as he saw a shop in which there was bacon, meal, oats, eggs, potatoes, bread, and such other articles as are usually to be found in small establishments of the kind.  He entered the shop, and found an old man, certainly not less than seventy, but rather beyond it, sitting behind the counter.  The appearance of this man was anything but prepossessing.  His brows were low and heavy; his mouth close, and remarkably hard for his years; the forehead low and narrow, and singularly deficient in what phrenologists term the moral and intellectual qualities.  But the worst feature in the whole face might be read in his small, dark, cunning eyes, which no man of any penetration could look upon without feeling that they were significant of duplicity, cruelty, and fraud.  His hair, though long, and falling over his neck, was black as ebony; for although Time had left his impress upon the general features of his face, it had not discolored a single hair upon his head; whilst his whiskers, on the contrary, were like snow—­a circumstance which, in connection with his sinister look, gave him a remarkable and startling appearance.  His hands were coarse and strong, and the joints of his thick fingers were noded either by age or disease; but, at all events, affording indication of a rude and unfeeling character.

“Pray,” said the stranger, “is your name Denis Dunphy?”

The old man fastened his rat-like eyes upon him, compressed his hard, unfeeling lips, and, after surveying him for some time, replied—­

“What’s your business, sir, with Denis Dunphy?”

“That, my friend, can be mentioned only to himself; are you the man?”

“Well, and what if I be?”

“But I must be certain that you are.”

There was another pause, and a second scrutiny, after which he replied,

“May be my name in Denis Dunphy.”

“I have no communication to make,” said the stranger, “that you may be afraid of; but, such as it is, it can be made to no person but Denis Dunphy himself.  I have a letter for him.”

“Who does it come from?” asked the cautious Denis Dunphy.

“From the parish priest of Ballytrain,” replied the other, “the Rev. Father M’Mahon.”

The old man pulled out a large snuff-box, and took a long pinch, which he crammed with his thumb first into one nostril, then into the other, bending his head at the same! time to each side, in order to enjoy it with greater relish, after which he gave a short deliberative cough or two.

“Well,” said he, “I am Denis Dunphy.”

“In that case, then,” replied the other, “I should very much wish to have a short private conversation with you of some importance.  But you had better first read the reverend gentleman’s letter,” he added, “and perhaps we shall then understand each other better;” and as he spoke he handed him the letter.

The man received it, looked at it, and again took a more rapid and less copious pinch, peered keenly at the stranger, and asked—­“Pray, sir, do you know the contents of this letter?”