As he returned with his unshod horse, he pondered while jogging along. “_What_ should be about that Kate Kavanagh above all girls to set a whole parish astray?” And as he could find no solution of the enigma short of sorcery, he set it down that she was “Ould Nick in petticoats!” “My two hopeful sons is mad afther her.” said he, soliloquising; “the unfortunate counsellor is fairly cracked about her; the smith is grown wild, an’ the tailor knocked stupid; heaven only knows what way the carpinther an’ mason is, for she has all the thrades, I’m thinkin’; an’ now all I pray is that she may charm some thrav’ling tinker, an’ that he may carry her off body an’ bones for the pace ov the counthry!” Ah! little did honest Dennis know who was to be the next victim of merciless Kate Kavanagh! Well, next morning he set out for Bargie, after taking an affectionate farewell of his good little wife, and after cautioning her repeatedly to have a constant look-out after the “boys and Kate Kavanagh.” Fain would he have persuaded his eldest son to accompany him to the wedding, but Jem pathetically pleaded “pains in his bones an’ headache” (heartache he should have said), and his father very unwillingly set off without him. Our farmer had only ridden a few miles, when, coming to a village, like a true son of the soil he should stop at the “public” to taste the “mountain dew.” Early as it was in the morning, it appeared there were others as interestingly engaged, and vociferating loudly on some important topic. Whatever it might be, our friend Dennis thought it could be no concern of his, and without making any inquiry he called for his dandy of punch. Overhead the revellers kept up a most astounding debate; presently were heard shouts, curses, hustling, and blows, and the next instant half a dozen combatants came head foremost tumbling down the steep and narrow stairs together! “Fight it out fair, ye vilyens,” roared the hostess, as her face flamed and her eye fired, “but fight it out ov _my_ house. Into the street with every mother’s son ov ye, or know for what!” and seizing a pewter beer quart, she leaped over the counter, and pummelled the backs and heads of all within her reach, till she actually cleared them out of her house. “What an uproar they make in a quiet place!” said she, as she returned to Dennis Costigan, who was laughing heartily at the spree. Now, there is something extraordinary in the blood of an Irishman. A fight is his choicest amusement, and if he is not a principal actor in one, he must be a spectator. Even our sober barony Forth farmer was excited, and eagerly asked “what it was all about?” “All about nonsinse,” replied Mrs Boniface, “all about nonsinse when it is about a woman. All the uproar was about a naibur ov yours, Misther Costigan, who has turned the heads ov some ov our lads here, an’ many others besides--one Miss Kavanagh. Do you know her?”