"No. But we're thinkin' of getting up the electric light; at laste the parish priest do be talkin' about it, and sure that's the same as havin' it. But here we are. Now, one word! There's one ruffian here whose name mustn't pass yere mout', or we don't know the consekinces. He's a most consaited and outrageous ruffian, doesn't care for law or judge, or priest or pope; he's the only one ye have to be afeard of. Listen, that ye may remimber. His name is Jem Deady. Keep yere mouths locked on that while ye 're here." It was a pleasant little party in Mrs. Haley's "cosey" or "snuggery." There was warmth, and light, and music, and the odor of rum-punch and lemon, and the pungency of cigars, and the pleasant stimulus of agreeable conversation. Occasionally one of the "byes" looked in, but was promptly relegated to the taproom, at a civil distance from the "gintlemin." By and by, however, as more charity and less exclusiveness prevailed under the generous influences of good liquor, the "gintlemin" requested to be allowed to show the light of their glowing faces in the plebeian taproom; and the denizens of the latter, prompt at recognizing this infinite condescension, cheered the gentlemen to the echo. "'T is the likes of ye we wants down here," they cried; "not a set of naygurs who can't buy their tay without credit." But the local bailiff didn't seem to like it, and kept aloof from the dissipation. Also, he drank only "liminade." It was admitted in after years that this was the greatest act of self-denial that was recorded in history. His comrades chaffed him unmercifully. "Come, mon, and git out o' the blues. Whoy, these are the jolliest fullows we uver mot." "And there isn't better liquor in the Cawstle cellars. Here's to yer health, missus." So the night wore on. But two poor women had an anxious time. These were Lizzie, who, in some mysterious manner, persuaded herself that she was responsible for the custody and safe keeping of the bailiffs in the eyes of the law; and if anything happened to them she might be summoned up to Dublin, and put on her trial on the capital charge. The other was Mrs. Deady. When eleven o'clock struck, she expected to hear every moment the well-known footsteps of her spouse; but no! Half-past eleven--twelve struck--and Jem had not returned. At half-past twelve there was a peculiar scratching sound at the back-door, and Bess opened it and dragged Jem into her arms, whilst she poured into his face a fire of cross-questions. "Ax me no questions an' I'll tell ye no lies," said Jem. "Have ye anythin' to ate?" Bess had, in the shape of cold fat bacon. Jem set to hungrily. "Would ye mind covering up the light in the front windy, Bess?" said Jem. Bess did so promptly, all the while looking at her spouse in a distressed and puzzled manner. "Jem," said she at length, "may the Lord forgive me if I'm wrong, but I think ye're quite sober." Jem nodded. A knock came to the door. It was Lizzie.