The old man, mumbling to himself, set the meal and left the room.

"Now, Mr. Durham, just make yourself at home with such scant hospitality as I can show you. If it was in Ireland, sure I'd give you a meal worth the eating, but here, with me not knowing whether I'm to own this place or not, and without a soul about it save useless old Patsy to do a hand's turn, you'll understand it's only a poor pot-luck sort of spread at the best I can offer. But such as it is, it is offered[Pg 68] with a free heart, though you are going to leave me to be murdered by the scoundrels whenever they like to come."

"You will laugh at your fears to-morrow," Durham said as he drew up to the table.

"They are not fears, Mr. Durham. You don't know; you're not Irish, and so don't understand, but Brennan would. It's not fear. It's what we term presentiment. Not all the Iri. . . Read More