in anger, now, sparkling with some witty
conception, or frowning a bold defiance as it met the glance of some
member of a rival faction. He looked, as he was, one ready and willing
to accept either part from fortune, and to exchange friendship and hard
knocks with equal satisfaction. Although in dress and appearance he was
both cleanly and well clad, it was evident that he belonged to a very
humble class among the peasantry. Neither his hat nor his greatcoat,
those unerring signs of competence, had been new for many a day before;
and his shoes, in their patched and mended condition, betrayed the pains
it had cost him to make even so respectable an appearance as he then
presented.

"She didn't even give you a look to-day, Owen," said one of the former
speakers; "she turned her head the other way as she went by."

"Faix, I'm afeard ye've a bad chance," said the other.

"Joke away, boys, and welcome," said Owen, reddening to the eyes as he
spoke, and shewing that his indifference to their banterings was very
far from being real; "'tis little I mind what ye say,--as little as she
herself would mind _me_," added he to himself.

"She's the purtiest girl in the town-land, and no second word to
it,--and even if she hadn't a fortune--"

"Bad luck to the fortune!--that's what I say," cried Owen, suddenly;
"'tis that same that breaks my rest night and day; sure if it wasn't for
the money, there's many a dacent boy wouldn't be ashamed nor afeard to
go up and coort her."

"She'll have two hundred, divil a less, I'm tould," interposed the
other; "the ould man made a deal of money in the war-time."

"I wish he had it with him now," said Owen, bitterly.

"By all accounts he wouldn't mislike it himself. When Father John was
giving him the rites, he says, 'Phil,' says he, 'how ould are ye now?'
and the other didn't hear him, but went on muttering to himself; and
the Priest says agin, 'Tis how ould you are, I'm axing.' 'A hundred and
forty-three,' says Phil, looking up at him. 'The Saints be good to
us,' says Father John, 'sure you're not that ould,--a hundred and
forty-three?' 'A hundred and forty-seven.' 'Phew! he's more of it--a
hundred and forty-seven!' 'A hundred and fifty,' cries Phil, and he gave
the foot of the bed a little kick, this way--sorra more--and he died;
and what was it but the guineas he was countin' in a stocking under the
clothes all the while? Oh, musha! how his sowl was in the money, and he
going to leave i