Poor Tate, who had suddenly become alive to the characters and objects of his quests, was now aware that his mistress's refusal to admit the chief might possibly be productive of very disastrous consequences; for, like all low Irishmen, he had a very ample notion of the elastic character of the law, and thought that its pains and penalties were entirely at the option of him who executed it. “Her Ladyship never liked to see much company,” said he, apologetically. “Well, maybe so,” rejoined M'Dennot, “but in a quiet homely sort of a way, sure she need n't have refused Mr. Anthony; little she knows, there 's not the like of him for stories about the Court of Conscience and the Sessions.” “I don't doubt it,” exclaimed Tate, who, in assenting, felt pretty certain that his fascinations would scarcely have met appreciation in the society of his mistress and her daughter. “And if ye heerd him sing 'Hobson's Choice,' with a new verse of his own at the end!” Tate threw a full expression of wondering admiration into his features, and went on with his arrangements in silence. “Does he know anything of Dempsey, do you think?” said Nickie, in a whisper to his follower. “Not he,” muttered the other, scornfully; “the crayture seems half a nat'ral.” Then, in a voice pitched purposely loud, he said, “Do you happen to know one Dempsey in these parts?” “Paul Dempsey?” added Nickie. “A little, short man, with a turned-up nose, that walks with his shoulders far back and his hands spread out? Ay, I know him well; he dined here one day with the master, and sure enough he made the company laugh hearty!” “I 'd be glad to meet him, if he 's as pleasant as you say,” said Nickie, slyly. “There's nothing easier, then,” said Tate; “since the boarding-house is closed there at Ballintray, he's up in Coleraine for the winter. I hear he waits for the Dublin mail, at M'Grotty's door, every evening, to see the passengers, and that he has a peep at the way-bill before the agent himself.” “Has he so many acquaintances that he is always on the look out for one?” “Faix, if they'd let him,” cried Tate, laughing, “I believe he 'd know every man, woman, and child in Ireland. For curiosity, he beats all ever I seen.” As Tate spoke, a sudden draught of wind seemed to penetrate the chamber,--at least the canoe and its party shook perceptibly. “We'll have a rare night of it,” said Nickie, drawing nearer to the fire. Then resuming, added, “And you say I'll have no difficulty to find him?” “Not the least, bedad! It would be far harder to escape him, from all I hear. He watches the coach, and never leaves it till he sees the fore boot and the hind one empty; not only looking the passengers in the face, but tumbling over the luggage, reading all the names, and where they 're going. Oh, he's a wonderful man for knowledge!” “Indeed,” said Nickie, with a look of attention to draw on the garrulity of the old man.