choolmaster with the short arm, who read and explained the
newspaper for "old Square Colwell," and was looked upon as premier to
the aforesaid cabinet; Ned himself filled the opposite seat of honor.

One night, a little before the Christmas holidays in the year 18--, the
personages just described were seated around Ned's fire, some with their
chirping pints of ale or porter, and others with their quantum of
_Hugh Traynor_, or mountain-dew, and all with good humor, and a strong
tendency to happiness, visible in their faces. The night was dark,
close, and misty; so dark, indeed, that, as Nancy said, "you could
hardly see your finger before you." Ned himself was full of fun, with
a pint of porter beside him, and a pipe in his mouth, just in his glory
for the night. Opposite to him was Pat Frayne, with an old newspaper on
his knee, which he had just perused for the edification of his
audience; beside him was, Nancy, busily employed in knitting a pair
of sheep's-grey stockings for Ned; the remaining personages formed a
semicircular ring about the hearth. Behind, on the kitchen-table sat
Paddy Smith, the servant-man, with three or four of the _gorsoons_ of
the village about him, engaged in an under-plot of their own. On the
other, a little removed from the light, sat Ned's two nieces, Biddy and
Bessy Connolly, former with Atty Johnson's mouth within whisper-reach
of her ear, and the latter seated close to her professed admirer, Billy
Fulton, her uncle's shopman.* This group; was completely abstracted from
the entertainment which was going forward in the circle round the fire.

* Each pair have been since married, and live not more
happily than I wish them. Fulton still lives in Ned's house
at the Cross-roads.

"I wondher," said Andy Morrow, "what makes Joe M'Crea throw down that
fine ould castle of his, in Aughentain?"

"I'm tould," said M'Roarkin, "that he expects money; for they say
there's a lot of it buried somewhere about the same building."

"Jist as much as there's in my wig," replied Shane Fadh, "and there's
ne'er a pocket to it yet. Why, bless your sowl, how could there be money
in it, whin the last man of the Grameses that owned it--I mane of the
ould stock, afore it went into Lord Mountjoy's hands--sould it out, ran
through the money, and died begging afther'? Did none of you ever hear
of--

'---- ---- ---- ---- Ould John Grame,
That swally'd the castle of Aughentain?'"

"That was l