“Was the marriage a cordial one between you and her?” “Why, sir, she was dotin' upon me, as I was upon her?” “Have you had a family?” “A fine family, sir, of sons and daughters.” “And how long is it since you began to suspect her?” “Why, sir, I--I--well, no matther about that; she was always a good wife and a good mother, until--” Here he paused, and again wiped his eyes. “Until what?” “Why, sir, until Billy Fulton, the fiddler, came across her.” “Well, and what did Billy Fulton do?” “He ran away wid my ould woman, sir.” “What age is Billy Fulton?” “About my own age, sir; but by no means so stout a man; he's a dancin' masther, too, sir; and barrin' his pumps and white cotton stockin's, I don't know what she could see in him; he's a poor light crature, and walks as if he had a hump on his hip, for he always carries his fiddle undher his skirt. Ay, and what's more, sir, our daughter, Nancy, is gone off wid him.” “The devil she is. Why, did the old dancing-master run off with both of them? How long is it since this elopement took place?” “Only three days, sir.” “And you wish me to assist you?” “If you can, sir; and I ought to tell you that the vagabone's son is gone off wid them too.” “O, O,” said the conjurer, “that makes the matter worse.” “No, it doesn't, sir, for what makes the matter worse is, that they took away a hundred and thirty pounds of my money along wid 'em.” “Then you wish to know what I can do for you in this business?” “I do, sir, i' you plaise.” “Were you ever jealous of your wife before?” “No, not exactly jealous, sir, but a little suspicious or so; I didn't think it safe to let her out much; I thought it no harm to keep my eye on her.” “Now,” said the conjurer, “is it not notorious that you are the most jealous--by the way, give me five shillings; I can make no further communications till I am paid; there--thank you--now, is it not notorious that you are one of the most jealous old scoundrels in the whole country?” “No, sir, barrin' a little wholesome suspicion.” “Well, sir, go home about your business. Your daughter and the dancing master's son have made a runaway match of it, and your wife, to protect the character of her daughter, has gone with them. You are a miser, too. Go home now; I have nothing more to say to you, except that you have been yourself a profligate. Look at that book, sir; there it is; the stars have told me so.” “You have got my five shillings, sir; but say what you like, all the wather in the ocean wouldn't wash her clear of the ould dancin'-masther.” In the course of a few minutes a beautiful peasant girl entered the room, her face mantled with blushes, and took her seat on the chair as the others had done, and remained for some time silent, and apparently panting with agitation. “What is your name, my pretty girl?” asked the conjurer. “Grace Davoren,” replied the girl. “And what do you wish to know from me, Miss Davoren?” “O, don't call me miss, sir; I'm but a poor girl.”