“‘Arrah, my lad,’ said Tim, with a knowing wink, ‘I’ll soon fix that, or my name isn’t Timothy O’Donnell, of Ballywhangle, of the county of Clare, standing six feet two in my stockings. Can’t I pretend to make love to the owld hag when the niece isn’t by? Oh! trust me for _brushing the dew_ into her eyes.’ “I saw no more of Tim for nearly a week, except occasional glimpses caught of him at balls and concerts, where he was in attendance on his charmer and a spectral looking spinster, whom I recognised as the aunt. As I wanted to give him a fair field—keep the bottle lively—I did not approach them; so I had no opportunity of judging his success, until one morning he burst into my room vociferating that he had got a note from his charmer, in answer to one he had sent the day before, in which she consented to elope with him that very night. He called on me to ask me to get a post-chaise; for, in order to avoid the publication of banns, they would have to be united in another state. Tim was in such raptures that he couldn’t attend to any matter-o’-fact business, so I promised all he asked, and he left me, singing as he went, ‘Come, haste to the wedding,’ and cutting all sorts of extravagant antics. “Midnight was the hour fixed on for the _affaire_, and, punctual to the minute, Tim’s post-chaise drew up a few rods from his charmer’s door, while the gallant lieutenant himself, springing out, made all haste to the rendezvous. The night was black as pitch—you could have cut the darkness out in slices—and a wild wind blew over the fields, roaring away down in the woods, like a gale in the rigging of a line-of-battle ship. Tim could scarcely pick his way along through the garden, but at length, after sundry tacks, he gained the front of the house,—yet not a sign of a living being could he see. He began to fear that his charmer’s heart had failed her, but at that instant he perceived a dark moving object just ahead of him, and hurrying forward, he soon recognised his future bride, muffled and cloaked for the journey. “‘Shure, and ye’re as welcome as the birds in spring,’ said Tim, catching her in his arms, ‘and it’s mighty proud I am to see ye, my darlin.’ “The trembling bride clung closer to Tim as he spoke, and murmured something in reply, but what it was, the whistle of the wind prevented him from hearing distinctly. Tim knew there was no time to lose, however, so, without waiting for a repetition of the words, he bore his prize off, and never stopped till he had placed her in the chaise, stowed her maid opposite, and was himself seated by her side. “‘And now,’ said he, as the post-boy put up the steps, ‘don’t spare the horse-flesh—do ye hear, ye blackguard?’ “The boy nodded, and, the next instant, they were thrashing along as fast as four posters could carry them.