light and the smell of smoke was becoming perceptible, as the smouldering fire made way in the ricks. But what had become of his foraging cap? It was not anywhere to be found, grope as he would on the ground. No matter; the other tell-tale head-gear was there, to incriminate its owner; so, without any misgiving as to the loss of his cap, he stole from the haggard, made a detour of many fields at its rear, and finally joined Browne on the bridge.

It had been a night of woe for Nellie Conlan. With aching heart she paced the floor of her cottage, her fears for Shawn intensified by the roaring storm. What had become of him that he had not returned? He had never treated her thus before. It was not like his tender, considerate, chivalrous way, to leave her alone on any night, least of all on such a night of terror. Perhaps he had been taken ill in Derreen and was lying-maybe at the point of death, beseeching her presence in vain. Perhaps he had given way to his spasmodic weakness and had been arrested. So, the prey of appalling fear and gnawing anxiety, she sat and watched and listened, going in feverish unrest to the door, peering into the outer gloom and returning, uncomforted, to her place before the statue of the Virgin, where ever and anon she poured forth her grief in impassioned prayer to the Dolorous Mother who was also the Comfortress of the afflicted. She knew not of the tragedy that even then menaced her happiness-the brief, but unclouded, happiness of six months of wedded love.

But presently she was roused from the stupor of her grief by the sight of a great fire, reddening the sky and flaring. beacon-like across the fields towards Meehul Higgins' home. Spellbound she stood at the door, watching that ominous blaze, and catching in the hush of early dawn the sound of excited voices coming down the wind from the fire. The country was awake, hurrying with

ready help to Meehul's relief, homestead calling to homestead, cabin to cabin in their prompt and eager sympathy.

Worn out at last and commending her husband to the Virgin's care, she lay down on the bed in the upper room and was presently asleep.

She awoke with a start to find her husband, pale and haggard, bending over her.

"There's a great fire over at Meehul Higgins'," he said. "All the country's there. If I was able to go, I'd lend a hand, but I can't."

"Oh, Shawn," she said, "where were you all night? or what kept you at all? Thank God, you're back safe at last, 'agraw'! Such a night as I've had!"

Shawn kissed her tenderly. "Nellie, 'dheelish,'" he said, "I'm not fit for the likes of you at all. I'm ashamed to say that I took a dhrop too much at the fair. That and the cough here," indicating his chest, "overcame me on my way home, and I slept all night at Molly Gara's."

"Never mind, Shawn, 'agraw,'" she smiled. "Don't do it again, like a good boy; and God bless Molly Gara for bein' a friend to you in need. She was ever a good neighbor and a tendher heart."

They were interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps in the boreen outside, followed by a loud knocking at the door.

"Who is it, I wondher?" asked Nellie. Then, catching sight of her visitors through a little window, "Mother of Mercy! Policemen!" she gasped, "what can they want at all?”

"Does Shawn Conlan live here?" asked one of the police to the man who opened the door.

"I'm Shawn Conlan," said Shawn.

"Then I arrest you on this warrant, charging you with incendiarism and malicious mischief," replied the policeman.

"Me?" blurted the astonished Shawn. "Why? What ails ye at all?"

"Come, come, Conlan, no fuss! You'd better come quietly. You'll know

all about the charge when you get to the barracks; but I'm inclined to think you know enough already," laughed the policeman.

"But I don't undherstand ye; indeed I don't," protested Conlan. "I've not done anything to be ashamed of-"

"Were you home last night, Conlan?" broke in the policeman.

"He wasn't home. He was sick at a neighbor's house, God bless her!" said Nellie, coming forward.

"Not home? I thought so. That settles it, Conlan; so come along." And they laid detaining, but by no means gentle, hands on his shoulders. "There's no use in an outcry," they urged, turning to Nellie, who was weeping hysterically.

"But he's innocent. Before God an' His Mother the poor boy is innocent,' sobbed the wife.

"That will do. We've heard the likes of that before," snorted the policemen. "What'll I do at all? Oh, what'll I do at all?" screamed the young wife, embracing her husband and kissing him. "Oh, Shawn, Shawn, why didn't you come home lasht night, 'alanna?' What'll I do? God and His Mother help me! But never fear, 'agraw,' never fear. 'Twill all come out right. God in His mercy won't allow an innocent boy to suffer. Good-bye 'alanna!' Oh, goodbye, my 'bouchaleen bawn!"

Shawn was choking; and, as he went from his home, the last he saw of it was the open doorway with his young wife lying fainting on the threshold. Even the callous policemen were touched by his blinding emotion and tears rose to their eyes, responsively sympathetic

to his.

His trial was a mockery. A complaisant Magistrate sent him to a complaisant Grand Jury, and a complaisant Judge sent him to jail for ten years, as a warning to criminals of his ilk.

