ALL ABOUT TIM DELANEY. HOW HE WINT COORTIN' WID HIS MASTHER, AND THE CONSEQUENCES.

BY SYLVANUS URBAN, THE YOUNGER.

"Wanst upon a time—an', sure, that's not so long ago, afther all—there wor a grate fri'ndship betune the familees of the Sullivans an' the O'Briens; but, by raison of their livin' a long ways apart, they niver sot eyes on ache other for many's the year, though they kep' up the ould good-will by writin' letthers back an' fore, wid the shuperscupshins of, 'Yer humble sarvint to command, Murtoch O'Brien ma bouchal,' or, 'May the heavins be yer bed, an' glory be wid ye, Dennis Sullivan a hagur!'

"Well, the years rowled by, an', in the mane time, the sunshine lived foriver in the house of Murtoch O'Brien, in the shape of a daughther that bate the wureld for beauty; while Dinnis Sullivan wor prouder of his son Maurice nor if he had found all the goold mines of Californy, wid all the jooels of the Aist Injees to the top of 'em. Oh, faix, but ye may be sartin that the ould min in their letthers gossipped about the childher, an' that Misther O'Brien, bein' discinded from the anshint kings of Munsther, belaved his daughther Norah the aquil of any princess in Eurip and Aishey, lettin' alone the Turkeys and the Roosthers—Rooshins, I mane—an' the Jarmans, an' the Frinch, an' all the other haythens.

"Well, by coorse, by an' by, young Masther Maurice an' the butyful Miss Norah wor conthracted thegither by the ould people; though, it's the thruth I'm sayin', nayther of the youngsthers wor beknowin' to it at all, until wan day, when Maurice wor near grown to be a man, his fadher up an' tould him what he had done. 'Well an' good!' sez Maurice, for he wor a mighty purty behaved young jintleman; an', wid that, he crasses over the salt say into forrin parts, where he larned to ate frogs in France, an' to sleep undher a feather bed in Jarmany, wid his exthremities stickin' out. By an' by, whin he had finished his eddicashin at the Jarman Univarsity, by dhrillin' a hole wid a small sword through the arum of wan Count Dondher an' Blixum, an' by bein' mortially wounded in his undher garmint hisself, Maurice thravels back to the ould counthry. Oh, but Dinnis Sullivan wor mighty plased to shake hands wid his darlin' boy agin! an' he grown so tall, an' sthrong, an' manly like.

"'Maurice, avourneen!' sez his fadher, tindherly, 'seein' 'tis of age ye are, an' may be I'll not be wid ye long, sure it 'u'd be plasin' me to see yeez marri'd at wanst to Norah O'Brien,' sez he.

"'But how will I tell whether I'll like her or no?' sez Maurice, dub'ously.

"'By raison that she's a hairess and a grate beauty,' sez the ould jintleman.

"'Thim's good things in their way,' sez Maurice; 'but may be I'll be ruinashin'd, afther all, wid the crooked timper.'

"'Make yerself parfaitly aisey on that score, Maurice ma bouchal,' sez his fadher. 'Honey isn't swater, nor butther safter.'

"'May be 'tis too saft she is,' sez Maurice.

"'Tare an' ounties!' sez the ould jintleman, in a grate passion. 'What 'u'd yees like to have, I'd be plased to know? Isn't Murtoch O'Brien my ould fri'nd, an' wan I niver had a quarrel wid in my life, batin' the bottle he throw'd at my head at ould Thrinity, an' the bullet I lodged in his side on the banks of the Liffey one morn? Sure, afther that affeckshinate raymonsthrance we wor betther fri'nds nor iver we wor before.'

"Well, by this an' by that, seein' the ould jintleman wor bint upon the match, Maurice consints to ride over an' coort the young lady, purvided he might take wid him his fostherer, wan Tim Delaney. Sure I know'd him well, for he wor own cousin to myself by the mudher's side, an' he it wor as tould me this sthory.

