put into his own pocket.—­In pastoral lands the butter was appraised in the same manner, mostly with similar results to both parties.  To return—­when Regan had departed, Val asked Solomon what he thought of him.  “Think of him,” said Solomon, who could not forgive the allusion to Susanna, “I would fain think of him as becomes a Christian; but, somehow, I could not help feeling, whenever I looked at him, there was the outline of an execution in his face; however, I may be mistaken—­indeed, I hope—­I trust I am—­the villain!”

“M’Murt, call in Catharine Tyrrell.”

“Yes,” said Phil, “call in Widow Tyrrell.  Now, Solomon, only you have no relish for anything except what’s sanctified and spiritual, you would say that here comes such a specimen of Irish beauty as you have seldom seen.”

“I never had any objection,” said Solomon, who, in spite of all his gravity, betrayed an alertness on this occasion that was certainly not usual to him;—­“I never had any objection to look upon any work from His hand, with pleasure.  Indeed, on the contrary, I often felt that it raised my sense of—­of what was beautiful, in such a way that my feelings became, as it were, full of a sweet fervor that was not to be despised; I will consequently not decline to look upon this comely widow—­that is—­in the serious light I mention.”

“How do you do, Mrs. Tyrrell?  I hope you have not got much wet?” said Val, turning round very blandly.

“Oh, Mrs. Tyrrell, I hope you’re very well,” followed Phil; “I fear you have got wet—­have the goodness to take a chair, Mrs. Tyrrell—­and a glass of wine, ma’am.”

Mrs. Tyrrell took a chair, but she declined the glass of wine.  Mrs. Tyrrell had been the wife of a young husband, who died in his twenty-fourth year, just when they had been about a year and a half married.  She was herself, on the day in question, about the same age as her husband when he died.  She had been a widow just two years, and had one child, a son.  She was indeed a beautiful woman—­in fact a very beautiful woman, as one could almost see in her humble condition of life.  Her tresses were a raven black, but her skin was white and polished as ivory.  Her face was a fine specimen of the oval—­her brows exquisitely pencilled—­and her large black, but mellow eyes, flashed a look that went into your very heart.  But, if there was anything that struck you as being more fascinating than another, it was the expression of innocence, and purity, and sweetness, that lay about her small mouth and beautifully rounded chin.  Her form was symmetry itself, and a glimpse of the small, but beautiful foot and ankle, left no doubt upon the mind as to the general harmony of her whole figure.  On this occasion there was a positive air about her which added to the interest she excited; for, we believe, it may be truly observed, that beauty never appears so impressively or tenderly fascinating, as when it is slightly overshadowed with