The Master was summoned as a witness and, though he identified the hat

found in the haggard as his own and told how he had compassionately placed it under Conlan's head, his evidence, commented his Lordship in the charge to the Jury, did but substantiate that of Beatty. It was immaterial, smiled his Lordship, whether the hat was Conlan's or the Master's. The great, incriminating fact remained that it was found in the haggard and was evidently dropped there by the incendiary in his desperate. struggle with Constable Beatty, who, with his comrade, Browne, had caught him red-handed in the act of firing the ricks. Coupled with this, in forging an inevitable concatenation of convicting circumstances, was the defendant's notorious enmity for Higgins and the damning fact that he had not been home the night of the burning. The jury might weigh at its true value the testimony of the Gara woman that the defendant had slept all that night at her house. Her veracity was a matter of conjecture; but as between her and the word, the sworn testimony, of that gallant servant of the Crown, that unimpeachable guardian of the peace and exemplary conservator of law and orderhis Lordship referred to Constable Beatty-no sane man could hesitate for a moment in his choice. On whole, reviewing the evidence. its entirety and making due allowance for the sympathy the prisoner had evoked very naturally indeed-among those of his community. who had testified to his good character, there was but one duty for the jury to perform. That was to return a verdict of guilty. A duty which the loyal jury performed without leaving the box.

the

in

After a while the course of more exciting public events flowed over and engulfed the memory of Conlan's trial, as water engulfs a stone in the river's bed. But though washed from the popular mind, there were two persons who could not forget it. Nellie Conlan and Constable Browne tried vainly to drown the

memory of that hideous farce. But it would not down.

Night by night it hovered over the young wife's pillow, wringing tears of anguish, despair and bereavement from the eyes wherein the light of joy was quenched forever. Not even when her baby was born-the babe that was never to see or know its father-did the heartbroken wife know surcease of sorrow. Her brief dream of happiness had been suddenly, tragically, irretrievably clouded. The roses faded from her cheek; the young form lost its rondure, the light foot its elastic step, the girlish voice its silvery laughter. And, seeing her occasionally in town, at fair or market or Mass, Constable Browne's heart turned to lead in his breast.

"What ails Browne?" was a common query at the barracks. "He's never been the same man since the Higgins burning," was the usual comment of his fellows.

Beatty took his honors lightly, as became a man who had rendered distinguished service to the Crown. His sleeves now displayed the gold chevrons of a Head Constable, and he came and went with high head among the men of the force.

But his conscience was awake, haunting him at dead of night with accusing voice. That some one shared his secret preyed upon him and worried him, often driving the smile from his lips and the blood from his cheek, even when he laughed and revelled in Margaret O'Keefe's company. If only Browne

were dead, how happy he would be! If only, some friendly Fenian or Leaguer would take him off! But, while he lived, there was no peace for him who had perjured an innocent man into a living grave. He was too squeamish, too soft, too conscientious, too much given to remorse and compunction. These at any moment might overcome him. And then would come denunciation and disgrace.

Denunciation came before he expected. He had not counted on the unknown man who had assailed him in the haggard; but one day, after a long absence, Tom Bolan went up Chapel Lane, entered at the gate of St. Nathy's and surprised the Master in the midst of a discourse on the Homeric question.

"Schlegelmann bases his argument on the reasons I have enumerated, which you will find in his 'Prolegomena.' Gladstone's position I have stated succinctly, and my own opinion is—”

He did not finish the sentence, for a well-known face looked in at the open door.

"The Maestro, as I live! 'Tempora mutantur et nos mutamur in illis.' Yes, Tom, my boy, you are changed, sadly changed, since last I saw you," said the Master, wringing the itinerant's hand, to the surprise and delight of the boys, who could not understand the abrupt and seemingly unintelligible close to his discourse on Homer.

"Changed?" sighed Bolan. "Yes, I suppose I am. I have been sick for months in Dublin and hurried down here as fast as ever I could. A great wrong has been done here, and I think I can set it right. It was only when convalescent, a month ago, that I took up, accidentally, an old copy of the Freeman, and read about poor Shawn Conlan's case."

"A very sad case, indeed," mused the Master. "I have always believed the poor fellow innocent, though to my mind things looked bad against him. That incident of the hat convinced me at the time-"

"Tis of that I would speak, and at once," said Bolan. "Oh, listen to me! I must unbosom myself. I must speak, for I feel that I have been privy to the great wrong that has been done poor Conlan."

He was so eager, so insistent on a hearing, that the Master dismissed school for the day.

Then in the privacy of the school the Maestro told the Master of that night in Meehul Higgins' cowhouse, what he had overheard, what he had seen, how he had fought with Beatty and, finally, of his long illness in Mater Misericordiae Hospital in Dublin.

During the recital, the Master's face was a study-a mirror wherein were reflected the emotions of his heart. Finally, when Bolan had finished, he was like one transfigured, in the greatness of his joy.

"Glory be to the great God on high!" he murmured reverently. "Praise and thanks to His holy name for this deliverance! That fiend incarnate was to marry my little girl, my winsome Margaret. But you are saved Peggy, saved!" he exulted, his face alight with the glory of his rejoicing soul.

"For right is right, as God is God,
And right shall surely win;
To doubt would be disloyalty,
To falter would be sin—'

"But come, Tom, come at once to Colonel Plunkett. 'Twas he who committed Conlan to prison for the Assizes. If there's justice on earth we shall have it. The Member shall hear of this and compel the Government to make amends. Poor Conlan's wrongs shall ring through Parliament."