"'Take him by all manes,' sez the ould jintleman. 'I've not the laste objeckshin. 'Tis a dacent lad he is, an' a betther face or a n'ater figure, barrin' yer own, Maurice dear, there's not to be found in all the county. He desarves to be put forrid in the wureld. He's not althegither an' ignoraymus nayther,' sez he, 'for Fadher Doran thried to bate the humanities into him for the matther of two saisons; an', though he butthers his mattymatticks wid poetical conthribushins, an' peppers an' salts the larned langwidges wid aljebrayickal calkilations, there's a dale of larnin' in that head of his, av he only understhood the manage of it.'

"So, wid that, Misther Maurice sed he wor contint, an', sendin' his thrunk on afore him by the faymale stage, he"——

"Stop! stop! Mulrooney! I was not aware of any distinction between one stage and another. Will you do me the favor to enlighten me?"

"Arrah now," said Peter, boldly, "don't I know the differ? Sure, if the coaches as carries the letthers is the male stages, it stands to raison thim as doesn't must be the faymales."

"Humph! Admirably defined! Well, go on."

"An' thin—an' thin—och, wirrasthrue! but I've lost the sthory complately an' enthirely, by makin' a dickshunary of myself."

"Let me jog your memory, then. Maurice sent his trunk on before"——

"That's it," said Peter, "by the faymale stage, an' set out on horseback wid hisself an' Tim, bright an' early the nixt morn, for Carrigathroid. Well, they hadn't gone more nor a few miles, afore little Micky Dunn, the stable boy, comes tearin' down the road to say that the masther had been takin' suddintly wid a fit of the gout, an' that Misther Maurice must go back an' attind the sale of Ned Ryan's place, as the ould jintleman wanted it to square off the corner of the upper farm.

"'Oh, musha, thin, but what'll I do?' sez Maurice. ''Tis unlucky to turn back; an', besides, my thrunk is gone on afore, wid all the b'utyful clothes in it I brought from France an' Jarmany.'

"'Faix, but that's bad!' sez Tim; 'an' I misthrustin' Andy Shehan, the dhriver. May be 'tis betther I'd thravel on afther him?'

"''Deed an' 'deed, I think so,' sez Maurice. 'An' take this kay along wid ye, Tim,' sez he, 'an' sarch if the things isn't spirited away, or smashed up enthirely. An', Tim,' sez he, 'there's a letther of interjuckshin in the thrunk which I want yees to deliver at wanst, for fear the ould squireen'll be onaisey, as he expected me the day. An', Tim,' sez he, lowerin' his voice, 'I'll be plased if ye'll take it to Carrigathroid yerself, an' see if Miss Norah is half so purty an' good as fadher sez she is.'

"'Why wouldn't she be,' sez Tim, 'if the masther sez so?'

"'Throth an' I dun 'no',' sez Maurice; 'but I'd like to larn that aforehand from yer own lips, Tim, avick.'

"'Faix, that's aisey enough, I does be thinkin',' sez Tim. 'You folly afther as quick as ye can, Misther Maurice; an', in the mane time,' sez he, 'I'll pay my respicts to the family.'

"So, wid that, they took lave of one another, an' Tim thravelled on to the town where the young masther's thrunk wor left, a bit mile or so from O'Brien's, of Carrigathroid.

"'Where's the thrunk as wor left here by Andy Shehan?' sez he to the woman of the stage-house.

"'Up stairs,' sez she, 'all safe an' sound.'

"'I'll see that,' sez he. An' up stairs he goes an' opens the thrunk, an' looks over the clo'es, an' the dimont pins, and the goold watch, an' the chains an' rings galore; an', sure enough, they wor all there nate an' nice, as Ally Bawn said when the six childher fell into the saft of the bog. Oh, murther, but now comes the sthrangest part of the sthory. When Tim seen the things forenent him, an' how b'utyful they wor, he begins to wondher how he'd look in thim; an' thin he looks at his own coorse clothes, all plasthered and besmudthered over wid the dirthy wather of the road.

