hat a house to be sure! There's Lady Kilgoff on one side--"

"What of her, my Lady?" said the blonde.

"You did n't hear of Lord Kilgoff overtaking her to-day in the wood with
Sir Harvey Upton?--hush! or he 'll hear us. The poor old man--you know
his state of mind--snatched the whip from the coachman, and struck Sir
Harvey across the face. They say there's a great welt over the cheek!"

Mrs. White immediately arose, and, under pretence of looking for a
book, made a circuit of the room in that part where Sir Harvey Upton was
lounging, with his head on his hand.

"Quite true," said she, returning to the party. "It is so painful, he
can't keep his hand from the spot."

"Has any one discovered who the strange-looking man was that was
received by Mr. Cashel this morning in his own study?" asked the blonde.
"My maid said he was for all the world like a sheriff's officer.
It seems, too, he was very violent in his language; and but for Mr.
Kennyfeck, he would not have left the house."

"Too true, I fear, ma'am," said Mrs. Malone; "my husband, the
Thief,"--this was Mrs. Malone's mode of abbreviating and pronouncing
the words Chief Justice,--"told me it was impothible for Mr. Cashel to
continue his extravaganth much longer."

"It's shameful--it's disgraceful," said Lady Janet; "the kitchen is a
scene of waste and recklessness, such as no fortune could stand."

"Indeed, so the 'Thief' said," resumed Mrs. Malone; "he said that
robbery went on, on every thide, and that Mr. Phillith, I think his name
is, was the worst of all."

"Your husband was quite correct, ma'am," said Lady Janet; "no one should
know it better." And then she whispered in her neighbor's ear, "If the
adage be true, 'Set a thief to catch a thief.'"

The party intrusted with this could not restrain her laughter, and for a
space, a species of distrust seemed to pervade the circle.

We are certain that no apology will be required, if we ask of our reader
to quit this amiable society,--although seated at a comfortable fire,
in the very easiest of chairs, with the softest carpet beneath his
feet,--and accompany Roland Cashel, who now, with hasty step, trod the
little path that led to Tubber-beg Cottage.

However inhospitable the confession, we are bound to acknowledge Cashel
was growing marvellously weary of his character as a host. The hundred
little contrarieties which daily arose, and which he knew not how to
smooth down or conciliate, made him appear, in