“Don’t spake about it, darlint,” said my mother; thin, pointing upward, she added, mighty solemn, “Glory be to Him, it was His will, and it was the best day’s work ever you did. Tell him what has happened.”
“I will,” said my father. “You see, Phil, my son, soon after you sailed for Amerikay, the old master died, and the estate came into the hands of his nephew, a wild harum-scarum sort of a chap, that kapes the hoith of company with the quality and rich people in London and Paris, and the lord knows where else besides; but never sets his foot, nor spinds a skurrick here, where the money that pays for his houses, and carriages, and race-horses, and the wine his foine friends drinks—when his tenants is starving—comes from. Seeing how things were likely to go, the ould agent threw up his place rather than rack the tenants any further; this just suited my gintleman, who sent over a new one, a hard man, wid a heart of stone, and he drove the poor craytures as a wolf would drive a flock of shape; they did their best, till their crops failed, to kape their bits of farms; but then—God help them! they were dead bate—sure the famine came, and the famine brought on the faver; they couldn’t pay; they were evicted by dozens; and the evictions brought oil something worse than the famine or faver—something they hungered and thirsted for more than mate and dhrink.”
“What was that, father dear?”
“Revinge!” says he.
“Revinge! father—revinge!” I muttered.
“Yis,” says he; “but hush! spake low, darlin’! The boys wint out! Well, after that, it’s little the moon or stars were wanted to light up the night while there was a full barn on the estate.
“The country is overrun by the police and the sojers; but it is small good they have done, or are likely to do. Starving men don’t care much for stale or lead; but—”
Here he paused, and raised his hand.
“Hush! there’s futsteps on the road, and me talking loud enough to be heard a mile off.”
As he spoke, he rose, went stealthily to the door, opened it, and looked out.