The young lord emancipated himself from leading-strings, and became a pattern Dublin buck. He wore gorgeous raiment, carried wonderful walking-sticks with jewelled tops and incrusted mottoes; was elected President of the Blaster and Cherokee clubs, which honourable post made it his duty to fight at least one duel a week, and to force quarrels upon people whom he had never seen before. There were several established ways (as all the world knows) of bringing this about. Sometimes he sat in a window and spat on the hats of passers-by, or stood over a crossing pushing folks into the mire, or kissed a pretty girl in the presence of her male protector, or flung chicken bones from a balcony at a passing horseman in full fig. His mother took no heed of these vagaries; the ways of the Glandores had been imperious for generations. But in course of time an event happened which sent the blood rushing in a tumult to her heart. At a masquerade one night my lord met a maid who smote his fancy. She was cheerful, and not too modest (his one terror was a lady of quality), with eyes like a mouse and a good set of teeth. Her mamma, a homely, buxom dame of forty, invited him home to supper, and he was as surprised as charmed to discover that the sprightly pair were his neighbours, who on account of some crotchet or other his mother declined to visit. He was received with open arms; nothing could be more jolly than his welcome. ''Deed the space is limited,' mamma observed, with a guffaw. 'If ye put your arm down the chimbly ye could raise the door-latch; but, sure, a snug mouthful's better than a feast any day.' He remained toasting his hostesses till daylight; called in a week; stopped to dinner; was treated as an honoured guest. Madam was a Papist, he found out, which would account for my lady's prejudice, but my lord had no such prejudices. If a young lady touch your fancy, do you ask her to say her Catechism?