"'How will I carry the masther's letther to the big house, an' I lookin' for all the wureld like a dirthy bogthrotter?' sez he. 'Sure I'd be shamefaced to show myself in dacent company. 'Tis a mighty fine thing to be a jintleman,' sez he, lookin' at the thrunk ag'in. 'Oh, but thim's the grand coats, an' pantalloons, an' goolden things,' sez he; 'sure, I thinks the likes of 'em wor niver seed afore. May be,' sez he, coagitatin' the matther—'may be Misther Maurice wouldn't be onaisey if I loaned thim of him for a bit while, ispishilly as it's his sarvice that I'll be on. Sure, 'tis no harum to thry if they fits me,' sez he. An', begorra, afore he know'd it, he wor dhressed in thim b'utyful garmints, an' lookin' grander nor iver he did in his mortial life. Prisently, he flings back the dure, an' discinds the stairs wid all the goold chains a danglin' about his neck, an' wid a fine goold watch fasthened by a raal dimont pin to the breast of his flowery silk weskit: 'For,' sez he, 'sure they wouldn't know I had sich purty things, if I didn't show thim.'

"'Oh, but it does my heart good to see sich a han'some jintleman!' sez the misthress of the house, makin' a low curchey. 'Didn't I know,' sez she, 'yer honnor wor the raal quality the minnit I seen the shine of yer face at the dure. Indade, an' faix, it's the thruth I'm sayin', plase goodness.'

"'Arrah, now, be done wid yer blarney,' sez Tim, flourishin' a white han'kercher as wor sthronger wid sint nor a flower-garden. 'Don't conthaminate yer centhrifujals bu spakin' so odoriferously,' sez he; 'but tell me, like the dacent woman ye are, where'll I sarch for a barber?'

"'That's aisey,' sez she; 'for sure there's wan next dure to the corner.'

"So, wid that, out goes Tim, houldin' up his pantaloons wid both hands to keep thim clane, an' prisently he steps in at the barber's shop as bould as a lord.

"'Barber!' sez he.

"'Sir,' sez a little thin-shanked man.

"'Shave me,' sez Tim, settin' hisself down in the big chair, while the little man wor sthrappin' away at the razhier. 'Aisey, my good man,' sez Tim, 'an' cut the stubble clane.'

"'Oh, I'll do that same,' sez the barber. 'Be du husht, av ye plase.' An', afore Tim could say Larry Houlaghan, his beard wor off.

"'Barber,' sez Tim.

"'Sir,' sez the little man.

"'Frizzle my head,' sez Tim.

"An', widout any ghosther at all, the spry little man pokes a long iron thing into the fire.

"'Oh, murther!' sez Tim. 'What's that?'

"'Thim's the curlin'-tongs,' sez the barber.

"'Oh,' sez the cunnin' Tim, turnin' up his nose, 'thim's the ould time fashion. May be ye niver seen the frizzlin' insthrument they use in forrin parts?'

"'Sorra one have I seed, barrin' the masheen in my hand,' sez the barber.

"''Tworn't to be expected of yees, in this outlandish place,' sez Tim.

"'Hould still, if ye pl'ase,' sez the barber, takin' a grip of his hair.

"'Ouch!' sez Tim. 'L'ave me go, will yees? By japurs, but 'tis pullin' all my hair off ye are!'

"''Tisn't likely I'd do that, wid my exparience,' sez the little man. 'Sure, many's the quality I've dhressed the heads of in my day.' An', wid that, he saizes hould of another lock of hair, an' gives it a grip and a twist.

"'Tundher an' turf!' sez Tim, startin' up in a mighty big passion. 'Would ye burn my head aff afore my eyes? 'Tisn't a stuck pig I am that ye're singein' for bacon,' sez he.

"'Musha, thin, but that's thrue, anyhow,' sez the barber. An' on he wint, frizzlin' first one side and thin the other, till, by an' by, Tim's head wor all over corkskrews, like a haythen naygur's.

"'How will I look?' sez Tim, goin' to a glass. 'Augh! millia! murther! 'Tisn't my own face that I see yondher?'

"''Deed but it is,' sez the barber.

"'Oh, wirrasthrue!' sez Tim, wringin' his hands. 'What'll I do? 'Tis ruinashin'd I am, clane out an' inthirely! I'll be mistakin' myself for a sthranger!'

"'Yea, thin,' sez the little man, 'there's no denyin' but yees wondherfully improved in apparence.'

"'Botherashin!' sez Tim; 'but how will I raycognize myself, I'd like to know?'

