“Is it me makes mistakes!” quoth Jem indignantly; “that’s what I never did yet, except wanst or twice, an’ I’ll not begin now.” And he mounted the mare, and turned her head towards Wexford. But as he should pass Miles Kavanagh’s cottage, “it would be only right an’ proper to ax if he or Kate had any commands for town.” And--and--when he got to Wexford, he quite forgot the colour his father had ordered, and, thinking of Kate Kavanagh’s hair and eyes, he bought black. Well, never was man in a greater fume than our friend Dennis Costigan when he saw his son’s purchase. “Black! black!” he repeated again and again, as he held up the cloth and indignantly scowled at it and its purchaser, “black for a weddin’! Oh, ye born nathural! what on earth put it into yer head to buy black for a weddin’? But I see the thruth in yer eyes this minnit! Ye seen that--that--plague upon earth, Kate Kavanagh, afore ye wint to Waxford, an’ she, as ushial, put every wise thought out ov yer head. Black coat at a weddin’!--who ever seen the like afore?” It was in vain that poor Jem explained that “the cloth was not all out black, but what was called Oxfert-grey--a mighty ginteel colour, an’ sitch as was worn by all fathers ov families.” “That’s as much as to say that it is worn by all ould min?” said the father, nothing better pleased. “What a judge ye are! But as the cloth is bought, I must keep it I suppose, an’ I’ll take it to the tailor’s myself, for fear ye’d make some other confounded blundher. I wouldn’t wondher if ye’d tell him to make it a spincer-jacket without skirts, ye have sitch a janious for mistakes!” And putting the parcel of cloth under his arm, he set out for Jemmy Nowlan’s domicile. There he saw no one but the tailor’s old mother sitting very melancholy over the fire. “Can I see yer son Jemmy, widda Nowlan?” asked the farmer. “Och, asthore machree, Misther Costigan,” said the widow, setting up a keen, and rocking herself about, “ye may see him an’ welkim, but a quare sight ye’ll see whin ye sees him; an’, linamachree! the worst ov it is, he can’t see ye now.” “Why, what’s the matther?” demanded Mr Costigan alarmed. “I hope he’s not dead?” “He’s not dead, but he’s kilt intirely,” sobbed the distressed parent, “wid the lambastin’ he got ere-last night at the dance at Dinny Doran’s.” “Well, an’ what takes _him_ to dances?” said the farmer in a heat. “Sure the like shred ov him ought to stay at home an’ mind his bisness.”