In this room a notable assemblage was
convened. A. long board, contrived by means of
several small tables, was spread with tea, soda
cakes, " crackers," and potato cakes, several
pounds of butter in a large roll being placed in
the centre on a dish. A bed, with blue checker
curtains and patchwork counterpane, choked up
one corner of the room, leaving no space for
chairs. This difficulty was comfortably ignored
by the guests sitting on the bed, and nursing
their cups and platters on their knees. Those
opposite were less fortunate, as the heels of
their chairs were nearly treading on the hearth.
All the élite of Bofin were here. There was
Timothy Joyce, the national schoolmaster, about
whose learning there were dark reports. It was
whispered that he had a crack right across the
top of his skull, occasioned by too reckless a
prosecution of abstruse studies in his youth, and
that this was why he wore his hair so long, and
brushed so smooth and close above his forehead.
There was Martin Leahy, the boat-maker, the
ring of whose cheerful hammer on the beach,
late and early, helped the larks and the striking
oars in the harbour to make music all through
the summer months. There was Mick Coyne
Mack, the last name signifying " son," an Irish
way of saying "junior." He was clerk in
the chapel, a spare grizzled man, a great hand
at praying and discoursing, a famous voteen
(devotee), and almost as good at an argument
as the schoolmaster himself. Then there was
Tady, the strange piper, who having penetrated
as far as Dublin and Belfast in the
course of his scientific researches, and picked up
odd polkas and operatic airs from hurdy-gurdys
and German bands, was looked upon with much
awe, as a superior professor of music. There
was a young man, a cousin of an islander, who
had just returned from America, with genteel
clothes, a fine nasal twang in his speech, and
plenty of anecdote about foreign lands. And
though last, not least, there was the captain of
a trading sail ship, that, on her way from Spain
to Liverpool, had been driven out of her course
and taken refuge in Bofin harbour.

Biddy Prendergast, a plain-faced woman
in a grand dress cap and plaid gown, was
making tea at the head of her board, in high
spirits. She was talking volubly, joking and
laughing at Mike Tiernay, who with a huge
black kettle in hand was replenishing her
earthen teapot. Every now and again she
winked at Peggy Moran, who sat close by, with
her back to the fire, in all the glory of the
five muslin flounces, a knot of red ribbons
blazing under her chin, and her great black eyes
dancing responsive to Biddy's winks, or falling
demurely on her teacup when handsome Mike
looked her way. Not a doubt but Mike was
the best-looking man in the house, tall, and manly,
and bronzed; with his coaxing voice, and his
roguish smile, and his frank way of tossing the
dark curls from his forehead by a fling of his
head. Peggy, the belle, had long desired to
count him on the list of her admirers. Peggy had
three cows and two feather-beds to her dower;
the finest fortune in Bofin. Biddy, through
pure good will to Mike, her favourite, was trying
to make a match between him and the
heiress. This unknown to the elder Morans,
who would sooner have seen their daughter
mist ress of Con Lavelle's fine farm at Fawnmore.
Biddy's hints and Peggy's handsome eyes had
until to-night remained unheeded. Now there
was a sudden change. Mike was remarkably
civil to both of these ladies. He tucked Peggy's
flounces carefully away from the fire, and helped
her twice to crackers. Peggy dimpled and
blushed, and Biddy laughed and winked, and
Mike was in the act of pouring the water and
the teapot, when the door was pushed open into
Maureen and her friends came in.

A scream from Biddy greeted their entrance.
"Bad manners to it for a kittle!" cried Mike,
getting very red in the face. "Is the finger
scalded aff o' you entirely? Sure if it is I'll
put a ring on it for aplasther, an' if that doesn't
mend it, sorra more can I do."

The finger was suitably bound and bemoaned,
and Biddy pardoned the offender, forgot her
pains like a heroine, and attended to her new
guests.

"Come down, Con, come down, man, here's a
sate by the fire. The night's could. Good
luck to ye, Nan, hang yer cloak on. the door
there, an' come down an' ate a bit o' somethin'.
Yer welcome, Maureen Lacey! Make room,
girls, an' let her come down. It's seldom we
get you to come out. An' how's the rumatics
with yer mother?"

Con Lavelle being an important man, the
richest farmer in the island, was soon forced
into a seat by the fire, and he and his sister had
their wants quickly attended to. Maureen, who
was looked on by the hostess as rather an
interloper, was not so eagerly noticed. Maureen
felt this with a swelling heart. The next
moment Mike had shouldered his way to her,
had cleared a place for her on the bed, and
taken his seat beside her, just at the corner,
where he could draw back his head behind the
looping of the curtain, and look at her proud
downcast face as much as he pleased. Maureen,
with a huge cup and saucer in her hands.
trembled so, that she spilled the tea all over her
grand chintz gown. Sitting there opposite to
Peggy Moran's jealous eyes, with Mike leal and
true beside her, Maureen struggled in the toils
of the temptation to turn round and smile in his
face, and ask him to hand her a piece of cake.
She knew that Mike was thinking of her last
words to him on the bog, knew it by his
jubilant air, and the fire from his eyes that
shone on her from behind the looping of
the curtain. The temptation fought within
her to let him have it his own way. In the
whirling vision of a second she saw herself
wife, mistress of a snug little shelter at
the East End, making ready the hearth for Mike
coming home from his fishing. No more
drenching in the high spring tides, battling with
storm and rain, carrying home the sea-rack on
angry midnights. No more long days of labour