“What!” said the youth, as his brows met in passion, and his heightened colour showed how his anger was raised. “Well, well--it's no matter, there's my offer; and if I make a ten pound note of her, sure it's all I live by; I wasn't born to an estate and a fine property, like yourself.” These words, uttered in such a tone as to be inaudible to the rest, seemed to mollify the young man's wrath, for, sullenly stretching forth his hand, he took the bundle and opened it on the table before him. “A dry bargain never was a lucky one, they say, Lanty--isn't that so?” said the ODonoghue, as, seizing a small hand-bell, he ordered up a supply of claret, as well as the more vulgar elements for punch, should the dealer, as was probable, prefer that liquor. “These notes seem to have seen service,” muttered Mark: “here's a lagged fellow. There's no making out whether he's two or ten.” “They were well handled, there's no doubt of it,” said Lanty, “the tenants was paying them in; and sure you know yourself how they thumb and finger a note before they part with it. You'd think they were trying to take leave of them. There's many a man can't read a word, can tell you the amount of a note, just by the feel of it!--Thank you, sir, I'll take the spirits--it's what I'm most used to.” “Who did you get them from, Lanty?” said the ODonoghue. “Malachi Glynn, sir, of Cahernavorra, and, by the same token, I got a hearty laugh at the same house once before.” “How was that?” said the old man, for he saw by the twinkle of Lanty's eye, that a story was coming.