ssengers, Terence was obliged to swim his
horse across, and to dismount on the opposite side, in order to assist the
animal up a steep clayey bank which had been formed by the torrent
undermining and cutting away the old banks.

Although we had received no material damage, you may suppose that our
appearance was not much improved by the water and yellow clay into which we
had been plunged; and had it been possible, we would have blushed with
vexation, on finding ourselves introduced by Terence in a very unseemly
state, amidst the titters of a number of young people, into the ball-room
at Rookawn Lodge. However, we became somewhat reassured, when we heard the
droll manner in which he related his swim, with such ornamental flourishes
and romantic embellishments as made him an object of general interest
during the night.

Matthew Tibbins had already taken the field in a blue satin waistcoat and
nankeen trousers. At the instant we entered the dancing-room, he had
commenced lisping to Miss Biddy, in a tender love-subdued tone, a couplet
which he had committed to memory for the occasion, when a glance of
terrible meaning from Terence's eye met his--the unfinished stanza died in
his throat, and without waiting the nearer encounter of his dreaded rival,
he retreated to a distant corner of the apartment, leaving to Terence the
post of honour beside the heiress.

"Mr. Duffy," said she, accompanying her words with the blandest smile you
can conceive, as he approached, "what a wonderful escape you have had. Dear
me! I declare you are dripping wet. Will you not change your--clothes?"
and Miss Biddy glanced furtively at the buckskins, which, like ourselves,
had got thoroughly soaked. "Oh! by no means, my dear Miss Biddy," replied
Terence, gaily; "'tis only a thrifle of water--that won't hurt them"--and
then added, in a confidential tone, "don't you know I'd go through fire as
well as water for one kind look from those deludin' eyes."

"Shame, Mr. Duffy! how can you!" responded Miss Biddy, putting her
handkerchief to her face to make believe she blushed.

"Isn't it the blessed truth--and don't you know it is, you darling?--Oh!
Miss Biddy, I'm wasting away like a farthing candle in the dog-days--I'm
going down to my snug grave through your cruelty. The daisies will be
growing over me afore next Easther--Ugh--ugh--ugh. I've a murderin' cough
too, and nothing can give me ase but yourself, Miss Biddy," cried Terence
eagerly.

"Hush!