knew nothin' of it, but it is then the rogue of a wolf took an advantage of him to get into his mouth, so 'cute, an' down his throath, an' into the stomach snug an' warm, an' the masther nivir knowin' a word about it. When he woke by an' by, an' went home to dinner, he felt so hungry that you'd think he'd ate the world, an' dhrink the ocean dhry. His dinner was no more to him than a boiled piatee. He ate an' he ate, an' he dhrank an' he dhrank, an' he was just as hungry an' as thirsty when he got up as he was when he sat down. So it went on from day to day, an' instead of being betther, 'tis worse and worse he was gettin' ever an' always.

"One neighbour come in, an' another, an' not one of 'em could give the laste account of what aileded him. An' what was worst of all was, that in place o' getting fat with all he ate, 'tis laner an' laner he was gettin' every day, till he was a complete nottomy. Not a ha'porth he ett or dhrank done him any good.

"Still nobody could tell from Adam what was the matther with him. The docthor that was in the place, although bein' a very knowin' man, he knew nothin' whatever of this ailment, never meetin' a case o' the kind before. One neighbour recommended one thing, and another another, but the masther didn't give in to any of 'em some way, an' when they'd bring him any great physic, in place o' takin' it, he'd give it to the missiz to keep for him. Well, one day he came in, lookin' so pale and wake, that he was ready to dhrop. There's no use in talkin', my dear', says he to the missiz, but there's some bad work goin' on inside in me'. 'Can't you take some of the muddicines, my love?' says she. Rech 'em hether', says he, 'I believe I must do something'. So she rech'd 'em all down. Why, then, the Heavens direct me now', says the missiz, which o' these I'm to give you', says she, lookin' at the hape. I'll tell you what', says the masther, if one o' them is good, the whole o' them must be

6

betther. Make them get a saucepan', says he, 'an' a dhrop o' wather'. So she did. The saucepan was brought, and the masther haved 'em all into it headforemost, bottles, an' pills, an' powders, in as they wor, an' boiled 'em all together with the dhrop o' wather. When it was boiled he dhrank it, an' little was wanten but it was the last dhrop he ever dhrank. He lost his walk the same day, an' before night it was all the same thing as over with him.

"Well, nothin' would satisfy the missiz, but some docthor should see him, to keep people's tongues quiet. While she was thinkin' who she'd send for, an ould bucogh come to the doore axin' charity, an' he up an' tould her where she'd get a rale docthor. • There's a docthor', says he, 'livin' upon the borders of Kerry, an' if there's any man', says he, that's able to raise the dead to life, 'tis he'. So the missiz called Tim Dalton, or Tim Tell-truth, as we used all to call him, by raison he never would tell a word o' thruth by his own good will. an' sent him off on horseback for this great docthor. I can only give you Tim's word for what took place, until he came back next day following. He rode for a good part of a day, until he come into the lonesomest mountain counthry he ever seen in his life. He made inquiries, and they showed him where the docthor lived, in a lonesome house down in a little glen, an' the smoke comin' out o' the chimney. 'Well', says Tim to me, an' he tellin' me the story, ‘I med for the house, an' if I did, there I seen all the place sthrown all round with dead men's bones, an' the pathway up to the hall-doore was paved with little white things that looked just like knuckle-bones. Well become me', says Tim, 'I med for the hall doore, an' gev a great rap, and axed for the docthor. The sarvant girl showed me into the kitchen, where there was a great pot bilin' on the fire. Thinks I to myself, I wondher what in the world is

The use of his limbs.

in the pot. So while I was wondherin', the docthor come out an' axed me my business, which I up an' toult him. "Well", says he, "stay asy a minute, an' I'll be with you; but for your life", says he, "take care you don't look after me". I'll engage', says Tim, I wasn't said by him, but the instant he left the kitchen, I took an' opened the doore, an' gave a dawny peep into the room that was inside it'. Well, what Tim seen in that room, he never was very ready to tell, only from that day out, he wouldn't take a taste of muddicine if he was dyin'. He used to say he seen keelers all round the room, an' dead people hangin' up, an' their blood dhroppin' into the keelers, to make muddicines. I'm sure, as for myself, I only hould it to be one of Tim's stories. But he brought the docthor away with

him, any way.

