was

hated to be reminded of it to the extent of anyone suggesting courses of self-sacrifice more in agreement with its tradition than the ways of their lives. "Ireland or that kind of madness not for them. There was nothing they had greater contempt for than the man who talked about doing good for Ireland. And the intention seemed to creep, just a little too frequently, into the talk of Michael. They would be compelled to call him to attention.

"Musha, what in the name of God, man, did you ever do for Ireland?"

Puzzled a little as to the meaning of it all, Michael would retreat for comfort to the current issue of Sinn Fein, hidden behind two Jacob's biscuit tins at the back of the counter. Then the sergeant of Ballycullen, Sergeant Leonard, would be coming into the shop to talk about the splendid manhood of "The Force," the security of a job under the Crown, and the greatness of the British Empire.

"The Lord save us," he would say, for about the tenth time on the same day, "they're a great people, the British. Look it, when I think of the hugeness of the power they've built up, why it's something terrific, so it is. Sure, there isn't a sensible little nation under the sun but's breaking its heart near to get to be an integral portion of the British Empire. Would you believe that now? Well, that's a fact. Of course, the only foolish country in the world, as usual, is poor ould

Ireland, and it's me that knows it.

Sure, I

spent the greater part of my service in attending political meetings all over the country. It was for distinguished service at them that I got the three gold stripes that you see now on my arm. Sure I could write a book of recollections, for there isn't a great speech of the past twenty-five years that I'm not after hearing, or a successful orator, of no matter what political brand, that I'm not after seeing. Aye, every one of them able to set crowds mad, and every one of them a smart fellow; and, sure, I often thought that if the goms they used to make roar and bawl for Ireland were after hearing as many of them as I'm after hearing, they'd come to have the same opinion of them as I have. It'd make a fellow laugh sometimes, but moretimes it would not be so laughable at all. To see fine young fellows getting set astray by designing blackguards instead of they going up to the Depot to get trained for the Force. Why, it would nearly go to your heart, so it would. That was my ambition always, to see all the young fellows in Ireland in the Force. To think of the peace we'd have then in Ireland! There'll never be peace in Ireland until we have done with oratory. If there was no fine living in it for them lads, they'd soon give up speechifying and what else. I ask you, who is responsible for all the devilment in Ireland for the past hundred years or so ? I'm damn sure it's not the British Government. I thought all this out of my own head one day at a

meeting. Why, it's the only thing for it, says I to myself, the full solution to a difficulty that has almost surpassed the ingenuity of man. If every meeting began to be composed of peelers instead of patriots, d'ye see? Q.U.E.D. Solved just like a proposition in Euclid. Ha! ha! ha! Give up asking for recruits for the Army from a rebel country, but ask for recruits for the R.I.C. instead. Then as sure as the sun is in the sky you'd never want an army to put down a rebellion in Ireland again."

On the day after the play, the Sergeant was more than usually eloquent in his blather. He kept enjoying himself thus until Marcus Flynn had gone to his dinner. It was good to rub it into Mickeen, a cur that had it in him, mebbe, to attack the peelers while the opportunity offered. Upon the disappearance of Marcus his tone suddenly changed into the accents of request and supplication.

"Damn it, give us a bit of tobacco, Mickeen. I can't afford to buy it now, with the price of everything, and the wife sick, and all the kids I have."

Michael did not refuse. Even though the Sergeant might be an employé of England, he stood for an immediate, definite reality in regard to Ballycullen. He had heard of many a fellow that had lost his job through the connivery of a peeler. Yet there had leaped many moments into this day when his mind rose grandly out of

the passive state to which it was chained almost continuously by means of tortures. He would go to the door, then, and look out at the other shop in which Mirandolina Conway daily endured the same slavery.

CHAPTER III.

FURTHER REALITIES.

THERE was some touch of ecstasy in this day, for Mirandolina Conway, too. Even the name which had been given her in the satirical spirit of Ballycullen, seemed more in harmony with romance. . There was a great gladness upon her when she heard it spoken. In moments during the long day behind the counter, her eyes were dazzled by happy, glinting lights, which had begun for the first time to flash, queerly almost, out of the gloom of Ballycullen. There did not appear to be the least vanity in the thought that Sara Curran could not have loved Robert Emmet more fondly than she now loved Michael Dempsey.

She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,
And lovers around her are sighing;

But coldly she turns from their gaze and weeps,
For her heart in his grave is lying.

That was from the song that had been made by Tommy Moore. Even as she remembered the familiar lines, they seemed to hold less sincerity than she would wish them to contain, for had not the proud and lovely Miss Curran a little later married an English officer! Imagine, an English officer, one of the very lot that butchered Robert