come back here.’  Well, sir, I got a book and I went back.  ‘Now,’ said he, ’if you swear by the contents of that book that you will never put a ring on man after my death, I’ll leave you my property.’  ’Ah, God pardon you, Paul, darling,’ said I, ’for supposing that I’d ever dream of marrying again’—­and I couldn’t help kissing him once more and crying over him when I heard what he said.  ‘Now,’ said he, ’kiss the book, and swear that you’ll never put a ring on man after my death, and I’ll leave you every shilling I’m worth.’  God knows it was a trying scene to a loving heart like mine—­so I swore that I’d never put a ring on man after his death—­and then he altered his will and left me the property on those conditions.”

“Proceed, madam,” said the conjurer; “I am still in the dark as to the object of your visit.”

“Why, sir, it is to know—­ahem—­O, poor old Paul.  God forgive me! it was to know, sir, O—­”

“Don’t cry, madam, don’t cry.”

“It was to know, sir, if I could ever think of—­of—­you must know, sir, we had no family, and I would not wish that the property should die with me; to know if—­if you think I could venture to marry again?”

“This,” replied the conjurer, “is a matter of unusual importance and difficulty.  In the first place you must hand me a guinea—­that is my fee for cases of this kind.”

The money was immediately paid, and the conjurer proceeded:  “I said it was a case of great difficulty, and so it is, but—­”

“I forgot to mention, sir, that when I went out to get the prayer-book, I found Charley Mulvany in the next room, and he said he had one in his pocket; so that the truth, sir, is, I—­I took the oath upon a book of ballads.  Now,” she proceeded, “I have strong reasons for marrying Charley Mulvany; and I wish to know if I can do so without losing the property.”

“Make your mind easy on that point,” replied the conjurer; “you swore never to put a ring on man, but you did not swear that a man would never put a ring on you.  Go home,” he continued, “and if you be advised by me, you will marry Charley Mulvany without loss of time.”

A man rather advanced in years next came in, and taking his seat, wiped his face and gave a deep groan.

“Well, my friend,” said the conjurer, “in what way can I serve you?”

“God knows it’s hard to tell that,” he replied—­“but I’m troubled.”

“What troubles you?”

“It’s a quare world, sir, altogether.”

“There are many strange things in it certainly.”

“That’s truth, sir; but the saison’s favorable, thank God, and there’s every prospect of a fine spring for puttin’ down the crops.”

“You are a farmer, then; but why should you feel troubled about what you call a fine season for putting down the crops?”

The man moved uneasily upon his chair, and seemed at a loss how to proceed; the conjurer looked at him, and waited for a little that he might allow him sufficient time to disclose his difficulties.