The old baronet threw up the sash, and as he did so, a general mar-mur of blessings and heavenly invocations met his ears--sounds, that if one were to judge from his brightening eye and beaming countenance, he relished well. No longer, however, as of old, suppliant, and entreating, with tremulous voice and shrinking gaze did they make their advances. These people were now enlisted in his army of “regenerators”; they were converts to the landlords manifold theories of improved agriculture, neat cottages, pig-styes, dove-cots, bee-hives, and heaven knows what other suggestive absurdity, ease and affluence ever devised to plate over the surface of rude and rugged misery. “The Lord bless your honour every morning you rise, 'tis the iligant little place ye gave me to live in. Musha, 'tis happy and comfortable I do be every night, now, barrin' that the slates does be falling betimes--bad luck to them for slates, one of them cut little Joe's head this morning, and I brought him up for a bit of a plaster.” This was the address of a stout, middle-aged woman, with a man's great coat around her in lieu of a cloak. “Slates falling--why doesn't your husband fasten them on again? he said he was a handy fellow, and could do any thing about a house.” “It was no lie then; Thady Morris is a good warrant for a job any day, and if it was thatch was on it----” “Thatch--why, woman, I'll have no thatch; I don't want the cabins burned down, nor will I have them the filthy hovels they used to be.” “Why would your honour?--sure there's rayson and sinse agin it,” was the chorus of all present, while the woman resumed-- “Well, he tried that same too, your honour, and if he did, by my sowl, it was worse for him, for when he seen the slates going off every minit with the wind, he put the harrow on the top--” “The harrow--put the harrow on the roof?” “Just so--wasn't it natural? But as sure as the wind riz, down came the harrow, and stript every dirty kippeen of a slate away with it.” “So the roof is off,” said Sir Marmaduke with stifled rage. “Tis as clean as my five fingers, the same rafters,” said she with unmoved gravity. “This is too bad--Wylie, do you hear this?” said the old gentleman, with a face dark with passion. “Aye,” chorused in some half dozen friends of the woman--“nothing stands the wind like the thatch.” Wylie whispered some words to his master, and by a side gesture, motioned to the woman to take her departure. The hint was at once taken, and her place immediately filled by another. This was a short little old fellow, in yellow rags, his face concealed by a handkerchief, on removing which, he discovered a countenance that bore no earthly resemblance to that of a human being: the eyes were entirely concealed by swollen masses of cheek and eye-lid--the nose might have been eight noses--and the round immense lips, and the small aperture between, looked like the opening in a ballot-box.