cadence of a song, the notes would change into some quaint, old-fashioned crone, in which the singer seemed so much at home, and gave the queer drollery of the words that expression of archness so eminently the character of certain Irish airs. “But what the deuce is this?” said I, as, rattling over the keys with a flowing but brilliant finger, she,--for it was unquestionably a woman,--with a clear and sweet voice, broken by laughter, began to sing the words of Mr. Bodkin’s song, “The Man for Galway.” When she had finished the last verse, her hand strayed, as it were, carelessly across the instrument, while she herself gave way to a free burst of merriment; and then, suddenly resuming the air, she chanted forth the following words, with a spirit and effect I can convey no idea of:-- “To live at home, And never roam; To pass his days in sighing; To wear sad looks, Read stupid books, And look half dead or dying; Not show his face, Nor join the chase, But dwell a hermit always: Oh, Charley, dear! To me ‘tis clear, You’re not the man for Galway!” “You’re not the man for Galway!” repeated she once more, while she closed the piano with a loud bang. “And why not, my dear, why not the man for Galway?” said I, as, bursting open the door, I sprang into the room. “Oh, it’s you, is it?--at last! So I’ve unearthed you, have I?” With these words she burst into an immoderate fit of laughter; leaving me, who intended to be the party giving the surprise, amazed, confused, and speechless, in the middle of the floor. [Illustration: BABY BLAKE.] That my reader may sympathize a little in my distresses, let me present him with the _tableau_ before me. Seated upon the piano-stool was a young-lady of at most eighteen years: her face, had it not been for its expression of exuberant drollery and malicious fun, would have been downright beautiful; her eyes, of the deepest blue, and shaded by long lashes, instead of indulging the character of pensive and thoughtful beauty for which Nature destined them, sparkled with a most animated brightness; her nose, which, rather short, was still beautifully proportioned, gave, with her well-curled upper lip, a look of sauciness to the features quite bewitching; her hair--that brilliant auburn we see in a _Carlo Dolci_--fell in wild and massive curls upon her shoulders. Her costume was a dark-green riding-habit, not of the newest in its fashion, and displaying more than one rent in its careless folds; her hat, whip, and gloves lay on the floor beside her, and her whole attitude and bearing indicated the most perfect ease and carelessness. “So you are caught--taken alive!” said she, as she pressed her hands upon her sides in a fresh burst of laughter. “By Jove! this is a surprise indeed!” said I. “And, pray, into whose fair hands have I fallen a captive?” recovering myself a little, and assuming a half air of gallantry. “So you don’t know me, don’t you?”