the piper began to play, and the dancing
commenced, while a small table was placed to one
side of the fire, with some pipes, tobacco, and
whisky:—for what purpose did not appear.
When Molly looked up, Haverty was dancing
gaily with a pretty girl in a light print dress and
blue ribbon, with smooth fair hair, and saucy
eyes, and a coquettish air about her. People
watched the pair with interest and admiration.
Both were young, good-looking, and capital
dancers. They seemed made for each other
and for the jig they were footing. The girl
seemed fully aware of the admiration she
excited, and coquetted openly with her partner.

"Then they're the handsome pair!" cried one
near Molly.

"Ay, throth!" said another; "it's a
wondher the ould men isn't come to make up the
match."

"Ould blood is slow; but it'll not take them
long in the doin' when they do go at it. Both
o' them's rich enough to make the young people
happy."

"What is it?" said Molly, touching her
neighbour's elbow.

"Oh! it's John Haverty and Katty Nee
that's to have their match made to-night. You
don't know, bein' a sthranger. That's them
dancin' to others. They'll be married at wanst,
I believe, as soon as the bargain's made."

Molly stared at the dancers, and then at the
speaker, and took it all in. This was his match-
making—that was what he had called it—only
he had not said it was his own. It had all been
arranged long ago, and he had been laughing
at the poor tramp. Molly's head fell back
behind her little strip of curtain.

"I do think that sthrange girl's sick in the
corner, there," said some one by-and-by.

"No," said Molly, wiping the cold drops
from her face with the corner of her nappikeen;
"but it's very warm. Will you give me a
dhrink?" Habit is second nature; and Molly's
habit of patience was strong.

Two men came in just then, who were
received with marks of great respect. One was
a white-haired old man, the uncle of John
Haverty, the richest farmer in the country; the
other was the drover who had lost his coat in
Dublin, and the father of the pretty bride in
prospect, Katty Nee. Ah, Molly! "The fox
may run, but he's caught at last."

The men sat down at the table which had
been prepared for them, and smoked their
pipes, and laid their heads together. A lively
discussion soon began between them, and the
pipes were often taken out of their mouths, and
the table was often thumped; neighbours
looked on with admiration, and listened in awe.
By this time, the piper, who had been sipping
out of a glass by his side, began to doze over
his pipes, which grew inarticulate in their utterance,
then silent. The dancers were still, and
there was an outcry for music: a general
demand for Molly, the singing-girl, to lilt up a
jig from the corner. So Molly sang many a
mad merry jig and whirling reel, only now and
again breaking down with a gasp for breath,
while Katty and Haverty danced wilder and
faster, and the lookers-on laughed and applauded,
and the piper woke up and grumbled, and
the people said Molly had a jewel of a voice.
God bless her!

But at last John Haverty's uncle got up with
an oath and dragged his nephew out of the dance
and over to the table by the arm. The dancing
stopped in a moment. Molly's tune fell from
her lips; the young men smiled to each other
and shrugged their shoulders; the girls opened
their eyes wide, and plucked each other's skirts;
the old women groaned and flung up their
eyes to the cabin rafters; the old men cocked
their ears and shifted their feet on the floor, as
they were used to do on Sundays when preparing
to listen to the sermon. Every one expected
that something important was going to be said
regarding the business of the night.

"It's time ye stopped yer jiggin' foolery,"
said the old man, angrily, "an' took a thought
o' yer own business. Here we've settled all—
land, sheep, house, an' everything, an' there he's
stuck fast in the black cattle, an' sorra an inch
'll he budge for me. Sit down there an' make
yer own match, for divil a finger more I'll
meddle in't."

"I want you to make no match for me," said
the young man, gravely, "an' I tould ye that,
last week. I tould it to Darby Nee, too, but
nothin' would do you an' him but ye'd have a
match-makin' here to-night. It's all yer own
affair, an' if ye've fought over it ye can settle it
between ye. I've no hand in it. Katty Nee's
a purty girl, an' a good dancer, an' many's the
jig I danced with her; but I never axed her to
be my wife, an' I never will. She doesn't want
me, an' I don't want her. She has a sweet-heart
here to-night, lookin' as sour as buttermilk
because his farm isn't as big as mine, an'
she'd rather have his little finger than my whole
body an' sowl, wouldn't ye, Katty? An' for
my share," said Haverty, looking back at the
window, "seein' that this was to be my match-
makin', I thried a little business for mysel' an'
I think my match is made; at least, it only
wants wan little bit o' a word to finish the
bargain. Come out here, avourneen!" said he,
stepping up to the window, and drawing Molly
into the light, "an' tell outforenent the people
if you can take me for a husband."

The people looked surprised, but not so
much so as might be expected. Such sudden
"matches" are more common among them than
longer courtships.

Molly felt that it was like certain death to
cross that floor and face Darby Nee, yet, to save
her life, she could not have resisted that hand
drawing her on.

"A common thramp from Dublin!" stuttered
the old uncle, furiously.

"A beggar, instead of my girl with her
fortune!" shouted the bullying drover.

Molly, pale and cowering, clinging to
Haverty's arm, lifted her eyes with the old fearful
look that was common to them in Dublin, and
the drover, fixing his fox-like eyes on her,
recognised her in a moment.