An unlucky urchin of eight or ten years old at once jumped at the reins. But he had not time to seize them before a vigorous kick reached him in that part of his body which was not facing the horse. At the same time a threatening voice addressed five or six words to him in Irish; he seemed quite able to comprehend the second warning, for he at once returned to the pavement, energetically rubbing the place where he had received the first. No one else stirred. “You see, it begins well,” said Mr. Thompson in a low voice. I was becoming deeply interested. A cart stood there unharnessed. We descended from the carriage, fastened our horse to its wheel, and entered the shop. Quite at the back of it, to the right behind the counter, we saw a very pretty girl of seventeen or eighteen, very elegant, with small curls on her forehead, her well-fitting black bodice showing off her already fully-formed figure to great advantage, a red ribbon tied like a dog’s collar round her neck; on the whole showing a very pretty specimen of Irish brunettes. “Good morning,” said Mr. Thompson politely. “I did not know that Shaunganeen had the happiness of possessing such a pretty butcher; I have never had the pleasure of seeing you before. Have you been here long?” The young lady was evidently delighted. She smiled upon us both in the most engaging way. “Oh, sir,” she replied, “my father, Mr. McCarthy, only took me from the convent three days ago; my mother is unwell, and I am therefore taking charge of the shop.” “It was a very good idea of Mr. McCarthy’s! Any one would come here only to see you! Tell me, you have some fine legs of mutton there. Will you sell me one?” “Why, of course, sir, they are there to be sold! Here, take this one, I am sure it is very tender.” “Oh! the moment you recommend it I will take it at once.” I was triumphant. Mr. Thompson looked much astonished. “Well, Miss McCarthy,” he continued, to hide his surprise, “you will send it home to me before this evening, if you please.” “Certainly, sir! Will you give me your name, please, sir?” “What! don’t you know me?” “No, sir; I have only just left the convent.” “Ah, very well. I am Mr. Thompson.” “Oh, you are Mr. Thompson of ---- Lodge?” “Yes, I am Mr. Thompson of ---- Lodge.” The poor girl, red as a peony, looked with a terrified air at the fine leg of mutton she kept turning in her hands, as though it were already on the spit, to give herself courage. “The truth is, sir,” she began, almost in tears, “I cannot send it to you, I made a mistake, I forgot that it is already sold!” “Very well,” said Mr. Thompson, “I understand,” and he immediately left the shop.