Within an hour they found Colonel Plunkett at his beautiful home outside Derreen. The Magistrate listened in amazement to Bolan's story and examined with interest the hat inscribed with Conlan's name, that the fiddler had found at Kilcoleman, and the foraging cap he had taken from Beatty in his struggle with that worthy.

"There can be no doubt about that cap," said the Master, eagerly, with vehement word and gesture. "I would know that lining in Yokohama. It is on linen, as you see, a wreath of forgetme-nots, embroidered in blue, with the inscription, 'From Peggy to Sam.' It

was my daughter who embroidered it, as silly girls will do such things. I came upon her one day after school, when it was finished, and, surprised at her task, she confessed with blushes that it was a keepsake for Beatty. I knew they were acquainted; but that first showed me the depth of the girl's infatuation for that scoundrel. But now his game is up-"

"Will you make affidavit to this?" demanded the Magistrate of Bolan.

The Maestro was ready, and the Magistrate took down his sworn statement.

"I will forward this immediately to the Chief Secretary," he added, when he had duly signed and sealed the document, "and I shall leave no stone unturned to have all possible justice done in the case. I may mention that your story strangely corroborates that of Constable Browne, who came to me yesterday and made affidavit that he was with Beatty on the night in question, and that the whole thing was a plot. The fellow's conscience, it seems, would not let him rest until he had made a clean breast of the affair. He resigned from the Constabulary last night-"

"But he hasn't yet left town, as I saw him this morning," broke in the Master.

"All right, Mr. O'Keefe," said the Colonel at his door. "You shall hear further about this; and you, Bolan, let me thank you sincerely for the interest you have manifested in the unfortunate affair. By the way, Professor, congratulate Miss O'Keefe for me on her lucky escape; for, I presume, the girl will have none of this scamp now."

"I'll see to that," growled the Professor.

Entering the town, the friends came face to face with Dick Browne, not now in uniform, but neatly attired in tweeds.

"My dear Browne, accept my felicitations," said the Master, beaming upon the surprised man. "Tis good to meet a brave man in these degenerate days. And he is bravest of the brave who does

a disagreeable duty. I have heard all from Colonel Plunkett. We have just been to see him on a like mission. My friend, Mr. Bolan here, is the man who fought with Beatty in the haggard."

Browne's eyes grew big with wonder, as he looked from the Master to the Maestro.

"How can I look an honest man in the face?" he stammered, his face aflame with suffusing shame. "I am heartily sorry for my part in that nefarious game-"

"Never mind! You've made honorable amends. Do you know this?" said Bolan, producing the foraging cap.

"Beatty's cap!" exclaimed Browne. "He thought it was burned in the fire.'

"No, thank God! It has been saved as evidence to drive him in disgrace from the country," laughed the Master. "But, Browne, come with me, and save my family from disgrace. Convince my daughter that Beatty is a villain. She will need strong proof of it, for she loves him, poor girl!"

"Gladly," said Browne.

"Beatty is expected at supper tonight. He's probably there now," said the Master, looking at his watch. "Mehercle! but we'll surprise the dog." They did surprise him, leaning jauntily over Margaret, as she sang for him. at the piano.

"For what is love made for if it's not the

same

Through joy or through sorrow, through glory or shame?

I know not, I ask not; if guilt's in the heart,

I but know that I love thee, whatsoever thou art,"

her fresh young voice rang out.

"Strangely appropriate, indeed!" exexclaimed her father, bursting suddenly upon her. "Most appropriate, 'pon my word and honor! Yes, Peggy, guilt is in that heart," he went on, pointing to

Beatty. "The guilt of hell in the heart of a fiend!"

Beatty paled, as he saw Browne and the Maestro crowding in behind the Master.

"What does this mean?" he demanded haughtily, yet shifting his eyes uneasily from Browne.

"It means that you, sir, are a coward, a villain, a scoundrel, a midnight assassin-a perjured cut-throat. How dare you have the effrontery to obtrude. your unhallowed attentions into a decent home?" roared the Master.

"But, Mr. O'Keefe-" blurted the dumfounded man.

"But me no buts, sir. I suppose you know this cap?"

"Why, he told me it was burned at the fire in Higgins' haggard," exclaimed Margaret, taking the cap from his hand.

"No, dear, 'twasn't burned," said her father, caressing the now frightened girl. "Poor child! to have been deceived so by that villain!"

"Oh, father, please tell me what you mean," pleaded the girl, bursting into.

tears.

"I mean that that fellow there burned the Higgins farm himself and sent an innocent man to a living hell, that he might gain promotion-"

"And I am here to corroborate that," said Browne. "I was with him and helped him, God forgive me-"

"And I discovered you both at it," broke in Bolan, "and took that cap from that gallant hero, as a keepsake of his prowess."

"Oh, oh! this is too much! This is terrible!" moaned the girl, hiding her face in her hands and sobbing hysterically. "And you have deceived me all this time?" she moaned.

"He shall deceive you no longer, nor any other girl in this town," said her father. "Have the goodness to relieve us of your presence, sir," he continued, bowing to Beatty and holding the door

open.