One lovely evening towards the end of the month of June, 187-, an outside car jingled into the picturesque little village of Ballynacushla. The sun had set in a flood of golden glory; purple shadows wooed midsummer-night dreams on crested hill and in hooded hollow; a perfumed stillness slept upon the tranquil waters of the Killeries, that wild but beauteous child of the Atlantic, broken only by the shrill note of the curlew seeking its billow-rocked nest, or the tinkle of the sheep-bell on the heather-clad heights of Carrignagolliogue. Lights like truant stars commenced to twinkle in lonely dwellings perched like eyries in the mountain clefts, and night prepared to don her lightest mourning in memory of the departed day. The rickety vehicle which broke upon the stillness was occupied by two persons—a handsome, aristocratic-looking young man attired in fashionable tourist costume, and the driver, whose general “get-up” would have won the heart of Mr. Boucicault at a single glance. “That’s a nate finish, yer honner,” he exclaimed, as, bringing a wheel into collision with a huge boulder which lay in the roadway, he decanted the traveller upon the steps of the “Bodkin Arms” at the imminent risk of breaking his neck. The “Bodkin Arms,” conscious of its whitewash and glowing amber thatch, stood proudly isolated. Its proprietor had been “own man” to Lord Clanricarde, and scandal whispered that a portion of the contents of “the lord’s” cellar was to be found in Tom Burke’s snuggery behind the bottle-bristling bar. The occupant of the car was flung into the arms of an expectant waiter, who, true to the instincts of that remarkable race, had scented his prey from afar, and calmly awaited its approach. This Ganymede was attired in a cast-off evening dress-coat frescoed in grease; a shirt bearing traces of the despairing grasp of a frantic washerwoman; a necktie of the dimensions of a window-curtain, of faded brocade; and waistcoat with continuations of new corduroy, which wheezed and chirruped with every motion of his lanky frame. His nose and hair vied in richness of ruby, and his eyes mutely implored every object upon which they rested for a sleep—or a drink. “You got my note?” said the traveller interrogatively. “Yes, sir, _of_ course, sir.” Of course they had it. The post in the west of Ireland is an eccentric institution, which disgorges letters just as it suits itself, and without any particular scruple as to dates. “Have you a _table d’hôte_ here?” This was a strange sound, but the waiter was a bold man. “Yes, sir, _of_ course, sir! Would you like it hot, sir?” “Hot! Certainly.” “Yes, sir, _of_ course, sir! With a taste of lemon in it?” “I said—Pshaw! Is dinner ready?” said the traveller impatiently.