“Och, och, murdher alive,” exclaimed the good man out of breath, “I seen the day, any way!  An’, maybe, could show a step or two yet, if I was well fixed.  You can’t forget ould times, Alley?  Eh, you thief?”

“Musha, have sinse, man alive,” replied the wife, in a tone of placid gravity, which only betrayed the pleasure she herself felt in his happiness.  “Have sinse, an’ the strange man comin’ in, an’ don’t let him see you in such figaries.”

The observation of the good woman produced a loud laugh among them.  “Arrah what are yez laughing at?” she inquired.

“Why, mother,” said one of her daughters “how could Barny Dhal, a blind man, see anybody?”

Alley herself laughed at her blunder, but wittily replied, “Faith, avourneen, maybe he can often see as nately through his ear as you could do wid your eyes open; sure they say he can hear the grass growin’.”

“For that matther,” observed the farithee, joining in the joke, “he can see as far as any of us—­while we’re asleep.”

The conversation was thus proceeding, when Barney Dhal and young Frank M’Kenna entered the kitchen.

In a moment all hands were extended to welcome Barney:  “Millia failte ghud, Barny!” “Cead millia failte ghud, Barny!” “Oh, Barny, did you come at last?  You’re welcome.”  “Barny, my Trojan, how is every cart-load of you?” “How is Granua Waile, Barny?”

“Why, thin, holy music, did you never see Barny Dhal afore?  Clear off from about me, or, by the sweets of rosin, I’ll play the devil an’ brake things.  ‘You’re welcome, Barny!’—­an’ ‘How are you, Barny?’ Why thin, piper o’ Moses, don’t I know I’m welcome, an’ yit you must be tellin’ me what everybody knows!  But sure I have great news for you all!”

“What is that, Barny?”

“Well, but can yez keep a sacret?  Can yez, girls?”

“Faix can we, Barny, achora.”

“Well, so can I—­ha, ha, ha!  Now, are,yez sarved?  Come, let me to the hob.”

“Here, Barny; I’ll lead you, Barny.”

“No, I have him; come, Barny, I’ll lead you:  here, achora, this is the spot—­that’s it.  Why, Barny,” said the arch girl, as she placed him in the corner, “sorra one o’ the hob but knows you:  it never stirs—­ha, ha, ha!”

“Throth, a colleen, that tongue o’ yours will delude some one afore long, if it hasn’t done so already.”

“But how is Granua Waile, Barny?”

“Poor Granua is it?  Faith, times is hard wid her often.  ‘Granua,’ says I to her ’what do you say, acushla? we’re axed to go to two or three places to-day—­what do you say?  Do you lead, an’ I’ll follow:  your will is my pleasure.’  ‘An’ where are we axed to?’ says Granua, sinsible enough.  ‘Why,’ says I, ’to Paddy Lanigan’s, to Mike Hartigan’s, to Jack Lynch’s, an’ at the heel o’ the hunt, to Frank M’Kenna’s, of the Mountain Bar.’  ‘By my song,’ says she, ’you may go where you plase; as for me, I’m