“I dance to you, Miss Davoren, if you will favor me.”

She was then sitting, but immediately rose up, with a blushing but gratified face, and replied,

“I will, sir, but I’m not worthy to dance with a gentleman like you.”

“You are worthy to dance with a prince,” he replied, as he led her to their station, fronting the music.

“Well, my pretty girl,” said he, “what do you wish?”

“Your will, sir, is my pleasure.”

“Very well.  Piper,” said he, “play up ‘Kiss my lady;’” which was accordingly done, and the dance commenced.  Woodward thought the most popular thing he could do was to affect no superiority over the young fellows present, but, on the contrary, to imitate their style and manner of dancing as well as he could; and in this he acted with great judgment.  They felt flattered and gratified even at his awkward and clumsy imitations of their steps, and received his efforts with much laughter and cheering; nor was Grace herself insensible to the mirth he occasioned.  On he went, cutting and capering, until he had them in convulsions; and when the dance was ended, he seized his partner in his arms, swung her three times round, and imprinted a kiss upon her lips with such good humor that he was highly applauded.  He then ordered in drink to treat her and her friends, which he distributed to them with his own hand; and after contriving to gain a few minutes’ private chat with Grace, he amply rewarded the piper.  He was now about to take his leave and proceed with his brother, when two women, one about thirty-five, and the other far advanced in years, both accosted him almost at the same moment.

“Your honor won’t go,” said the less aged of the two, “until you get your fortune tould.”

“To be sure he won’t, Caterine,” they all replied; “we’ll engage the gentleman will cross your hand wid silver, like his father before him, his heart’s not in the money.”

“Never mind her, sir,” said the aged crone, “she’s a schemer, and will tell you nothing but what she knows will plaise you.  Show me your hand, sir, and I’ll tell you the truth.”

“Never mind the calliagh, sir, (old woman, by way of reproach;) she’s dotin’, and hasn’t remembered her own name these ten years.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Woodward, addressing Caterine, “I shall hear what you both have to say—­but you first.”

He accordingly crossed her hand with a piece of silver, after which she looked closely into it—­then upon his countenance, and said,

“You have two things in your mind, and they’ll both succeed.”

“But, my good woman, any one might tell me as much.”

“No,” she replied, with confidence; “examine your own heart and you’ll find the two things there that it is fixed upon; and whisper,” she added, putting her lips to his ear, “I know what they are, and can help you in both.  When you want me, inquire for Caterine Collins.  My uncle is Sol Donnell, the herb doctor.”