“Then, in that case,” said he, “I will be your guest for the night.”

Shane Fadh now took courage to repeat the story of old Squire Graham and his horse with the loose shoe; informing the stranger, at the same time, of the singular likeness which he bore to the subject of the story, both in face and size, and dwelling upon the remarkable coincidence in the time and manner of his approach.

“Tut, man!” said the stranger, “a far more extraordinary adventure happened to one of my father’s tenants, which, if none of you have any objection, I will relate.”

There was a buzz of approbation at this; and they all thanked his honor, expressing the strongest desire to hear his story.  He was just proceeding to gratify them, when another rap came to the door, and, before any of the inmates had time to open it, Father Ned Deleery and his curate made their appearance, having been on their way home from a conference held in the town of ——­, eighteen miles from the scene of our present story.

It may be right here to inform the reader, that about two hundred yards from Ned’s home stood a place of Roman Catholic worship, called “the Forth,"* from the resemblance it bore to the Forts or Baths, so common in Ireland.  It was a small green, perfectly circular, and about twenty yards in diameter.  Around it grew a row of old overspreading hawthorns, whose branches formed a canopy that almost shaded it from sun and storm.  Its area was encompassed by tiers of seats, one raised above another, and covered with the flowery grass.  On these the congregation used to sit—­the young men chatting or ogling their sweethearts on the opposite side; the old ones in little groups, discussing the politics of the day, as retailed by Mick M’Caffry.** the politician; while, up near the altar, hemmed in by a ring of old men and women, you might perceive a voteen, repeating some new prayer or choice piece of devotion—­or some other, in a similar circle, perusing, in a loud voice.  Dr. Gallagher’s Irish Sermons, Pastorini’s History of the Christian Church, or Columbkill’s Prophecy—­and, perhaps, a strolling pilgrim, the centre of a third collection, singing the Dies irae, in Latin, or the Hermit of Killarney, in English.

     * This very beautiful but simple place of worship does not
     now exist.  On its site is now erected a Roman Catholic
     chapel.

     ** Mick was also a schoolmaster, and the most celebrated
     village politician of his day.  Every Sunday found him
     engaged as in the text.

At the extremity of this little circle was a plain altar of wood, covered with a little thatched shed, under which the priest celebrated mass; but before the performance of this ceremony, a large multitude usually assembled opposite Ned’s shop-door, at the cross-roads.  This crowd consisted of such as wanted to buy tobacco, candles, soap, potash, and such other groceries as the peasantry remote from market-towns require.  After mass, the public-house was filled to the door-posts, with those who wished to get a sample of Nancy’s Iska-behagh* and many a time has little Father Ned himself, of a frosty day, after having performed mass with a celerity highly agreeable to his auditory, come in to Nancy, nearly frost-bitten, to get his breakfast, and a toothful of mountain dew to drive the cold out of his stomach.