“You all remimber Torn Hance, that kept the public-house at Tullyvernon cross-roads, a little above the.  Squire’s—­at laste, most of you do—­and ould Willy Butledge, the fiddler, that spint his time between Tom’s and the big house—­God,be good to Wilty!—­it’s himself was the droll man entirely:  he died of ating boiled banes, for a wager that the Squire laid on him agin ould Captain Mint, and dhrinking porter after them till he was swelled like a tun; but the Squire berried him at his own expense.  Well, Larry’s haunt, on finding Sally out when he came home, was either at the Squire’s kitchen, or Tom Hance’s; and as he was the broth of a boy at dancing, the sarvints, when he’d go down, would send for Wilty to Hance’s, if he didn’t happen to be with themselves at the time, and strike up a dance in the kitchen; and, along with all, may be Larry would have a sup in his head.

“When Sally would come home, in her turn, she’d not find Larry before her; but Larry’s custom was to go in to Tom’s wife, and say,—­’Biddy, tell Sally, when she comes home, that I’m gone down awhile to the big house (or to Tom Hance’s, as it might be), but I’ll not be long.’  Sally, after waiting awhile, would put on her cloak, and slip down to see what was keeping him.  Of course, when finding the sport going on, and carrying a light heel at the dance herself, she’d throw off the cloak, and take a hand at it along with the rest.  Larry and she would then go their ways home, find the fire out, light a sod of turf in Tom’s, and feeling their own place very cowld and naked, after the blazing comfortable fire they had left behind them, go to bed, both in very middling spirits entirely.

“Larry, at other times, would quit his work early in the evening, to go down towards the Squire’s, bekase he had only to begin work earlier the next day to make it up.  He’d meet the Squire himself, may be, and, after putting his hand to his hat, and getting a ‘how do you do, Larry,’ from his honor, enter into discoorse with him about his honor’s plan of stacking his corn.  Now, Larry was famous at this.

“‘Who’s to build your stacks this saison, your honor?’

“‘Tim Dillon, Larry.’

“’Is it he, your honor?—­he knows as much about building a stack of corn as Mas-ther George, here.  He’ll only botch them, sir, if you let him go about them.’

“‘Yes;’ but what can I do, Larry?  He’s the only man I have that I could trust them to.’

“’Then it’s your honor needn’t say that anyhow; for rather then see them spoiled, I’d come down myself and put them up for you.’

“‘Oh, I couldn’t expect that, Larry.’

“Why, then, I’ll do it, your honor; and you may expect, me down in the morning at six o’clock, plase God.’