The stranger--or, to give him his proper name, Mr. Merl--now approached the window, and watched, not without admiration, the skilful management by which Scanlan skimmed along the strand, zigzagging his smart nag through all the awkward impediments of the way, and wending his tandem through what appeared a labyrinth of confusion. Men bred and born in great cities are somewhat prone to fancy that certain accomplishments, such as tandem-driving, steeple-chasing, and such like, are the exclusive acquirements of rank and station. They have only witnessed them as the gifts of guardsmen and “young squires of high degree,” never suspecting that in the country a very inferior class is often endowed with these skilful arts. Mr. Merl felt, therefore, no ordinary reverence for Maurice Scanlan, a sentiment fully reciprocated by the attorney, as he beheld the gorgeous dressing-gown, rich tasselled cap, and Turkish trousers of the other. “I thought I'd arrive before you, sir,” said Scanlan, with a profound bow, as he entered the room; “but I'm glad you got in first. What a shower that was!” “Shower!” said Merl; “a West India hurricane is a zephyr to it. I 'd not live in this climate if you 'd give me the whole Martin estate!” “I 'm sure of it, sir; one must be bred in the place, and know no better, to stand it.” And although the speech was uttered in all humility, Merl gave the speaker a searching glance, as though to say, “Don't lose your time trying to humbug me; I'm 'York,' too.” Indeed, there was species of freemasonry in the looks that now passed between the two; each seemed instinctively to feel that he was in the presence of an equal, and that artifice and deceit might be laid aside for the nonce. “I hope you agree with me,” said Scanlan, in a lower and more confidential voice, “that this was the best place to come to. Here you can stay as long as you like, and nobody the wiser; but in the town of Oughterard they'd be at you morning, noon, and night, tracking your steps, questioning the waiter, ay, and maybe taking a peep at your letters. I 've known that same before now.” “Well, I suppose you 're right; only this place does look a little dull, I confess.” “It's not the season, to be sure,” said Scanlan, apologetically. “Oh! and there is a season here?” “Isn't there, by George!” said Maurice, smacking his lips. “I 've seen two heifers killed here of a morning, and not so much as a beefsteak to be got before twelve o'clock. 'T is the height of fashion comes down here in July,--the Rams of Kiltimmon, and the Bodkins of Crossmaglin; and there was talk last year of a lord,--I forget his name; but he ran away from Newmarket, and the story went that he was making for this.” “Any play?” asked Merl. “Play is it? That there is; whist every night, and backgammon.” Merl threw up his eyebrows with pretty much the same feeling with which the Great Napoleon repeated the words “Bows and Arrows!” as the weapons of a force that offered him alliance.