“Now’s the time for a dart o’ sperrits,” said Kerrigan, dexterously shipping his oars and unfastening the lid of the hamper. “Ye won’t, yer honner?”—Bingham had expressed dissent. “Well, begorra, here’s luck, an’ that it may be good,” pouring out a dropsied glassful and tossing it off. “That’s shupayrior,” with a smack; “its warmin’ me stomick like a bonfire! Whisht!” he added in an alarmed whisper, “who the dickens is this is comin’ along the road?” A mail phaeton, attached to a pair of spanking grays, came swiftly and silently along the grass-grown causeway. An elderly, aristocratic-looking man was driving, and beside him sat a young and beautiful girl. “Be the hokey! we’re bet; it’s ould Miles Joyce himself,” cried Lanty Kerrigan. “Is that Miss Joyce, the young lady to whom you took the box last night?” asked Percy somewhat eagerly. “Och wirra! wirra! to be shure it is, an’ that same box is our only chance now.” “Pull nearer shore, Lanty,” said the young officer, who was very anxious for a stare. “Good style,” he muttered. “Tight head, delicious plaits, Regent Street hat—_ma foi!_ who would think of meeting anything like this in a devil’s punchbowl? Pull _into_ shore, man,” he testily cried. “Shure I’m pullin’ me level best.” “Not _that_ shore, you idiot. Pull for the carriage.” Lanty was straining in the opposite direction. “Are ye mad, sir?” whispered Kerrigan. “I wudn’t face ould Joyce this blessed minit for a crock o’ goold.” The carriage drew up, and the driver in an authoritative voice shouted: “Bring that boat here.” “We’re bet; I tould you so,” gasped Lanty, reluctantly heading the boat in the direction of the carriage. A few strokes brought them to the beach. Percy Bingham raked up his eye-glass and gazed ardently at Mary Joyce, who returned the stare with compound interest. Irish gray eyes with black, sweeping lashes, hawthorn-blossoms on her brow, apple-blossoms on her cheeks, rose-buds on her lips, purple blood in her veins, youth and grace and modesty hovering about her like a delicious perfume. “May I ask by whose authority you are fishing here?” Mr. Joyce was pale, and suppressed anger scintillated in his eyes. There are a great many things to be done with impunity in Connemara, but poaching is the seven deadly sins rolled into one. “Thou shalt not fish” is the eleventh commandment. Bingham felt the awkwardness of his position at a glance, and met it like a gentleman. “I cannot say that I am here by any person’s authority. I am stopping at the 'Bodkin Arms’—” “Och murther! murther! howld your whisht,” interposed Lanty in a hoarse whisper. “Silence, fellow!” cried Bingham. “I am stopping at the 'Bodkin Arms,’ and, upon asking the proprietor if there was any hinderance to my fishing, he replied that there was none. I ought, perhaps, to have been more explicit with him.” “Av coorse ye shud,” interrupted Lanty.