"Sure, but he had the throubled look whin he mounted his horse; but, by the time he got to Carrigathroid, his spirits came back agin, an' he fasthens the baste to the swingin' bough of a three, an' steps up to the dure an' knocks as bould as Joolyus Saizer.

"'Hallo! House! Whoop!'

"'What's the matther, my good man?' sez a sarvant, answerin' the dure.

"'Matther?' sez Tim. 'Plinty's the matther. Here's a letther for Misther O'Brien, wid the respicts of the owner.'

"'Yer name, sir, if ye pl'ase,' sez the man.

"'Tell him Misther Sullivan sint it,' sez Tim.

"'Oh!' sez the man, makin' a low bow. 'Obleege me by walkin' in; ye're expicted.'

"An', wid that, he marches on afore, Tim followin' afther, an' flings open the dure of a grand room all blazin' wid light, an' sings out—

"'Misther Sullivan!'

"'Oh, murther!' sez Tim to hisself. ''Tis changed I am by that frizzlin' barbarian!'

"'Ah, my young fri'nd,' sez Misther O'Brien, takin' him by the hand, ''tis pl'ased I am to see ye the day! Let me presint ye to my daughther. Norah, mavourneen, this is Misther Maurice Sullivan.'

"'Och, the beauty of the wureld!' sez Tim, quite flusthrated. 'Call me Delaney, av ye pl'ase.'

"'Ah, I undherstand,' sez the ould squireen, wid a smile. 'The Delaneys is yer relashins.'

"Troth, an' indade they are,' sez Tim.

"'Thim's good blood, I does be thinkin',' sez the squireen.

"'Sorra betther to be found anywhere,' sez Tim.

"'I beg yer pardin, 'tis standin' ye are the while,' sez the ould jintleman. 'Will ye take a sate on the ottimin?'

"'Sure, 'tisn't the grand Turkey ye mane?' sez Tim, gettin' frikened.

"'Oh no,' sez the ould jintleman; ''tis the fine flahool stool standin' forenenst ye.'

"'Ayeh!' sez Tim. 'The ould name's the betther.'

"May be so,' sez the squireen, puttin' on his specktickles, an' starin' at Tim as if he wor a wild baste. An' sorry I am to tell ye that purty Miss Norah likewise hadn't no betther manners, but set starin' too at the bouchal wid her great black eyes.

"'What's the matther?' sez Tim, as red as a b'iled lobsther. 'Isn't it all right?'

"'How will I know?' sez the squireen.

"'Och! och!' sez Tim, 'why did I make a "behay" of myself? Blessin's on yer darlin' face!' sez he, turnin' to Miss Norah; 'an' may goodness purtect ye! an' the daisies grow up under yer purty feet! an' may all the fairies in Ireland bring good luck to ye, an' a dale of it! But oh, be pl'ased to take pity on a poor boy as is quite dumbfounder'd at yer b'utyful countenance, and burnt into ashes by the blaze from yer eyes! An' now don't be afther colloguing wid the ould man that a way, an' I kep' in the dark, like Shaun Dooley, the blind fiddler.'

"'Indade, an' in throth, 'tis very mystharious,' sez Miss Norah, whisperin' to the fadher. ''Tisn't the first ha'porth of manners the crayther has. Sure I am I'll not like him, any way.'

"'L'ave him to me,' sez the ould man. 'May be he's betther nor he seems. Get ye gone, acushla, an' ordher Michael to bring up a pitcher of st'amin' hot potheen; that's the raal stuff to bring out a man's charackther. Misther Sullivan,' sez he, as the daughther disapp'ared—'Misther Sullivan'——

"'Delaney, av ye pl'ase,' sez Tim.

"'I beg yer pardin, Misther Delaney Sullivan. May I be so bould, an' m'anin' no offince, as to be axin' ye what makes ye carry all thim goold chains, an' the han'some goold watch, an' the dimont pin, in sich a sthrange way?'

"'Oh,' sez Tim, mightily relaved, an' pokin' the ould man for fun undher the fifth rib, ''tis there ye are! Sure, 'tis raisonable,' sez he, 'a young jintleman should folly the fashi'ns.'

"'Oh,' sez the squireen, 'an' thim's the fashi'ns, is they?'

"'What 'u'd they be good for, if they worn't?' sez Tim.

