "And you are a dear good fellow, and I'm very fond of you."

Emon heard every part of this little speech except the first word, and Winny managed it to perfection; for though she had used the word "and" in connection with what she had heard Emon say, she was too cunning to let him hear that one small word, which would have calmed his beating heart; and the rest she would fain have it appear had been said to the dog, for which purpose she accompanied the words with those pats upon his head. She spoke somewhat louder, however, than was necessary, if Bully-dhu was alone intended to hear her.

Emon saw the transaction, and heard some of the words—only some. But they were sufficient to make him envy the dog, as he watched them going up the lane, and into the house.

It might be a nice point, in the higher ranks of life, to determine whether, in a "breach of promise" case, the above passages could be relied on as unequivocal evidence on either side of a promise; or whether a young lover would be justified in believing that his suit had been successful upon no other foundation than what had then taken place. But in the rank of life in which Winny Cavana and Edward Lennon moved, it was as good between them as if they had been "book-sworn"—and they both knew it.

Before Winny went to her bed that night she had washed and ironed the handkerchief, and she kept it ever after in her pocket, folded up in a piece of newspaper. It had no mark upon it when she got it, but she was not afraid, after some time, to work the letters E. A. K. in the comer, as no one was ever to see it but herself, not even Kate Mulvey.

Old Ned Cavana, after returning from prayers, determined to rest himself for some time before taking a tour of the farm, and lay down upon an old black sofa in the parlor. There is no shame in the truth that an old man of his age soon fell fast asleep. The servant-girl looked in once or twice to tell him that the spotted heifer had cut her leg jumping over a wall, as Jamesy Doyle was turning her out of the wheat; but she knew it would not signify; and not wishing, or perhaps not venturing, to disturb him, she quietly shut the door again. He slept so long, that he was only just getting the spotted heifer's leg stuped in the farm-yard while the scene already described was passing between Winny and young Lennon upon the road. Were it not for that same heifer's leg he would doubtless have been standing at the window watching his daughter's return. Upon such fortuitous accidents do lovers' chances sometimes hang! This was what Winny in her ignorance of her father's employment had dreaded; and hence alone her anxiety that Emon should "be off home, if he had any wit."

On this point she found, however, that all was right when she entered. Her father was just coming in from the farm-yard, "very thankful that it was no worse;" a frame of mind which we would recommend all persons to cultivate under untoward circumstances of any kind.

Of course Winny told her father of the mishap about poor Bully-dhu's battle; she "nothing extenuated, nor set down aught in malice," but told the thing accurately as it had occurred; and did not even hide that young Lennon—she did not call him Emon-a-knock—had ultimately rescued the poor dog from destruction. She did not think it necessary to say how far he had accompanied them on their way home.

"He's a smart young fellow, that Lennon is, an' I'm for ever obliged to him, Winny, for that same turn. There would be no livin' here but for Bully-dhu. I believe it was Emon himself gev him to us, when he was a pup."

"It was, father; and a very fine dog he turned out."

"The sorra-betther, Winny. If it wasn't for him, as I say, betune the fox an' the rogues, we wouldn't have a goose or a turkey, or a duck, or a cock, or a hen, or so much as a chikin, in the place, nor so much, iv coorse, as a fresh egg for our breakfast. Poor Bully, I hope he's not hurt, Winny;" and he stooped down to examine him. "No, no," he cried, "not much; but I'm sure he's thirsty. Here, Biddy, get Bully a dish of bonnia-rommer, and be sure you make him up a good mess afther dinner. That Emon-a-knock, as they call him, is a thundering fine young man; it's a pity the poor fellow is a pauper, I may say."

"No, father, he's not a pauper, and never will be; he's well able to earn his living."

"I know that, Winny, for he often worked here; an' there's not a man in the three parishes laves an honester day's work behind him."

"And does not spend it foolishly, father. If you were to see how nicely he was dressed to-day; and—beside all the help he gives his father and mother."

She was about to add a remark that work was just then very slack, as it was the dead time of the year, but that there was always something to be done about the farm; but second thoughts checked the words as they were rising to her lips; and second thoughts, they say, are best.

Old Ned here turned the conversation by "wondering was the dinner near ready."

Winny was not a little surprised, and a good deal delighted, to hear her father talk so familiarly and so kindly of Emon. There never was a time when her father's kind word of him was of more value to her heart. Perhaps it would be an unjust implication of hypocrisy on the old man's part to suggest that he might have only been "pumping" Winny on the subject. She felt, however, that she had gone far enough for the present in the expression of her opinion, and was not sorry when a touch of the faire gurtha put her father in mind of "the dinner."

We, who, of course, can see much further than any of our dramatis personae, and who are privileged to be behind the scenes, could tell Winny Cavana—but that we would not wish to fret her—that Tom Murdock was looking on from his own window at the whole scene between her and young Lennon on the road; and that from that moment, although he could not hear a word that was said, he understood the whole thing, and was generating plans of vengeance and destruction against one or both.