“Somebody comin', to see some of the sarvints, I suppose,” replied his wife; “why, thin, it's not unlike little Dick _Croaitha_, the fairyman.” In sober truth, Fardorougha was so completely disguised by his dress, especially by his hat, whose shallowness and want of brim, gave his face and head so wild and eccentric an appearance, that we question if his own family, had they not seen him dress, could I have recognized him! At length he turned into the kitchen-yard, and, addressing a laborer whom he met, asked-- “I say, nabor, which is the right way into Bodagh Buie's house?” “There's two right ways into it, an' you may take aither o' them--but if you want any favor from him, you had better call him _Mr_. O'Brien. The Bodagh's a name was first given to his father, an' he bein' a dacenter man, doesn't like it, although it sticks to him; so there's a lift for you, my hip striddled little codger.” “But which is the right door o' the house?” “There it is, the kitchen--peg in--that's your intrance, barrin' you're a gintleman in disguise, an' if be, why turn out again to that other gate, strip off your shoes, and pass up ginteely on your tipytoes, and give a thunderin' whack to the green ring that's hangin' from the door. But see, friend,” added the man, “maybe you'd do one a sarvice?” “How,” said Fardorougha, looking earnestly at him; “what is it?” “Why, to lave us a lock o' your hair before you go,” replied the wag, with a grin. The miser took no notice whatsoever of this, but was turning quietly out of the yard, to enter by the lawn, when the man called out in a commanding voice-- “Back here, you codger!--tundher an' thump!--back I say! You won't be let in that way--thramp back, you leprechaun, into the kitchen--eh! you won't--well, well, take what you'll get--an' that'll be the way back agin.” 'Twas at this moment that the keen eye of Una recognized the features of her lover's father, and a smile, which she felt it impossible to subdue, settled upon her face, which became immediately mantled with blushes. On hurrying out of the room she plucked her brother's sleeve, who followed her to the hall. “I can scarcely tell you, dear John,” she said, speaking rapidly, “it's Fardorougha O'Donovan, Connor's father; as you know his business, John, stay in the parlor;” she squeezed his hand, and added with a smile on her face, and a tear in her eye, “I fear it's all over with me--I don't know whether to laugh or cry--but stay, John dear, an' fight my battle--Una's battle.” She ran upstairs, and immediately one of the most beggarly, sordid, and pusillanimous knocks that ever spoke of starvation and misery was heard at the door. “I will answer it myself,” thought the amiable brother; “for if my father or mother does, he surely will not be allowed in.” John could scarcely preserve a grave face, when Fardorougha presented himself. “Is Misther O'Brien widin?” inquired the usurer, shrewdly availing himself of the hint he received from the servant.