up in Biddy's new room, an' duckin' for apples,
an' jumpin' at candles. Sorra sich a turn-out
ever you seen! You'll come, Maureen?"

At the beginning of this address, Maureen
had changed colour quickly, and, seizing the
tongs, had commenced a fresh attack on the
fire. Now she answered readily:

"I thank you, Nan," she said, " for comin'
so far out o' yer way for me; an' I'm obliged
to yer brother, too. But I think I'll not stir
out again to-night."

"6ch now, Maureen, yer not in airnest; yer
not goin' to spen' yer Hallow's Eve at the fireside
yer lone. Sorra wan o' you!"

"I'm goin' to my bed, by-an'-by," said
Maureen. "I'm thinkin' it's the fittest place for
me that's been workin' hard since four this
morniu'."

"Ay, Maureen, you work too hard," said
Con Lavelle, speaking for the first time, shading
his eyes with a brawny hand, while he shot a
glance of tenderness at her from under his
massive rough-hewn brows.

Maureen flushed again as she felt the glance.
"That's for my own judgment," she said,
impatiently. " I'm young an' strong, an" if ever
I'm to work it's now for sure; an' I thank you,
Con!"

"But you'll come to the dance?" said Nan,
coaxingly.

"No, Nan; I'll go to my bed."

"Well, if ever I seen or hard of such a girl!"
said the sickly stepmother, fretfully. " Heavens
above! when I was yer age there wasn't a
dance in the island that I wouldn't be at.
Come, none o' yer laziness, Maureen! Bed,
indeed! I tell ye there's nothin' on airth for
restin' young bones afther a hard day's work
like a good dance. Up with you, girl, an' put
on yer shoes, an' take the cloak."

"Mother!" said Maureen, looking up in
amazement, "don't bid me for to go to-night.
You don't know what yer doin'."

"But I do bid you for to go, an' if you gainsay
me now, it'll be the first time in yer life.
As for not knowin' what I'm doin', it's a quare
speech, Maureen, an' wan I didn't expect from
you. Be off with ye, now!"

"An" I'm to go, mother?"

"You're to go, an' be quick!"

"Then let it stan' so," said Maureen, rising
up suddenly, and looking down at her
stepmother with a queer expression on her face.
"I'm doin' yer biddin', an' come good or
come ill of it, ye must bear the burthen. I'll
go."

Down to the room went Maureen, with a
lighted candle in her hand, which she stuck in a
sconce on the wall.

"I have sthrived an' I have wrought," muttered
she, as with trembling hands she began to
put on her grey worsted stockings, and the
shoes that on Sundays and state occasions only,
covered her nimble feet. " I have toiled for her,
an' she niver would give me my will as much as
to the sayin' of I'll go, or I'll stay. Now I'm
doin' her biddin', as I still have done it, an' if
ill comes out of it, let her look to 't. I've
hardened mysel', an' I've hardened mysel', but
I'm not as hard as the rock yet. An' if I go at
all,feth I'll go dacent, an' not be danced undher
foot by the grandeur of Peggy Moran, with her
genteel airs, an' her hoops, an' her five muzlin
flounces, stickin' out all round her, starched as
stiff as the grass in a white frast. Oh!—-"

Here Maureen gave one desperate gasp of
impatience to the thought of Peggy Moran, and
struck her heel on the ground to drive it home
in the unaccustomed shoe. Who should keep
her from going to Biddy Prendergast's dance
now? Not all the men in Bofin, armed to the
death with shillelaghs.

She opened an old painted chest in the corner,
and produced a gown. This gown had belonged
to her own dead mother, and was the one piece
of finery which Maureen possessed in the world.
It was a grand chintz, with blue and gold-colour
flowers on a chocolate ground, and fitted her
figure to a nicety. This was quickly assumed,
and her long amber hair rolled round her head
in as smooth a wreath as its natural waviness
would permit of. When this was done, a little
cracked looking-glass over the hearth declared
her toilet complete. Then she came back to the
kitchen, and while Con Lavelle's admiring eyes
devoured her from a shadowy corner, she served
out their supper of potatoes to the children, and
placed "the grain of tay" in a little brown teapot,
burnt black, on the hearth within reach of
her stepmother's hand. These things done, she
put the key of the house in her pocket, and taking
"the cloak," a family garment, she followed her
friends out of the cabin into a calm moonlit
night, which had replaced the gloomy twilight.
Biddy Prendergast's house was in the Middle
Quarter village, a good walk from the Widow
Lacey's. When Maureen and the Lavelles
arrived at the festive scene, operations had already
commenced. Screams of laughter greeted their
entrance, from a crowd of boys and girls who
were ducking for apples in a tub of water behind
the door. The kitchen was lighted by a
huge turf fire that roared up the reeking chimney.
In the smoky rafters hens dozed, and nets
dangled. Flitches of bacon and bunches of
dried fish swung in the draught when the door
was opened. Biddy Prendergast was a well-to-do
woman, one of the island aristocrats. In the
ingle nook two or three colliaghs, anglicè crones,
were toasting their knees and holding their chat,
while the light leaped over their worn red
petticoats and withered faces and hands. In a
retired corner was Paudeen, the  island piper,
wrinkled and white-haired, sitting with his
knowing eyes half closed, droning and tuning at
his pipes, holding commune with them, as it
were, rallying and inspiring all their energies for
the coming struggle with the rival pipes and
piper, who had come to dispute the palm for
skilful harmonies with the Bofin instrument and
the Bofin musician. Tady, the other performer,
was "down in the room" at his tea. And
"down to the room " went our party from the
North Beach.