Without at all suspecting the trap that had been set for him, Art attended his business as usual, till towards evening, when Harte took an opportunity, when he got him for a few minutes by himself, of speaking to him apparently in a careless and indifferent way. “Art, that's a nate patthern in your waistcoat; but any how, I dunna how it is that you contrive to have every thing about you dacenter an' jinteeler than another.” This, by the way, was true, both of him and his brother. “Tut, it's but middlin',” said Art; “it's now but a has-been:--when it was at itself it wasn't so bad.” “Begad, it was lovely wanst; now; how do you account, Art, for bein' supairior to us in all in--in every thing, I may say; ay, begad, in every thing, and in all things, for that's a point every one allows.” “Nonsense, Syl” (his name was Sylvester), “don't be comin' it soft over me; how am I betther than any other?” “Why, you're betther made, in the first place, than e'er a man among us; in the next place, you're a betther workman;”--both these were true--“an', in the third place, you're the best lookin' of the whole pack; an' now deny these if you can:--eh, ha, ha, ha--my lad, I have you!” An involuntary smile might be observed on Art's face at the last observation, which also was true. “Syl,” he replied, “behave yourself; what are you at now? I know you.” “Know me!” exclaimed Syl; “why what do you know of me? Nothing that's bad I hope, any way.” “None of your palaver, at all events,” replied Art; “have you got any tobaccy about you?” “Sorra taste,” replied Harte, “nor had since mornin'.” “Well, I have then,” said Art, pulling out a piece, and throwing it to him with the air of a superior; “warm your gums wid that, for altho' I seldom take a blast myself, I don't forget them that do.” “Ah, begorra,” said Harte, in an undertone that was designed to be heard, “there's something in the ould blood still; thank you, Art, faix it's yourself that hasn't your heart in a trifle, nor ever had. I bought a waistcoat on Saturday last from Paddy M'Gartland, but I only tuck it on the condition of your likin' it.” “Me! ha, ha, ha, well, sure enough, Syl, you're the quarest fellow alive; why, man, isn't it yourself you have to plaise, not me.” “No matther for that, I'm not goin' to put my judgment in comparishment wid yours, at any rate; an' Paddy M'Gartland himself said, 'Syl, my boy, you know what you're about; if this patthern plaises Art Maguire, it'll plaise anybody; see what it is,' says he, 'to have the fine high ould blood in one's veins.' Begad he did; will you come up this evenin' about seven o'clock, now, like a good fellow, an' pass your opinion for me? Divil a dacent stitch I have, an' I want either it, or another, made up before the ball night.” * * Country dances, or balls, in which the young men pay from ten to fifteen pence for whiskey “to trate the ladies.” We hope they will be abolished.