“And who else should it be?” says she; “maybe ye would oblige us with your own name, young man?” “Di ye remember Shemus McGreal?” says I. “Is it Shemus, the whipper, at Killcrogher?” says she. “The very same; and here he is.” With that she blessed herself--“Holy Moses!” says she, “but ye’re grown! Arrah, step in, an’ for ould times we’ll have a flash of lightnin’.” In we turns into the sign of St. Patrick, and calls for half-a-pint. I tould her all the news, and all about what had brought us from the ould country over here. “Ah, Shemus,” says Biddy, “myself would travel ten mile to sarve a dog that was iver at Killcrogher--and ye have made no speed? Och, hone, an’ more’s the pity!” So I ups and tells her the rason we were fairly batin’--all because we couldn’t find out an heiress, good nor bad. “Oh, saver of the bog!” says she, “if ye’es only had the luck to have fallen into company with Miss Figgins!” “And who’s Miss Figgins?” says I. “She’s the only child of ould Figgins of Puddin’ Lane, the richest grocer in the city, an’ that’s a big word.” “Arrah, Brideeine, _avourneeine!_--is there any way we could come across her?” “Arrah, the divil a one of me can tell,” says she. “It’s me that carries home the markittin’, and the kitchen maid’s a Cork woman, born in Cloonakitty--and we’re as thick as mustard. Be the Lord!” says she, “but I’ll bring ye together in the twinklin’ of a bed-post, if ye’ll just sit where ye are. Have an eye to the basket, for the house isn’t ovir onist, if there ar’nt liars in the world;”--an’ away cut Biddy Hagan. She wasn’t more than ten minutes, till back she comes with Oney Donovan. We called another half-pint, and drank to better acquaintance. “Oney,” says she, “_astore!_ tell us all about ould Figgins’ daughter, if you please, for this gentleman’s master has come ovir for a wife. The Lord speed him to get the same!” “Och, then I’m sorry to say,” says Oney, “they’ll be no dalin’ in our house, for Miss Sophiar’s to be married a Friday mornin’.” “Oh, murder!” says I. “A murder it is,” says she; “thirty thousan’ goin’ to a divil ye wouldn’t kick out of a petatay garden, because he’s rich as a Jew, and rides in a sheriff’s carrige.” Wasn’t this too bad? The very woman that would have fitted us to a T! Well, we were all sorely cast down at it; so we called another pint--and we couldn’t do less, as we were in trouble. “Be gogstay!” says I, “couldn’t we run away with her? This is but Munday; and if the time’s short, we must only be the handier.” Well, blood’s thicker than water! and Brideeine, Oney, and myself settled all before we parted. Ach of them was to be settled at Killcrogher for life--and, after a throw at the counter, we parted till next mornin’.