The contest now went on for about fifteen minutes, with surpassing interest and animation, at the expiration of which period, the seven o’clock bell already alluded to, rang the hour for closing their labors and determining the victory.  Thus stood their relative position—­Dora M’Mahon, four hanks and three cuts; Betty Aikins, four hanks; Hanna Cavanagh, three hanks and nine cuts; Peggy Bailly, three hanks and eight cuts.

When this result was made known, Betty Aikins burst into a loud fit of grief, in which she sobbed as if her very heart would break, and Kathleen stooping down, congratulated the beautiful girl upon her victory, kissing her at the same time as she spoke—­an act of love and kindness in which she would have joyfully been followed by several of her male friends, if they had dared to take that delicious liberty.

The moment of victory, we believe, is that which may be relied upon as the test of true greatness.  Dora M’Mahon felt the pride of that moment in its fullest extent, but she felt it only to influence her better and nobler principles.  After casting her eyes around to gather in, as it were, that honest approbation which is so natural, and exchanging some rapid glances with the youth we have alluded to, she went over to her defeated competitor, and taking her hand said, “Don’t cry, Betty, you have no right to be ashamed; sure, as you say, it’s the first time you wor ever beaten; we couldn’t all win; an’ indeed if I feel proud now, everyone knows an’ says I have a right to be so; for where was there—­ay, or where is there—­such a spinner as you are?

“Shake hands now an’ there’s a kiss for you.  If I won this kemp, it was won more by chance than by anything else.”

These generous expressions were not lost on Betty; on the contrary, they soothed her so much that she gave her hand cordially to her young and interesting conqueress, after which they all repaired to a supper of new milk and flummery, than which there is nothing more delicious within the wide range of luxury.  This agreeable meal being over, they repaired to the large barn where Mickey M’Grory the fiddler, was installed in his own peculiar orchestra, consisting of an arm-chair of old Irish oak, brought out from Gerald Cavanagh’s parlor.

It would indeed be difficult to find together such a group of happy faces.  Gerald Cavanagh and his wife, Tom M’Mahon and his better half, and several of the neighbors, of every age and creed, were all assembled; and, in this instance, neither gray hairs nor length of years were looked upon as privileged from a participation in the festivities of the evening.  Among the rest, gaunt and grim, were the three Hogans, looking through the light-hearted assemblage with the dark and sinister visages of thorough ruffians, who were altogether incapable of joining in the cheerful and inoffensive amusements that went forward around them.  Kate Hogan sat in an obscure corner behind the fiddler, where she was scarcely visible, but from which she enjoyed a full view of everything that occurred in the house.