After ten minutes of the fiercest chaffering, and many loud invocations and denunciations on both sides, the bargain was closed, and to Helen's great joy, she saw twenty dirty one-pound notes counted into Darby's horny hand, the price of Daisy. The fair was getting "thin," as he had said, and as the clock was striking twelve, she and her empty cart emerged from the melée of pigs, sheep, and turf kishes, and waving a friendly farewell to Larry, she proceeded homewards at a brisk trot. Naturally, most of her thoughts were occupied by Gilbert Lisle, and she was consumed by a burning desire to know if he had recognized her? Had it been only amazement at a curious likeness that she had read in that glance?—a glance that revived a spirit that she thought was laid; it stirred—it recalled days of painful endurance, nights of tears. "However, that is all at an end now," she assured herself, half aloud. "Thank goodness I have lived it down."
She cast one or two apologetic thoughts to Darby Chute; yes, her conscience smote her with regard to him. Darby, after all, was an honest, upright man! Hearing is believing, he had done as much to sell Daisy to good advantage,—as if she had been his own property.
CHAPTER XL.
"BARRY'S CHALLENGE."
"The place is haunted."—Hood.
The Master's trot proved to be a mere flash in the pan, and after a mile the aged animal subsided into his normal pace,—namely, a desultory and erratic stroll. His driver, wearied by this monotonous crawl, alighted, and accompanied the cart on foot, walking at the mule's head, with her sun-bonnet tilted over her face, and her thoughts miles away—say as far as Ballyredmond. Proceeding in this somewhat absent fashion, it came to pass, that in turning a corner she nearly fell into the arms of Barry Sheridan, who, taking her for what she represented at the first glance, exclaimed, "Hullo, my Beauty, 'tis yourself;" but, "The deuce!" "The devil!" were his concluding ejaculations, as he recognized the Crowmore mule, and something familiar in the cut of the market-girl's pink sun-bonnet—not to mention the face that was under it. Finding herself fairly caught, and that escape was out of the question, Helen resolved to make a virtue of necessity, and to brazen it out to the best of her ability.
"What the mischief does this mean?" he blustered, authoritatively.
"It means that Sally has hurt her foot," she returned, with complete composure, and speaking in her natural voice, "and I have been her most successful substitute."
"Bother your long words! Do you mean to tell me you have been selling vegetables and butter in Terryscreen?"
"I do," she answered gaily.