my good lady," replied the stranger: "you know I am
his cousin--his father's first cousin; so if you want to hear of him
from time to time, perhaps I could put you in the way of it. If I knew
where you lived, I would come and call upon you to-night, and talk to
you about it before I go on to Dublin."
"Your honour's going to Dublin, are you?" said the woman, suddenly and
sharply, while the blood mounted into the cheek of her companion, as if
from some feeling of embarrassment. She continued, however, before he
could reply, saying, "With a thousand thanks to your honour, I shall be
glad to see you; and if I could but hear that the poor boy got well to
France, and was comfortable, I think I should be happy all my life."
"But where do you live, my good woman?" demanded the horseman: "we have
not much time to lose, for the sun is going down, and the night is
coming on."
"And a stormy night it will be," said the woman, who, though she had
very little of the Irish accent, seemed to have not a little of that
peculiar obliquity of mind, which so often leads the Irishman to follow
the last idea started, however loosely it may be connected with the main
subject of discourse. "As to where I live," she continued, "it's at the
small neat cottage at the end of the lane; the best house in the place
to my mind, except the priest's and the tavern; and for that matter,
it's my own property, too."
"Well, I will come there in about an hour," said her companion, "and we
will talk it all over, my good lady, for I must leave this place early
to-morrow."
Away went the stranger as he spoke, at a rapid pace, towards an Irish
village or small town of that day, which lay at the distance of about a
mile and a half from the sea-shore. It was altogether a very different
place, and bore a very different aspect, from any other collection of
houses, of the same number and extent, within the shores of the Sister
Island. It was situated upon the rise of a steep hill, at the foot of
which ran a clear shallow stream, from whose margin, up to the top of
the acclivity, ran two irregular rows of houses, wide apart, and
scattered at unequal distances, on the two sides of the high road. They
were principally hovels, of a single story in height; a great proportion
of them formed of nothing but turf, with no other window but a hole
covered with a board, and sometimes not that. Others, few and far
between, again, were equally of one story, but were neatly plastered
with clay, and ornamented with