“Faith, then, he must be greatly altered,” said Dalton, “for I 've seen him track a fox for twenty miles of ground, when not a dog of the pack could come on the trace. Eh, Andy!” cried he, aloud, and stooping down so as to be heard by the old man, “do you remember the cover at Corralin?” “Don't ask him, father,” said Ellen, eagerly; “he cannot sleep for the whole night after his old memories have been awakened.” The spell, however, had begun to work; and the old man, letting fall both knife and turnip, placed his hands on his knees, and in a weak, reedy treble began a strange, monotonous kind of air, as if to remind himself of the words, which, after a minute or two, he remembered thus. “There was old Tom Whaley, And Anthony Baillie, And Fitzgerald, the Knight of Glynn, And Father Clare, On his big brown mare, That moruin' at Corralin!” “Well done, Andy! well done!” exclaimed Dalton. “You 're as fresh as a four-year-old.” “Iss!” said Andy, and went on with his song. “And Miles O'Shea, On his cropped tail bay, Was soon seen ridin' in. He was vexed and crossed At the light hoar frost, That mornin' at Corralin.” “Go on, Andy! go on, my boy!” exclaimed Dalton, in a rapture at the words that reminded him of many a day in the field and many a night's carouse. “What comes next?” “Ay!” cried Andy. “Says he, 'When the wind Laves no scent behind, To keep the dogs out 's a sin; I 'll be d--d if I stay, To lose my day, This mornin' at Corralin.'” But ye see he was out in his reck'nin'!” cried Andy; “for, as if “To give him the lie, There rose a cry, As the hounds came yelpin' in; And from every throat There swelled one note, That moruin' at Corralin.” A fit of coughing, brought on by a vigorous attempt to imitate the cry of a pack, here closed Andy's minstrelsy; and Ellen, who seemed to have anticipated some such catastrophe, now induced her father to return to the sitting-room, while she proceeded to use those principles of domestic medicine clapping on the back and cold water usually deemed of efficacy in like cases. “There now, no more singing, but take up your knife and do what I bade you,” said she, affecting an air of rebuke; while the old man, whose perceptions did not rise above those of a spaniel, hung down his head in silence. At the same moment the outer door of the kitchen opened, and Kate Dalton entered. Taller and several years younger than her sister, she was in the full pride of that beauty of which blue eyes and dark hair are the chief characteristics, and is deemed by many as peculiarly Irish. Delicately fair, and with features regular as a Grecian model, there was a look of brilliant, almost of haughty, defiance about her, to which her gait and carriage seemed to contribute; nor could the humble character of her dress, where strictest poverty declared itself, disguise the sentiment.