of a fine-looking man in the uniform of a Spanish military officer.

"Here's something else," whispered Destiny, as he felt carefully in the pocket which had produced the Spanish document.

He drew it forth. It was a closely and even minutely folded paper, which, on being carefully opened out, proved to be an oblong white document, ornamented with an engraved tracery of intricate red lines and bearing a voluminous inscription in letters and figures of blue.

It was an International Note for one thousand dollars!

Westeron instantly produced a note-book from his own pocket. He opened it at the page containing the list he had received from Merritt of the numbers of the International Notes delivered by the Legion Bank to Michael Smith.

Among the numbers was 11,033,475. And this was the number borne by the note taken from Wyndham's pocket!

Just at this moment the laughter, which had long been heard at intervals resounding from the room overhead, became more strident and rang out in a peal which, albeit delightfully musical, was so loud that Henry Wyndham moved uneasily in his bed and muttered a few broken words.

The powers of the air were already foregathering. It was July 1st, and, five days later, the now historic storm of July 6, 1907, was to descend from the Black Mountain between Asheville and Hendersonville in the far Southeast. The gloriously painted sunset sky had given place to a dully-luminous and almost solid-seeming roof of green, in which the moon and stars shone with a new and weird luster. The pleasant coolness of the evening was gone. There was tension in the air when breathed. Sounds

were strangely muffled and even conveyed the impression of being sluggish. There was no wind or breeze, and yet a minute observation showed that leaves were moving, that flowers were swaying, and that the branches of great trees were rising and falling.

"Why are you so silent, Lydia?" asked Tom Boreen, ast their horses walked slowly up the ascent from Pigeon River. "You were merry enough and voluble enough in Eliza's room not long ago."

"It was in sympathy with her, and despite myself," replied Lydia, very gravely. "A-ah!'

"Why that fathomless sigh?"

"I know no more than you do." "I could sigh, too."

"And do you feel frightened, Tom?" asked Lydia quickly, but in a low tone.

"Faith, not the laste bit!" replied Tom, with a briskness that had an artificial sound.

"The sunset to-night, Tom, was more than of this earth!" "Its refractive phenomena showed something unusual in the state of the atmosphere."

"I wonder how many more sunsets I shall see?" "Great God, Lydia, what are you saying?

"If I were not on horseback, Tom, I should cry."

It was a pity that the light was not sufficient to allow Boreen to see the touching, tear-laden blue eyes, with their delightful puckering, as Lydia the sprite kissed Lydia the angel.

"It's the change of weather, mavourneen. There's Dismal in the air to-night."

"And Dirge and Dree, too," whispered the girl. "Don't you feel them?"

Tom laid his hand upon the little glove that held both whip and rein. It was trembling.

"Now, by the powers, L. B., you're not yourself at all! 'Tis no plain Tom Boreen that should prayscribe for

Denis Dereham! But he'll vinture to recommind a change of thought. What did I promise in the laboratory this afternoon, Lydia?"

"To tell me who and what you are," replied L. B., brightening.

"That did I. And, now we're at the top of the hill, let us canter to the park and go round that way instead of by the road. It will be a little longer, but quieter, and I've a power of a tale to till ye."

The canter succeeded. Lydia's spirits underwent a great change. She no longer seemed oppressed, and it was with many an exclamation of vivid interest that she listened to Boreen's story.

One of these days, perhaps, I may be tempted to set pen to paper, and, with Tom's permission, give to the world, in my clumsy way, the inner history of the events that preceded and constituted the Kerry Campaign. Such a history will come as a surprise to many people, and will, I think, prove deeply interesting to all. If for no other reason than to learn how Kathleen O'Grady and Rose Gallagher laughed, talked, looked, and—acted, I shall be sure, at least, of a legence numbering every young man of heart and spirit. But were I to attempt the task at the present moment I should be introducing a subject foreign to my purpose of simply dealing with what took place in District No. I.

It seems that Tom Boreen had lost both his parents under distressing circumstances, and while he himself was a young lad. His father, Sir Patrick Boreen, was the descendant of a chieftain who had ruled over a vast tract of Connaught, and was one of the few Irishmen who retained a large estate dating back to pre-Cromwellian times. He had served as Mayor of Limerick during the year of the completion of the works for improving the navigation of the Shan. non, and had then been knighted. Soon afterward the first of the Kerry plots was discovered, and, rightly or wrongly, Sir Patrick Boreen was deemed one of the conspirators, was

arrested, and was imprisoned as a "suspect" without trial. The jail that received him was infamously notorious for numerous outbreaks of typhoid fever, and in one of these Sir Patrick perished. He had taken to wife a certain Miss Emily O'Grady, the handsomest girl and the most daring rider in the whole county of Clare. Marriage abated naught either from her beauty or from her equestrian spirit. She dutifully gave birth to a strapping little cherub, who promised to rival his parents in good looks, and then, when she had made no inconsiderable progress toward a repetition of the feat, she managed to strike instead of topping a stone wall. Her horse was killed outright, and she herself lived but an hour after the shock.

Young Tom was brought up by his maternal uncle, Phelim O'Grady, the father of the subsequently celebrated Kathleen, whose name is now a household word through the whole length and breadth of Ireland, and, indeed, wherever an Irish man or woman is to be found. I had the honor (I sincerely deem it such) of conversing with her so recently as ten days previous to the date of this present writing; and, in spite of her thirty-five years of life such as few have lived, I found her as gay, as beautiful, and as bewitching as she is said to have been during the evermemorable five years from 1900 to 1905. But, if I am asked how the Irish Kathleen stands in comparison with the American Lydia, I reply that the field of comparison has its limits. Our L. B. stood, and will forever stand, beyond those limits, just as, indeed, she stood, and will forever stand, beyond the bounds of language itself. Several times, already, during the course of this narrative, I have literally dashed my pen down on the table and sworn, in good Flanders style, at my inability to find words or expressions capable of depicting the soul-compelling Lydia, with her dear, dear face, her voice of Eden, and her glance of transcendent bliss.

I grow garrulous. My years excuse me, but all of my readers may not. Cuyler will. So will Boreen, and the

whilom Wyndham, and our divinity of the red, red hair, to whom we still bend the knee.

Tom and Kathleen grew up together, learning, playing, laughing, quarreling, fighting, kissing, and making it up. Then, Tom went to school, first to Maynooth, next and finally to Trinity College, Dublin. His uncle Phelim was the guardian of his estate, which, in spite of all rent-legislation, yielded a comfortable income.

In the hearts of all the

Then came what was inevitable. patriots that dwell along the western coast, Sir Patrick's son and heir was acknowledged as the rightful "Ri," or King; and to the beautiful Kathleen-already wielding her scepter —was committed the task of arousing his national feeling and soul of high emprise. Needless to say, she succeeded. Tom became the leader of the Western division of the OT— (I frankly confess I am afraid to be more explicit), and managed matters so adroitly that he remained unsuspected by the Government until he suddenly left Dublin and openly took the field. Here he acquitted himself with remarkable skill and vigor, and with greater success than cool, outside observers were prepared for. Among the daring feats of arms he performed, the one that gave him most pleasure was the sudden march by which he surprised and destroyed the jail in which his father had died.

After the campaign he took refuge in Paris, where he occupied himself in preparing the way for a second rising; and then he came to the United States to concert similar measures among his countrymen, many of whom had served with him in the field, and all of whom had aided the Irish cause either by monetary subscriptions or in some other

way.

He explained to Lydia how he was well enough aware of being continually watched by emissaries and agents of the British Government, and how he had baffled them by turning his old studies to account, and entering the medical profession. This enabled him to visit people by day and night,