He began

"When the docthor come to the ould masther's room, an' felt his pulse, he looked very sarious. makin' a cut jest anear the heart with his insthruments, an' I declare you could hear the wolf barkin' inside, quite plain, at every cut he made. So he brought out the wolf, an' showed it to us all-a little dawny thing not the length o' my finger, but the tail going like a switch, an' the eyes like little sparks of fire. But howsomever it was, the poor masther didn't get much good of it, an' 'twasn't long afther that we had to lay him with his people.

"Be coorse, the masther's son, Misther Henry, come after him-an' a sore day it was for the estate, the day it come into his hands. If the ould masther was over foolish in spendin', he was twice more so. Cocks, an' horses, an' hounds, an' every other ha'p'orth that the first gentleman in the land could fancy, he had about him from year to year. But it wasn't that that broke him after all, only I'll tell you.

"There was a poor Dumby the ould masther kep, that used to dhraw out anything in the whole world upon a slate; he was still in the house when the new masther

was goin' on this way. Well, of a day when Misther Thomas was gettin' ready for the Curragh, sure the very day before the jockey was to take her off, the mare was found dead in the stable! The masther was fit to be tied -so he sent off privately for Shaun Dooley, a knowledgeable man that lived down near the say-side, that had a great report for bein' thick with the good people. 'Tis myself went for him, an' carried a led horse ready saddled to bring him up to Tipsy Hall, not to spake of a goold guinea I had for him at the first word. I waited till night-fall, because the masther would be very unfond any body should know he'd send for a fairy docthor.

"I brought Shaun Dooley up to the masther, and he seemed for a while greatly puzzled to know what could be the cause of it. 'Did you ever shoot a weazel?' says Shaun Dooley. 'Not to my knowledge', says the masther. 'Or a magpie?' 'Not as I remember, indeed'. 'Do you be whistlin' when you do be out at night at all?' 'That can't be', says the masther, for I never turned a tune'. 'Well, I don't know in the world what to think of it', says Shaun. So while he was thinkin', there was a great flutterin' outside. 'What's that noise?' says Shaun Dooley. I suppose it's the pigeons that's comin' home', says the masther. 'Pigeons cries Shaun, do you keep pigeons about the house? It's plain to me now', says he, what rason your mare died, an' I wouldn't wondher', says he, if all belongin' to you was gone to rack and ruin'. 'What rason?' says the masther. 'I'll not tell you what rason', says Shaun, but if you take my advice, you'll not have one of 'em about the place'.

"He went, an' next mornin' airly the masther went about shootin all the pigeons. There was one of em that the Dumby had tamed, an' when he seen 'em all shootin', he took an' hid it from the masther, poor crathur, it was so quiet an' so fond of him. Well, sure enough, in less than two months afther the ould missiz died, an' the masther

found out that the Dumby kept the pigeon. I never seen one so wild. He turned the Dumby out o' doors (although the crathur cried a gallon full, an' went on his knees to ax pardon), an' twisted the head off o' the pigeon. But it was no good for him. From that day out it seemed as if the luck went out o' the doors with the Dumby. And when the next Mr. Moynehan came into the property, he found himself much in the situation of more jentlemen in the country then an' now, that have 'pon my honour, and nothing to back it".

CHAPTER V.

BUT since the accession of this third Moynehan to the proprietorship of Tipsy Hall brings us into the most important portion of our tale, we shall take the story out of the hands of Rick Lillis, and resume our own task as historians of the ruined building.

So indeed it was. In the course of less than half a century, the fair estate which Mr. Moynehan was so anxious should be long preserved in the hands of his posterity, had melted away to a small remnant, which was wholly inadequate to the maintenance of the family in the style of splendid hospitality which they had always upheld. What added to this embarrassment was that Mr. Thomas Moynehan never could be prevailed upon to augment his diminishing income by seeking some situation suitable to his rank, which he might easily have procured amongst his influential friends. Antiquarians tell us that among the ancient Irish, all occupations of a commercial nature were held in the highest scorn, and the term, ceanuighe, or merchant, was considered wholly incompatible with that of a gentleman. Until a very late period a strong tincture of the same spirit appears to have influenced the