“I believe we spell our name as I have pronounced it.” “Well, if you come to spend a little time here, I 'll give you a hint or two. Don't join Leonard--that blue-nosed fellow, yonder, in whiskey. He 'll be asking you, but don't--at it all day.” Here Mr. Dempsey pantomimed the action of tossing off a dram. “No whist with the widow; if you were younger, I 'd say no small plays with Bess Boyle,--has a brother in the Antrim militia, a very quarrelsome fellow.” “I thank you sincerely for your kind counsel, although not destined to profit by it. I have one favor to ask: could you procure me the means to enclose my card for Miss Daly, as I must relinquish the hope of seeing her on this occasion?” “No, no,--stop and dine. Capital cod and oysters,--always good. The mutton _rayther_ scraggy, but with a good will and good teeth manageable enough; and excellent malt-” “I thank you for your hospitable proposal, but cannot accept it.” “Well, I 'll take care of your card; you 'll probably come over again soon. You 're at M'Grotty's, ain't you?” “Not at present; and as to the card, with your permission I'll enclose it.” This Darcy was obliged to insist upon; as, if he left his name as Gwynne, Miss Daly might have failed to recognize him, while he desired to avoid being known as Mr. Darcy. “Well, come in here; I 'll find you the requisites. But I wish you 'd stop and see the 'Panther.'” Had the Knight overheard this latter portion of Mr. Dempsey's invitation, he might have been somewhat surprised; but it chanced that the words were lost, and, preceded by honest Paul, he entered the little garden in front of the house. When Darcy had enclosed his card and committed it to the hands of Mr. Dempsey, that gentleman was far too deeply impressed with the importance of his mission to delay a moment in executing it, and then the Knight was at last left at liberty to retrace his steps unmolested towards home. If he had smiled at the persevering curiosity and eccentric communicativeness of Mr. Dempsey, Darcy sorrowed deeply over the fallen fortunes which condemned one he had known so courted and so flattered once, to companionship like this. The words of the classic satirist came full upon his memory, and never did a sentiment meet more ready acceptance than the bitter, heart-wrung confession, “Unhappy poverty! you have no heavier misery in your train than that you make men seem ridiculous.” A hundred times he wished he had never made the excursion; he would have given anything to be able to think of her as she had been, without the detracting influence of these vulgar associations. “And yet,” said he, half aloud, “a year or so more, if I am still living, I shall probably have forgotten my former position, and shall have conformed myself to the new and narrow limits of my lot, doubtless as she does.”