It was a much better built and more roomy structure than the one he had left. It was not, however, like the other, built on a rock, but in a sheltered hollow. Dick pointed out this to me, and remarked:—
"I don't know but that Joyce is better off, all told, in the exchange. I wouldn't care myself to live in a house built in a place like this, and directly in the track of the bog."
"Not even," said I, "if Norah was living in it too?"
"Ah, that's another thing! With Norah I'd take my chance and live in the bog itself, if I could get no other place."
When this happened, our day's work was nearly done, and very soon we took our leave for the evening, Murdock saying, as I thought rather offensively:—
"Now, you, sir, be sure to be here in time on Monday morning."
"All right!" said Dick, nonchalantly; and we passed out. In the boreen, he said to me:—
"Let us stroll up this way, Art," and we walked up the hill towards Joyce's house, Murdock coming down to his gate and looking at us. When we came to Joyce's gate, we stopped. There was no sign of Norah; but Joyce himself stood at his door. I was opening the gate when he came forward.
"Good evening, Mr. Joyce," said I. "How is your arm? I hope quite well by this time. Perhaps you don't remember me—I had the pleasure of giving you