"'Faix, nothin' at all, I b'lieve,' sez the squireen. 'Whin did ye l'ave home, Misther Sullivan?' sez he.

"'Delaney, av ye pl'ase.'

"'Blur an' agars!' sez the ould man, 'don't I know that, Misther Delaney Sullivan?'

"'Well,' sez Tim to hisself, ''tis no matther. Any way, I'll be kilt an' transported, whin Masther Maurice comes. Sure, if he will parsist in callin' me Sullivan, 'tisn't good manners to conthradict him.'

"'An' how did ye l'ave the family?' sez the squireen.

"'Well an' hearty,' sez Tim; 'wid no sarious disordher, barrin' the loss of a suckin' pig wid the maisles.'

"'A suckin' pig in the family!' sez the ould man. 'A suckin' pig, did ye say? Sure, thim's not human.'

"'Och! what'll I be sayin' wid the grate blisther on my tongue? Sure, tworn't any pig at all, at all. 'Twas the babby wid the shmallpox.'

"'The shmallpox!' shrieks the squireen. 'Oh, be aff wid ye! Don't come a near me! I'm frikened to death a'ready!'

"'Millia murther!' sez Tim. 'I'll be beside myself prisintly. I don't mane the shmallpox, nor the childher. Where 'u'd they come from, I'd like to know? But the docther—no, I don't mane that—the masther—no, not the masther—the weeny. Arrah, botherashin to me, I'd be obleeged to ye if ye'd tell me what I mane; for, 'deed an' 'deed, the beauty of the young lady has put the comether on my sinses enthirely!'

"'Faix, I b'lieve so,' sez the squireen. 'But here comes the potheen,' sez he; 'an' 'tis the sovre'nst thing in the wureld for a crooked tongue.'

"'Mostha, but it's the raal stuff, too!' sez Tim, takin' a long pull at the noggin, an' smackin' his lips.

"'An' so ye left the ould folk quite well?' sez the squireen.

"'Brave an' hearty,' sez Tim. 'The ould man wor br'akin' stones to mend the pike wid, an' the ould mother wor knittin' new heels to an ould pair of Connemara stockin's.'

"'I'm t'undhersthruck!' sez Misther O'Brien. To think that the blood of the Sullivans should demane thimselves by br'akin' stones for a road an' patchin' stockin's!'

"'Thim's figgers of spache,' sez Tim. 'Sure, I mane shuperintindin' of thim.'

"'Throth, it's hard to tell what ye mane, Misther Delaney Sullivan,' sez the squireen. 'A young jintleman as is college-bred shouldn't condiscend to quare figgers the likes o' thim. An' now I'll be pl'ased to have a taste of yer larnin'.'

"'Sure, it 'u'd nayther be dacent, nor proper, nor expadient, in one of my birth an' breedin', to show off my parts upon a jintleman of your wondherful sagashity. The natheral modesty that is the predominatin' trait in my charackther won't let me. Thim as is my aquils has acknowledged my shupariority; an' the masther hisself couldn't folly me in the langwidges, an' the humanities, an' in single an' double fluckshins, to say nothing of my extinsive ackwiremints in algebrayickal mattymattocks, an' the other parts of profane histhory of a similar cognashus charackther.'

"'Spake plainer,' sez the squireen, 'for ye does be puzzlin' me wid the hard words as seems to have no sinse in 'em.'

"'I'd be bothered to find it if they did,' sez Tim, slyly, to hisself. But he sez to the squireen, sez he, 'How will I diffinitively expurgate the profound m'anin' of the anshint frelosophers widout smudherin' ye wid the classicalities? Isn't it the big words as makes the l'arnin'? Axin' yer pardin, Misther O'Brien, but 'tis well beknownst to a jintleman of your exthraordinary mintal an' quizzical fackilties that the consthruction of the words consthitutes the differ of langwidges, of which pothooks an' hangers is the ilimints.'

"'Bedad, but there's some thruth in that,' sez the squireen, 'barrin' the manner of expressin' it.'

