“Ye'll hae sma' space for yer luggage in you,” said M'Nab, with one of his driest laughs, while he turned back and re-entered the house. “Where's my pony?--where's my pony?” shouted out the Doctor, determined to face all his calamities at once. “Oh, faix, he's nothing the worse,” said Kerry, as he unlocked the door of the stable, and pointed with all the pride of veracity to a beast in the stall before them. “There, he is, jumping like a kid, out of his skin wid' fun this morning.” Now, although the first part of Kerry's simile was assuredly incorrect, as no kid, of which we have any record, ever bore the least resemblance to the animal in question, as to the fact of being “out of his skin” there could not be a second opinion, the beast being almost entirely flayed from his shoulders to his haunches, his eyes being represented by two globular masses, about the size of billiard-balls, and his tail bearing some affinity to an overgrown bamboo, as it hung down, jointed and knotted, but totally destitute of hair. “The thief of the world,” said Kerry, as he patted him playfully; “he stripped a trifle of hair off him with kicking; but a little gunpowder and butter will bring it on again, in a day or two.” “Liar that thou art, Kerry--it would take a cask of one, and a firkin of the other to make up the necessary ointment!” There are some evils which no anticipation can paint equal to their severity, and these, in compensation perhaps, are borne for the most part, without the same violent exuberance of sorrow lesser misfortunes elicit. So it was--Roach spoke not a word: one menace of his clenched hand towards Kerry, was the only token he gave of his malice, and he left the stable. “I've a note here for Doctor Roach,” said a servant, in Sir Marmaduke's livery, to Kerry, as he proceeded to close and lock the stable-door. “I'm the person,” said the Doctor, taking the billet and breaking the seal. “Have you the carriage here now?” asked he, when he had finished reading. “Yes, sir, it's on the road. Sir Marmaduke desired me not to drive up, for fear of disturbing the sick gentleman.” “I'm ready, then,” said the Doctor; “and never casting a look backward, nor vouchsafing another word, he passed out of the gate, and descended towards the high road. “I'll take good care of the baste till I see you, sir,” shouted Kerry after him; and then, as the distance widened, he added, “and may I never see your ould yallow wig agin, I pray this day. Divil take me, but I hope you've some of the slugs in ye, after all;” and with these pious wishes, expressed fervently, Kerry returned to the house, his heart considerably lightened by the Doctor's departure. Scarcely was he seated beside the kitchen fire--the asylum he regarded as his own--when, all fears for his misconduct and its consequences past, he began speculating in a very Irish fashion, on the reasons of the Doctor's sudden departure.