My aunt now armed herself with some knitting apparatus, while my uncle, flanked by a smoking glass of toddy on one side and the “Tizer” on the other, proceeded to fill his pipe with strong tobacco, puffing out at intervals short and pithy apothegms about youth being the season for work and age for repose,--under the influence of whose drowsy wisdom, and overcome by the hot fire, I fell off fast asleep. For a while I was so completely lost in slumber that I heard nothing around. At last I began to dream of my long journey, and the little towns I had passed through, and the places I fain would have stopped at to bait and rest, but nobly resisted, never breaking bread nor tasting water till I had reached my journey's end. At length I fancied I heard people calling me by my name, some saying words of warning or caution, and others jeering and bantering me; and then quite distinctly,--as clearly as though the words were in my ear,--I heard my aunt say,--“I'm sure Lizzy would take him. She was shamefully treated by that heartless fellow, but she's getting over it now; and if any one, even Paul there, offered, I 'm certain she 'd not refuse him.” “She has a thousand pounds,” grunted out my uncle. “Fourteen hundred in the bank; and as they have no other child, they must leave her everything they have, when they die.” “It won't be much. Old Dan has little more than his vicarage, and he always ends each year a shade deeper in debt than the one before it.” “Well, she has her own fortune, and nobody can touch that.” I roused myself, yawned aloud, and opened my eyes. “Pretty nigh as good a hand at sleeping as eating,” said my uncle, gruffly. “It's a smart bit of a walk from Duke Street, Piccadilly,” said I, with more vigor than I had yet assumed. “Why, a fellow of your age ought to do that twice a week just to keep him in wind.” “I say, Paul,” said my aunt, “were you ever in Ireland?” “Never, aunt. Why do you ask me?” “Because you said a little while back that you felt rather poorly of late,--low and weakly.” “No loss of appetite, though,” chuckled in my uncle. “And we were thinking,” resumed she, “of sending you over to stay a few weeks with an old friend of ours in Donegal. He calls it the finest air in Europe; and I know he 'd treat you with every kindness.” “Do you shoot?” asked my uncle. “No, sir.” “Nor fish?” “No, sir.” “What are you as a sportsman? Can you ride? Can you do anything?” “Nothing whatever, sir. I once carried a game-bag, and that was all.” “And you're not a farmer nor a judge of cattle. How are you to pass your time, I 'd like to know?” “If there were books, or if there were people to talk to--” “Mrs. Dudgeon's deaf,--she's been deaf these twenty years; but she has a daughter. Is Lizzy deaf?” “Of course she's not,” rejoined my aunt, tartly. “Well, she'd talk to you; and Dan would talk. Not much, I believe, though; he a'n't a great fellow for talk.”