"'Arrah, thin,' sez Tim, 'I'm pl'ased to hear ye say so; an', if it's agreeable to yees, we'll dhrop the discourse for the prisint. To tell ye the blessed thruth, Misther O'Brien, 'tis dead bate wid the long thravel I am, an', wid your permission, I'll be bould to throuble yer sarvint to fling me a clane lock o' sthraw in one corner of yer honor's kitchen for the night.'

"Oh, but may be the ould squireen didn't stare at Tim wid all his eyes in raal arnest, thin—

"'Sthraw!' sez he. 'Do ye take this for a boccoch's shealin'? Well, I must say, Misther Delaney Sullivan,' sez he, 'that, for a jintleman's son, born an' brid, 'tis monsthrous quare ways ye have.' An', wid that, he rings for the futman, an' tells him to show Tim to bed. 'I'll be wantin', Misther Sullivan, to spake the sarious word wid ye the morrow morn,' sez the ould man, dhrawin' hisself up grand like; 'for, on my conscience, there's many things about ye as does be puzzlin' me exthramely.'

"''Tis no matther,' sez Tim to hisself, follyin' afther the sarvint. 'Sure, I'm in for it now, anyhow. Ayeh! is thim the stairs? Musha, thin, but 'tis wide enough they are for a drove of fat cattle. Hould on a bit, will ye, or I'll be fallin' over the ballisthers. I wonder where thim crass passiges lades too beyant? Sure, I'd give all I'll be like to have in the wureld to quit the place. Och, Tim Delaney, 'tis a bad ind ye're comin' to wid settin' yerself up for a jintleman; an', begorra, if the young masther murdhers ye enthirely, it sarves ye right, any way, an' that's no lie.'

"'Will ye be pl'ased to inter?' sez the sarvint, throwin' open the dure of a big room, where the windys wor all ornaminted wid b'utyful curt'ins, an' likewise the grate bed wid goold angels at the corners of the posts, lettin' alone the fringes an' the tassels, an' many other b'utyful things too tadious to mintion.

"'Och,' sez Tim, 'is that my bid? How will I git in widout tumblin' myself on the flure? Thim steps, did ye mane? Arrah, now, have done wid yer nonsince! Sure, I niver heard of goin' to bid wid a step-laddher afore.'

"'Thim's the fashi'n,' sez the futman.

"'To the divil wid the fashi'n!' sez Tim. 'What are ye laughin' at, ye ugly spalpeen? L'ave the light, an' go. Oh, murther!' sez Tim, whin he was all alone by hisself. 'If I wor out of this scrape, a thousand goold guineas wouldn't timpt me to do the likes agin.'

"An', wid that, he sarches the windys, manein' to make his escape, but they wor too high; an' thin he opens the dure saftly an' looks into the passiges, but they twisted all about, so he didn't dare to thry thim for fear they would be afther takin' him for a robber; so, wid many muttherin's an' moanin's, he lays hisself down on the bid wid all his clothes on, an', by an' by, falls into a throubled sleep.

"Well, all this time, ye may be sure young Masther Maurice wor not lettin' the grass grow undher his feet. So, whin he had bought the land, he takes a fresh baste an' hurries afther Tim. By hard ridin' he got to the town late that same night; an', whin he l'arned that Tim wor gone up to Carrigathroid all cock-a-hoop in his own fine clo'es an' jooels, he flies into a tearin' passion, and makes bould to ride over at wanst. As it happened, the squireen an' Miss Norah wor still up, for the raal genteels do kape mighty late hours; and so it worn't long afore he makes hisself beknownst to the ould jintleman an' his daughther, an' up an' tells 'em his sthory. Oh, but thin they all laughed more nor iver they did in their born days afore; more by token that the squireen wor glad to have a disilushin of the mysthery, an' Miss Norah bein' aiquilly pl'ased to find the thrue Masther Maurice wid the best quality manners, an', at the same time, so mortial han'some.

"'An' now,' sez Maurice, 'what'll I do wid that rogue of a Tim?'

"'L'ave him to me,' sez the squireen, wid a knowin' wink. 'Myself bein' a justus-o'-p'ace, a good frikenin' 'll be of sarvice to the saucy Omadhaun. But we'll say no more till the morn,' sez he; 'an', in the mane time, we'll thry an' find ye a supper an' a bed.'

