After a few preparatory scruples, in which modesty, offended dignity, and conscious merit struggled, Mr. M'Keown began by informing us that he had once a most ardent attachment to a certain Biddy Finn, of Ballyclough,--a lady of considerable personal attractions, to whom for a long time he had been constant, and at last, through the intervention of Father Curtin, agreed to marry. Darby's consent to the arrangements was not altogether the result of his reverence's eloquence, nor indeed the justice of the case; nor was it quite owing to Biddy's black eyes and pretty lips; but rather to the soul-persuading powers of some fourteen tumblers of strong punch which he swallowed at a _séance_ in Biddy's father's house one cold evening in November, after which he betook himself to the road homewards, where--But we must give his story in his own words: “Whether it was the prospect of happiness before me, or the potteen,” quoth Darby, “but so it was,--I never felt a step of the road home that night, though it was every foot of five mile. When I came to a stile, I used to give a whoop, and over it; then I'd run for a hundred yards or two, flourish my stick, cry out, 'Who 'll say a word against Biddy Finn?' and then over another fence, flying. Well, I reached home at last, and wet enough I was; but I did n't care for that. I opened the door and struck a light; there was the least taste of kindling on the hearth, and I put some dry sticks into it and some turf, and knelt down and began blowing it up. “'Troth,' says I to myself, 'if I wor married, it isn't this way I'd be,--on my knees like a nagur; but when I 'd come home, there 'ud be a fine fire blazin' fornint me, and a clean table out before it, and a beautiful cup of tay waiting for me, and somebody I won't mintion, sitting there, looking at me, smilin'.' “'Don't be making a fool of yourself, Darby M'Keown,' said a gruff voice near the chimley. “I jumped at him, and cried out, 'Who 's that?' But there was no answer; and at last, after going round the kitchen, I began to think it was only my own voice I heard; so I knelt down again, and set to blowing away at the fire. “'And it's yerself, Biddy,' says I, 'that would be an ornament to a dacent cabin; and a purtier leg and foot--' “'Be the light that shines, you're making me sick. Darby M'Keown,' said the voice again. “'The heavens be about us!' says I, 'what 's that? and who are you at all?' for someways I thought I knew the voice. “'I 'm your father!' says the voice. “'My father!' says I. 'Holy Joseph, is it truth you 're telling me?' “'The divil a word o' lie in it,' says the voice. 'Take me down, and give me an air o' the fire, for the night 's cowld.' “'And where are you, father,' says I, 'av it's plasing to ye?' “'I 'm on the dhresser,' says he. 'Don't you see me?' “'Sorra bit o' me. Where now?' “'Arrah, on the second shelf, next the rowling-pin. Don't you see the green jug?--that's me.'