more unmeasured. "The low, skinny,
death-upon-wires! I'll hound him—I'll
make his old beak scrape the very mud off
my boots. Who is he at all, the hungry
saveall? By the Lord," added the Doctor,
"if anything goes wrong in this, maybe I
won't question his old death's head with
my blackthorn stick! Who is he?" continued
the Doctor, rising in a sort of Donnybrook
fury, and making as if he would fling his
coat off, "that he should ram my
unfortunate country between my teeth, as if it
was some disability? The meagre,
skin-dried, sapless, spiceless hound!"

"Ah! never mind him, Peter," said his
wife; "he's beneath the contempt of a man
like you."

"Yes, Peter dear," says Katey, softly
drawing up the coat collar about his
shoulders, "but surely no one heeds him.
Look how popular you are with them all!"

Mr. Findlater shook his head
mournfully, and stirred his drink in
harmonious motion.

"Ah! Katey, my child, there's where it
cuts, and th' iron drives into my soul like
your mother's spit!"

This struggle, however, increased the
Doctor's popularity, and gave a little
excitement to the district: while the
defeated Mr. Ridley, solemnly forecasting
that they would rue their connexion with
"this man," vowed that if it was to cost
him a thousand pounds he'd hunt him
down yet. Inconsistent, however, with
which proclamation were the Doctor's
almost obsequious advances to his enemy,
striving hard to propitiate him in many
ways, and of course without result.

CHAPTER VI. KATEY AND POLLY.

THE Doctor was, however, a man of
mark in the town: popular with the lower
class for his jovial manners, liked by many
of the higher people, and suspected by but
a few. His bright daughters were the quicksilver
of the place: and it was no wonder that
the attractions of that curious household,
drew there Lord Shipton, and any
decent young men of the place. Genteel
people wondered invariably how such
refinement, such delicate lines and tints, could
have come of such "vulgar" parents. But
this is a common lusus naturæ. Sometimes
Nature gives an airy freshness which lies
like a bloom very thickly over the low
surrounding associations. Dressed
properly, according to the same authorities,
they would have produced an effect "at
court"—a vital test. Their heads were
set on elegantly, and their necks fell into
graceful curves and archings, as the
dramatic expression of their spirits required.
In moments of shyness with people much
above them, there came, in Polly's instance,
a certain awkwardness and embarrassment
about the shoulders. But they walked well,
and with the haughty carriage of Killarney
peasants. Polly was so piquant and
dashing, she affected strangers at once, and
did mischief right and left. Katey grew
on all: she was sweet and generous, with
a charm of graciousness she threw over
everything. She delighted in life, and all
its joys, in the pleasant song, the inspiring
dance. She was inclined to be tall, with
a finely-shaped head, and a great wealth of
brown hair, rich in colour as in quantity,
and she had a way of throwing back that
head with a flash, while her eyes gazed
thoughtfully, and with a challenge. People
saw her lips quivering long before she
spoke, as a hundred ideas (she was full of
fancy) fluttered there. Her eyes had a
sort of languor at times, soon lit up with
dancing waves of mischief, which spread
and spread downwards over her face. Then
with a turn she became grave. She had
quaint expressions of speech; but had
great thought and forethought, putting
on, very often, what her father called
her "conning" cap. He had a wallet of
names of respect for her. She was his
"Counsellor Katey," and "My Lord Chief
Justice," with "That girl has barrels of
sense put by in that little head of hers."
But, indeed, it would take many pages
of this chronicle to summarise her family
gifts, which were really, as the indulgent
father put it, "worth a hundred and fifty
pound a year to him." In fine, she had
a stormy, quick, and generous temper
in presence of wrong or injustice, which
made her cheek glow, and supplied winged
and burning words to her pretty tongue.
Such was the Doctor's first daughter.

Miss Polly Findlater, the second daughter,
was of quite a different pattern. Stouter,
rosier, and brighter than her sister; her
face was rounder, but there was not much
thought in that face. She was bright,
quick, and full of little "ways," as
acquaintances and the partners she much
delighted would call them; but which
relatives, more severely, styled "humours."
She was in boisterous spirits when some
village party was coming on; but if so
much as an east wind of disappointment
began to blow on her delicate chest, she