“In a few minutes I returned to the dance. I looked at Mary Connor. The rose had come back again to her cheek, and at her bright black eye ye could have lighted a dhudeeine. ‘_The floor!_’ says I--and in a minute it was clear. I flung a dollar to the fiddler. ‘Now, bad luck to ye, play yir best, an’ up with--Apples for ladies and ladin’ out Mary Connor, the divil a better jig was danced for a month of Sundays. * Cota more--Anglicè, great coat. ** The name of a favourite contredanse, exceedingly fashionable in Connemara. “‘Mary,’ says I, as I pressed her hand at partin, ‘didn’t I tell truth, my darlin’, when I said, that light as yir foot might be, the heart should be lighter still?’ The tears--but they were tears of joy--came stramin’ down her cheeks. I kissed them away--took up my gun--bid the company good night--and before morning dawned, or the ould miser was unbound, I was across the Killeries and into Connemara; an’ the best of it is, that, to this blessed day, that robbery is left on Johnny Gibbons. And now, Mark, I ask you, upon the nick of yir conscience, was there any harm in returnin’ the blue-bag to the right owner, and keepin’ the stripped one myself?’ “Under such circumstances, Shemus Rhua,” replied the fosterer, “I’m ready to turn robber when you like it. But here we are at the Four Alls; and, faith, I hope, like a singed cat, it will prove better than it looks.” Indeed, in its external appearance, the village inn had nothing to excite the expectations of a traveller. The windows were mostly without glass; the earthen floor broken into ruts, all of which appeared recipients for dirty water; while the ceiling was blackened with soot, and the walls curtained with cobwebs. The landlord, looked a sot--his helpmate, the epitome of every thing unclean. The ratcatcher pronounced it “a place not fit to lodge a dacent dog in,” while Mark Antony, remembering that hostelrie, where he had found “the warmest welcome,” drew a mental contrast between both, and thought with a sigh upon his rejected innamorata--the lady of the Cock and Punchbowl. [Illustration: 0176] CHAPTER XVIII. CONFESSIONS OF THE RAT-CATCHER. “_There are certain ingredients to be mingled with matrimony, without which I may as likely change for the worse as the better.” A Bold Stroke for a Wife._