At length the husband poured out a glass of wine, drank it off, and then broke silence, by saying,
"Well, well, Charlotte, these are awful times; there were ten men taken up to-day for burning Cotter's house at Knockane; and Tom Dycer says that every magistrate in the country is a marked man."
Mrs. Hewson cast a frightened glance toward the windows, which opened nearly to the ground, and gave a view of a wide, tree-besprinkled lawn, through whose centre a long straight avenue led to the high-road. There was also a footpath at either side of the house, branching off through close thickets of trees, and reaching the road by a circuitous route.
"Listen, James!" she said, after a pause, "what noise is that?"
"Nothing but the sighing of the wind among the trees. Come, wife, you must not give way to imaginary fears."
"But really I heard something like footsteps on the gravel, round the gable-end—I wish—"
A knock at the parlor door interrupted her.
"Come in."
The door opened, and Tim Gahan, Mr. Hewson's confidential steward and right-hand man, entered, followed by a fair-haired, delicate-looking boy of six years' old, dressed in deep mourning.
"Well, Gahan, what do you want?"