"Well, to be sure, bright an' airly, while Tim wor tossin' an' tumblin' about in his fine flahool bid, an' dhramin' of witches, an' spooks, an' leprawhauns, an' even of the ould bouchal hisself, there's comes a t'undherin' whack at his dure; an', prisintly, in walks four sthrappin' fellows right to his bedside.

"'What's wantin'?' sez Tim, settin' boult up, wid his curly hair all untwistin' itself an' standin' on end like a porkepine's. 'Is it lookin' for me ye are?'

"'Troth, but ye're a quick hand at guessin',' sez the biggest man. 'Where's yer masther, ye thafe of the wureld? Tell me that.'

"'Oh, murther!' sez Tim. 'It's all out!'

"'Sure, he confisses it a'ready,' sez another. 'Bring him along, Tony.'

"'Confisses what?' sez Tim, wid his face as white as the bed-hangin's. 'Confisses what? Spake out, will ye?'

"'The murther!' sez Tony. 'Isn't thim his clo'es ye're wearin' now?'

"'Murther? Och! ochone! ochone!' sez Tim, wringin' his hands. 'That I iver lived to see this day! An' is the young masther dead? Why, thin, upon my oath an' my conscience, I niver had a hand in it! Sure, 'tis well the darlin' knowed I'd lay down my life for him. Oh, jintlemen, take pity on a poor innocent boy that's in the black throuble, an' all bekase he put on the young masther's things for a bit of spoort!'

"'An' a purty spoort ye'll find it,' sez the futman, for be sure he wor one of thim. 'But here comes Misther O'Brien.'

"'Stand aside, all of yees, an' let me look at the thraitor!' sez the squireen, burstin' into the room. 'Oh, 'tis there ye are, ye villin, wid yer mattymattox an' yer single an' double fluxshins. Saize him, men, wid a sthrong grip, an' bring him to the hall. 'Tis well myself's a magisther, an' can set upon the case at wanst.'

"'Oh, Misther O'Brien,' sez Tim, dhroppin' on his knees, ''tis innocent I am the day! I'll tell ye about it. You see, the young masther an' I'——

"'Isn't thim his clo'es?" sez the squireen.

"'Ayeh, but that's thrue. Let me tell ye, an' hear r'ason. The young masther an' I'——

"'Kape yer sthories to yerself,' sez the squireen, puttin' on a black frown. 'Why would I listen to yer diabolickle invintions whin thim things is witness agin ye? Hould him fast, boys, an' off wid him. May be I won't live to hang him, afther all.'

"'Help! help! murther!' sez Tim, sthrugglin' wid all the power that wor in him. 'I didn't do it! It's clane hands I have! I won't be murthered! L'ave me go, I say! What 'u'd ye hang a poor innocent for? Murther! murther!'

"All at wanst, as he wor skreekin' and kickin', who should walk in from behind the dure but Misther Maurice an' Miss Norah.

"'Whoop! whoroo!' sez Tim. 'There's the young masther now! Hands off wid ye! Don't ye see him wid Miss Norah?'

"'Hould on a minnit, men,' sez the squireen. 'May be 'tis a mistake, afther all. Is that young jintleman Misther Sullivan?'

"'Oh, to be sure it is,' sez Tim. 'Who else 'u'd it be, I'd like to know? Misther Maurice! Maurice, achorra, spake to thim, av ye pl'ase, an' tell thim it's yerself that I see.'

"'Why will I do that?' sez the young jintleman, laughin'. 'Sure, 'twould be wastin' my breath, an' they knowin' it a'ready.'

"'Oh, murther! see that now!' sez Tim. 'An' they a frikenin' me out of my siven sinses all the while. Ayeh! Maurice a vick, but I forgive ye the bad thrick yees played me the day.'

"'Musha, thin, an' thank ye for nothin',' sez Maurice; 'for I does be thinkin' that 'tis yerself, Tim, as is to blame, seein' the fine clo'es on yer back.'

"'Yea, thin,' sez the squireen, burstin' into a great laugh, ''twore hisself, sure enough, as played the bould thrick, an' bothered me all out wid his single an' his double fluxshins; but, bedad, if the thrick wor in his hands last night, sure he'll confiss I trumped it dacently this mornin'.'"

BY H. H., M. D.