Reilly then wound his way to the cottage of Mrs. Buckle, but not by the public road. He took across the fields, and, in due time, reached her humble habitation. Here he found the disguise, which his friend Fergus had provided-a half-worn frieze coat, a half-worn caubeen, and a half-worn pair of corduroy breeches, clouted brogues, and Connemara stockings, also the worse for the wear, with two or three coarse shirts, in perfect keeping with, the other portion of the disguise.
“Well, Mrs. Buckley,” said he, “how have you been since I saw you last?”
“Oh, then, Mr. Reilly,” said she, “it's a miracle from God that you did not think of stopping here! I had several visits from the sogers who came out to look for you.”
“Well, I suppose so, Mrs. Buckley; but it was one comfort that they did not find me.”
“God be praised for that!” replied the poor woman, with tears in her eyes; “it would a' broken my heart if you had been catched in my little place.”
“But, Mrs. Buckley,” said Reilly, “were there any plain clothes left for me here?”
“Oh, indeed there was, sir,” she replied, “and I have them safe for you; but, in the meantime, I'll go outside, and have an eye about the country, for somehow they have taken it into their heads that this would be a very likely place to find you.”
While she was out, Reilly changed his dress, and in a few minutes underwent such a metamorphosis that poor Mrs. Buckley, on reentering the house, felt quite alarmed.
“Heavenly Father! my good man, where did you come from? I thought I left Mr. —” here she stopped, afraid to mention Reilly's name.
“Don't be alarmed, Mrs. Buckley,” said Reilly; “I am only changed in outward appearance; I am your true friend still; and now accept this for your kindness,” placing money in her hand.