The younger of the two girls sprang to her feet with the elasticity and agility of a deer. “O, _beetha_, Barney,” she exclaimed, “but that will be the fun! And the misthress's son is home? Arra, what is he like, Barney? Is he as handsome as Masther Charles?” “I hope he's as good,” said her mother. “As good, Bridget? No, but worth a shipload of him; he has a pair of eyes in his head, _Granua_,” (anglice, Grace,) addressing the younger, “that 'ud turn _Glendhis_ (the dark glen) to noonday at midnight; divil a lie in it; and his hand's never out of his pocket wid generosity.” “O, mother,” said Grace, “won't we all go?” “Don't ax your mother anything about it,” replied Barney, “bekaise mother, and father, and sister, and brother, daughter and son, is all to come.” “Arra, Barney,” said Bridget Davoren, for such was her name, “is this gentleman like his _ecald_ of a mother?” “Hasn't a feature of her purty face,” he replied, “and, to the back o' that, is very much given to religion. Troth, my own opinion is, he'll be one of ourselves yet; for I can tell you a saicret about him.” “A saicret, Barney,” said Grace; “maybe he's married?” “Married, no; he tould me himself this momin' that it's not his intention ever to marry 'till he meets a purty girl to plaise him; he'll keep a loose foot, he says, and an aisy conscience till then, he says; but the saicret is this, he never aits flesh mate of a Friday--when he emit get it. Indeed, I'm afeared he's too good to be long for this world; but still, if the Lord was to take him, wouldn't it be a proof that he had a great regard for him!” Grace Davoren was flushed and excited with delight. She was about eighteen, rather tall for her age, but roundly and exquisitely moulded; her glossy ringlets, as they danced about her cheeks and shoulders, were black as ebony; but she was no brunette; for her skin was milk white, and that portion of her bosom, which was uncovered by the simple nature of her dress, threw back a polished light like ivory; her figure was perfection, and her white legs were a finer specimen of symmetry than ever supported the body of the _Venus de Medicis_. This was all excellent; but it was the sparkling lustre of her eyes, and the radiance of her whole countenance, that attracted the beholder. If there was anything to be found fault with, it was in the spirit, not in the physical perfection, of her beauty. There was, for instance, too much warmth of coloring and of constitution visible in her whole exquisite person; and sometimes her glances, would puzzle you to determine whether they were those of innocence or of challenge. Be this as it may, she was a rare specimen of rustic beauty and buoyancy of spirit.