myself, and I was able to take the hand which she offered me without coming round into the middle of the circle.  Mrs. O’Conor was a little woman, apparently not of much importance in the world, but, if one might judge from first appearance, very good-natured.

“And my aunt Die, Mr. Green,” said Kate, pointing to a very straight-backed, grim-looking lady, who occupied a corner of a sofa, on the opposite side of the hearth.  I knew that politeness required that I should walk across the room and make acquaintance with her.  But under the existing circumstances how was I to obey the dictates of politeness?  I was determined therefore to stand my ground, and merely bowed across the room at Miss O’Conor.  In so doing I made an enemy who never deserted me during the whole of my intercourse with the family.  But for her, who knows who might have been sitting opposite to me as I now write?

“Upon my word, Mr. Green, the ladies will expect much from an Adonis who takes so long over his toilet,” said Tom O’Conor in that cruel tone of banter which he knew so well how to use.

“You forget, father, that men in London can’t jump in and out of their clothes as quick as we wild Irishmen,” said Jack.

“Mr. Green knows that we expect a great deal from him this evening.  I hope you polk well, Mr. Green,” said Kate.

I muttered something about never dancing, but I knew that that which I said was inaudible.

“I don’t think Mr. Green will dance,” said Tizzy; “at least not much.”  The impudence of that child was, I think, unparalleled by any that I have ever witnessed.

“But in the name of all that’s holy, why don’t we have dinner?”  And Mr. O’Conor thundered at the door.  “Larry, Larry, Larry!” he screamed.

“Yes, yer honer, it’ll be all right in two seconds,” answered Larry, from some bottomless abyss.  “Tare an’ ages; what’ll I do at all,” I heard him continuing, as he made his way into the hall.  Oh what a clatter he made upon the pavement,—for it was all stone!  And how the drops of perspiration stood upon my brow as I listened to him!

And then there was a pause, for the man had gone into the dining-room.  I could see now that Mr. O’Conor was becoming very angry, and Jack the eldest son—oh, how often he and I have laughed over all this since—left the drawing-room for the second time.  Immediately afterwards Larry’s footsteps were again heard, hurrying across the hall, and then there was a great slither, and an exclamation, and the noise of a fall—and I could plainly hear poor Larry’s head strike against the stone floor.

“Ochone, ochone!” he cried at the top of his voice—“I’m murthered with ’em now intirely; and d— ’em for boots—St. Peter be good to me.”

There was a general rush into the hall, and I was carried with the stream.  The poor fellow who had broken his head would be sure to tell how I had robbed him of his shoes.  The coachman was already helping him up, and Peter good-naturedly lent a hand.

“What on earth is the matter?” said Mr. O’Conor.

“He must be tipsy,” whispered Miss O’Conor, the maiden sister.

“I aint tipsy at all thin,” said Larry, getting up and rubbing the back of his head, and sundry other parts of his body.  “Tipsy indeed!”  And then he added when he was quite upright, “The dinner is sarved—at last.”

And he bore it all without telling!  “I’ll give that fellow a guinea to-morrow morning,” said I to myself—“if it’s the last that I have in the world.”

I shall never forget the countenance of the Miss O’Conors as Larry scrambled up cursing the unfortunate boots—“What on earth has he got on?” said Mr. O’Conor.

“Sorrow take ’em for shoes,” ejaculated Larry.  But his spirit was good and he said not a word to betray me.

We all then went in to dinner how we best could.  It was useless for us to go back into the drawing-room, that each might seek his own partner.  Mr. O’Conor “the masther,” not caring much for the girls who were around him, and being already half beside himself with the confusion and delay, led the way by himself.  I as a stranger should have given my arm to Mrs. O’Conor; but as it was I took her eldest daughter instead, and contrived to shuffle along into the dining-room without exciting much attention, and when there I found myself happily placed between Kate and Fanny.

“I never knew anything so awkward,” said Fanny; “I declare I can’t conceive what has come to our old servant Larry.  He’s generally the most precise person in the world, and now he is nearly an hour late—and then he tumbles down in the hall.”

“I am afraid I am responsible for the delay,” said I.

“But not for the tumble I suppose,” said Kate from the other side.  I felt that I blushed up to the eyes, but I did not dare to enter into explanations.

“Tom,” said Tizzy, addressing her father across the table, “I hope you had a good run to-day.”  It did seem odd to me that young lady should call her father Tom, but such was the fact.

“Well; pretty well,” said Mr. O’Conor.

“And I hope you were up with the hounds.”

“You may ask Mr. Green that.  He at any rate was with them, and therefore he can tell you.”

“Oh, he wasn’t before you, I know.  No Englishman could get before you;—I am quite sure of that.”

“Don’t you be impertinent, miss,” said Kate.  “You can easily see, Mr. Green, that papa spoils my sister Eliza.”

“Do you hunt in top-boots, Mr. Green?” said Tizzy.

To this I made no answer.  She would have drawn me into a conversation about my feet in half a minute, and the slightest allusion to the subject threw me into a fit of perspiration.

“Are you fond of hunting, Miss O’Conor?” asked I, blindly hurrying into any other subject of conversation.

Miss O’Conor owned that she was fond of hunting—just a little; only papa would not allow it.  When the hounds met anywhere within reach of Castle Conor, she and Kate would ride out to look at them; and if papa was not there that day,—an omission of rare occurrence,—they would ride a few fields with the hounds.

“But he lets Tizzy keep with them the whole day,” said she, whispering.

“And has Tizzy a pony of her own?”

“Oh yes, Tizzy has everything.  She’s papa’s pet, you know.”

“And whose pet are you?” I asked.

“Oh—I am nobody’s pet, unless sometimes Jack makes a pet of me when he’s in a good humour.  Do you make pets of your sisters, Mr. Green?”

“I have none.  But if I had I should not make pets of them.”

“Not of your own sisters?”

“No.  As for myself, I’d sooner make a pet of my friend’s sister; a great deal.”

“How very unnatural,” said Miss O’Conor, with the prettiest look of surprise imaginable.

“Not at all unnatural I think,” said I, looking tenderly and lovingly into her face.  Where does one find girls so pretty, so easy, so sweet, so talkative as the Irish girls?  And then with all their talking and all their ease who ever hears of their misbehaving?  They certainly love flirting, as they also love dancing.  But they flirt without mischief and without malice.

I had now quite forgotten my misfortune, and was beginning to think how well I should like to have Fanny O’Conor for my wife.  In this frame of mind I was bending over towards her as a servant took away a plate from the other side, when a sepulchral note sounded in my ear.  It was like the memento mori of the old Roman;—as though some one pointed in the midst of my bliss to the sword hung over my head by a thread.  It was the voice of Larry, whispering in his agony just above my head—

“They’s disthroying my poor feet intirely, intirely; so they is!  I can’t bear it much longer, yer honer.”  I had committed murder like Macbeth; and