"Lovely, William--but, if possible, a little more delicate." "Oh, how delicate you are! Maybe a cup o' tay would sarve you, or a little small gruel to compose your stomach." "Mr. Dawson," said the gentleman in the purse, "hold your hand and let us understand one another. I have a proposal to make." "Hear the sinner anyhow," said the wife. "Name your own sum," said Satan, "only set me free." "No, the sorra may take the toe you'll budge till you let Bill off," said the wife; "hould him hard, Bill, barrin' he sets _you_ clear of your engagement." "There it is, my posy," said Bill; "that's the condition. If you don't give _me up_, here's at you once more--and you must double the cash you gave the last time, too. So, if you're of that opinion, say _ay_--leave the cash and be off." The money again appeared in a glittering heap before Bill, upon which he exclaimed--"The _ay_ has it, you dog. Take to your pumps now, and fair weather after you, you vagrant; but Nicholas--Nick--here, here----" The other looked back, and saw Bill, with a broad grin upon him, shaking the purse at him--"Nicholas come back," said he. "I'm short a guinea." Nick shook his fist, and disappeared. It would be useless to stop now, merely to inform our readers that Bill was beyond improvement. In short, he once more took to his old habits, and lived on exactly in the same manner as before. He had two sons--one as great a blackguard as himself, and who was also named after him; the other was a well-conducted, virtuous young man, called James, who left his father, and having relied upon his own industry and honest perseverance in life, arrived afterwards to great wealth, and built the town called Castle Dawson; which is so called from its founder until this day. Bill, at length, in spite of all his wealth, was obliged, as he himself said, "to travel,"--in other words, he fell asleep one day, and forgot to awaken; or, in still plainer terms, he died. Now, it is usual, when a man dies, to close the history of his life and adventures at once; but with our hero this cannot be the case. The moment Bill departed, he very naturally bent his steps towards the residence of St. Moroky, as being, in his opinion, likely to lead him towards the snuggest berth he could readily make out. On arriving, he gave a very humble kind of a knock, and St. Moroky appeared. "God save your Reverence!" said Bill, very submissively. "Be off; there's no admittance here for so poor a youth as you are," said St Moroky. He was now so cold and fatigued that he cared little where he went, provided only, as he said himself, "he could rest his bones, and get an air of the fire." Accordingly, after arriving at a large black gate, he knocked, as before, and was told he would get _instant_ admittance the moment he gave his name. "Billy Dawson," he replied. "Off, instantly," said the porter to his companions, "and let his Majesty know that the rascal he dreads so much is here at the gate."