“How long have you been here,” asked the other.

“I’ve been laborin’ for the master goin’ on fourteen years; but I’m only about twelve months attendin’ table.”

“How long has your fellow-servant—­Peggy, I think, you call her—­been here?”

“Not long.”

“Where had she been before, do you know.”

“Do I know, is it?  Maybe ’tis you may say that.”

“What do you mean?  I don’t understand you.”

“I know that well enough, and it is n’t my intention you should.”

“In what family was she at service.”

“Whisper;—­in a bad family, wid one exception.  God protect her, the darlin’.  Amin! A wurra yeelsh! may the curse that’s hanging over him never fall upon her this day!”

A kind and complacent spirit beamed in the fine eyes of the stranger, as the waiter uttered these benevolent invocations; and, putting his hand in his pocket, he said,

“My good friend Paudeen, I am richer than you are disposed to give me credit for; I see you are a good-hearted fellow, and here’s a crown for you.”

“No! consumin’ to the farden, till I know whether you’re able to afford it or not.  It’s always them that has least of it, unfortunately, that’s readiest to give it.  I have known many a foolish creature to do what you are doing, when, if the truth was known, they could badly spare it; but, at any rate, wait till I deserve it; for, upon my reputaytion, I won’t finger a testher of it sooner.”

He then withdrew, and left the other to finish his dinner as best he might.

For the next three or four days the stranger confined himself mostly to his room, unless about dusk, when he glided out very quietly, and disappeared rather like a spirit than anything else; for, in point of fact, no one could tell what had become of him, or where he could have concealed himself, during these brief but mysterious absences.  Paudeen Gair and Peggy observed that he wrote at least three or four letters every day, and knew that he must have put them into the post-office with his own hands, inasmuch as no person connected with the inn had been employed for that purpose.

On the fourth day, after breakfast, and as Pat Sharpe—­by which version of his name he was sometimes addressed—­was about to take away the things, his guest entered into conversation with him as follows: 

“Paudeen, my good friend, can you tell me where the wild, ragged fellow, called Fenton, could be found?”

“I can, sir.  Fenton?  Begorra, you’d hardly know him if you seen him; he’s as smooth as a new pin—­has a plain, daicent suit o’ clothes on him.  It’s whispered about among us this long time, that, if he had his rights, he’d be entitled to a great property; and some people say now that he has come into a part of it.”

“And pray, what else do they say of him?”

“Wiry, then, I heard Father M’Mahon himself say that he had great learnin’, an’ must a’ had fine broughten-up, an’ could, act the real gintleman whenever he wished.”