succeed with the sex, was properly appreciated by them, and that his falsehood, flattery, and assurance were virtues which enshrined the vagabond in their hearts.  In short, he had got the character of being a rake; and he was necessarily obliged to suffer the agreeable penalty of their admiration and favor in consequence.  The fellow besides, was by no means ill-looking, nor ill-made, but just had enough of that kind of face and figure which no one can readily either find fault with or praise.

This gallant and Sally M’Gowan, were in fact, the life of the meeting; and Sally, besides, had the reputation of being a great favorite with him—­a circumstance which considerably diminished her popularity with her own sex.  She herself felt towards him that kind of wild, indomitable affection, which is as vehement as it is unregulated in such minds as hers.  For instance, she made no secret of her attachment to him, but on the contrary, gloried in it, even to her father, who, on this subject, could exercise no restraint whatsoever over her.  It is not our intention to entertain our readers with the history of the occurrences which took place at the dance, as they are, in fact, not worth recording.  Hanlon, at its close, prepared to see Sally home, as is usual.

“You may come with me near home,” she replied; “but I’m not goin’ home to-night.”

“Why, where the dickens are you goin’ then?” he asked.

“To Barny Gorrnly’s wake; there ’ill be lots of fun there, too,” she replied.  “But come—­you can come wid me as far as the turn-up to the house; for I won’t go in, nor go home neither, till afther the berril, tomorrow.”

“Do you know,” said he, rather gravely, “the Grey Stone that’s at the mouth of the Black Glen?”

“I ought,” said she; “sure that’s where the carman was found murdhered.”

“The same,” added Hanlon.  “Well, I must go that far to-night,” said he.

“And that’s jist where I turn off to the Gormly’s.”

“So far, then, we’ll be together,” he replied.

“But why that far only, Charley—­eh?”

“That’s what you could never guess,” said he, “and very few else aither; but go I must, an’ go I will.  At all events, I’ll be company for you in passin’ it.  Are you never afeard at night, as you go near it?”

“Divil a taste,” she replied; “what ’ud I be afeard of? my father laughs at sich things; although,” she added, musing, “I think he’s sometimes timorous for all that.  But I know he’s often out at all hours, and he says he doesn’t care about ghosts—­I know I don’t.”

The conversation now flagged a little, and Hanlon, who had been all the preceding part of the evening full of mirth and levity, could scarcely force himself to reply to her observations, or sustain any part in the dialogue.

“Why, what the sorra’s comin’ over you?” she asked, as they began to enter into the shadow of the hill at whose foot her father’s cabin stood, and which here, for about two hundred yards, fell across the road.  “It is gettin’ afeard you are?”