Seated in this clear-obscure of domestic light—­which, after all, gives the heart a finer and more touching notion of enjoyment than the glitter of the theatre or the blaze of the saloon—­might be found first, Andy Morrow,* the juryman of the quarter-sessions, sage and important in the consciousness of legal knowledge, and somewhat dictatorial withal in its application to such knotty points as arose out of the subjects of their nocturnal debates.  Secondly, Bob Gott, who filled the foreign and military departments, and related the wonderful history of the ghost which appeared to him on the night after the battle of Bunker’s-hill.  To him succeeded Tom M’Roarkin, the little asthmatic anecdotarian of half the country,—­remarkable for chuckling at his own stories.  Then came old M’Kinny, poacher and horse-jockey; little, squeaking, thin-faced Alick M’Kinley, a facetious farmer of substance; and Shane Fadh, who handed down, traditions and fairy tales.  Enthroned on one hob sat Pat Frayne, the schoolmaster 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.”