One evening, in the last week of April, a coach called the “Fly” stopped to change horses at a small village in a certain part of Ireland, which, for the present, shall be nameless.  The sun had just sunk behind the western hills; but those mild gleams which characterize his setting at the close of April, had communicated to the clouds that peculiarly soft and golden tint, on which the eye loves to rest, but from which its light was now gradually fading.  When fresh horses had been put to, a stranger, who had previously seen two large trunks secured on the top, in a few minutes took his place beside the guard, and the coach proceeded.

“Guard,” he inquired, after they had gone a couple of miles from the village, “I am quite ignorant of the age of the moon.  When shall we have moonlight?”

“Not till it’s far in the night, sir.”

“The coach passes through the town of Ballytrain, does it not?”

“It does, sir.”

“At what hour do we arrive there?”

“About half-past three in the morning sir.”

The stranger made no reply, but cast his eyes over the aspect of the surrounding country.

The night was calm, warm, and balmy.  In the west, where the sun had gone down, there could still be noticed the faint traces of that subdued splendor with which he sets in spring.  The stars were up, and the whole character of the sky and atmosphere was full of warmth, and softness, and hope.  As the eye stretched across a country that seemed to be rich and well cultivated, it felt that dream-like charm of dim romance, which visible darkness throws over the face of nature, and which invests her groves, her lordly mansions, her rich campaigns, and her white farm-houses, with a beauty that resembles the imagery of some delicious dream, more than the realities of natural scenery.

On passing along, they could observe the careless-looking farmer driving home his cows to be milked and put up for the night; whilst, further on, they passed half-a-dozen cars returning home, some empty and some loaded, from a neighboring fair or market, their drivers in high conversation—­a portion of them in friendship, some in enmity, and in general all equally disposed, in consequence of their previous libations, to either one or the other.  Here they meet a solitary traveler, fatigued and careworn, carrying a bundle slung over his shoulder on the point of a stick, plodding his weary way to the next village.  Anon they were passed by a couple of gentlemen-farmers or country squires, proceeding at a brisk trot upon their stout cobs or bits of half-blood, as the case might be; and, by and by, a spanking gig shoots rapidly ahead of them, driven by a smart-looking servant in murrey-colored livery, who looks back with a sneer of contempt as he wheels round a corner, and leaves the plebeian vehicle far behind him.