Accordingly, she ran up the back stairs, and brought down her bonnet and shawl, which she left behind the staircase-door, and anxiously awaited the moment to be off duty. She had put every plate in the rack, laid all the iron spoons in the drawer, cleaned the spit, and placed it, bright and shining, over the chimney-piece. All the skewers had been strung, all the knives and forks washed and wiped, boilers, saucepans, gridirons, and the rest of the culinary utensils cleaned, and placed in their proper places; in short, scarcely any one would have believed that they had that day been used. Clean they were, and cleaner the well-washed face and hands of the active girl, who had finished her work, and prepared herself for an interview with one whose image had been graven on her mind through every period of her short service. At last she heard that welcome sound, more enchanting to her ear than any song which the young men had sung: "Boy, take the can to Margaret!" It was soon replenished; and scarcely was the kitchen-door closed, ere the bonnet and shawl were put on, the latch of the door lifted up, and the bright rising moon shining gloriously in at the door. Happy moment! what pencil could portray the features of that face upon which the moon so clearly shone on that September night? Poor girl! 'twas a breathless moment of long anticipated pleasure to thy good and honest heart, such as many a one, like thee, may have experienced; but such as none, be she who she may, could have more anxiously endured. At last, Margaret is off. The pleasure of the feast continued; and, as the foaming ale went round, the spirits of the youths arose, and each bachelor who could not sing had to toast his favourite lass. There were singular disclosures made at this season, which generally indicated the future destiny of the bachelor. It was amusing enough to hear those who did not choose to tell their lover's name attempt to sing, as "the lord" called upon him for a toast or song. "We haven't had Jack Barry's song," said a sly fellow of the name of Riches, who himself was one of the best singers in the party. "Please, sir" (for such the lord of the feast was styled that night), "call upon Jack for his song." Now, the labourer at the head of the table knew that Jack could not sing. He did not suppose, either, that he had any favourite lass; for no one had seen Jack flirting, or directing his attentions towards any favoured individual. The lord, however, was bound to do his duty, when so urged; he therefore said, "John Barry, we call upon you for a song." "I cannot sing, master: I wish I could," was the reply. "Then you must give us a toast; and you know what it must be--'Your favourite lass.'"