lashes, that drooped, beaded with quivering drops, towards the blooming cheek.

Nanny saw the thoughts reflected from the ingenuous mind to the countenance she contemplated. She deemed it a good time to speak.

"So the ould sweetheart, poor Misther Talbot, as we hear, may go wid his courtin' to some other lady?" she remarked, in a whisper.

Eliza Hartley started, and to her fingers' ends blushed scarlet deep.

66

'Nanny," she said, rather haughtily, "you must never talk so

to me."

"Poor young gentleman, the heart widin his body, will be broke."

"Nanny, have I not forbidden such freedom ?" An accusing conscience stung her into temper, and, with a brow of displeasure, Eliza Hartley turned towards her home.

Nanny saw that she was nearly out of favour. The young lady marched along slowly and with dignity, and the old woman stumped after her.

"But the heart's liking must have its way;" she temporized, "an' quare would it be to say that Miss Eliza, the pet, that's great, an' rich, an' as comely as the May-day, shouldn't have her own pick-an'-choose, be him Lord, or be him Arl, or be him Juke, or the King of England on his throne, if it came to that!"

Still no answer. The offended fair one had gained a door leading through an orchard to her father's house.

"Miss Eliza, my honey dear, don't be vexed entirely wid your poor ould Nanny."

Eliza turned suddenly round: her face beamed on the apprehensive old woman the full amount of its usual good-nature and merriment.

"Where are you going, Nanny ?"

"I'm goin', my honey! to look afther Shaun-a-Gow's daughther, Kitty."

"Well, then, good evening, Nanny. When you have attended to your business, come up to the Court, and the servants shall have orders to provide you with your supper and a bed."

Och, may the blessins purshue you and be in your road, Miss Eliza, my honey!"

Miss Eliza smilingly bowed her head, and Nanny also performed her adieu. Not with any of that graceful inclination of person her

C

young patroness used: much more simply ;—that is, by suddenly bending her knees until her short petticoats touched the ground, and then as suddenly rising and ducking again, while the lady remained in view, accompanying every curtsey, such as it was, with verbose ejaculations and prayers for her long life, health, happiness, and prosperity.

When they at length lost sight of each other, Nanny put on one of her gravest, most important, and most business-like faces, as she shook her head and reflected that a considerable source of occupation and profit seemed dried up. For she had succeededor thought she had succeeded-in persuading Mr. Harry Talbot, that she was all-powerful with Sir Thomas Hartley's beautiful heiress.

There had been a listener to the conversation between her and Eliza Hartley, as he was also a keen observer of their parting, or rather of the little quarrel that had preceded it. Conveniently for the purposes of an eaves-dropper, a grove of beautiful and varied foliage, enclosed by a hedge, rose immediately behind the large ash-tree, under which we first beheld our heroine, for such in reality she is to be. Close to the hedge, completely out of view, this young gentleman lay in ambush. His post was origially assumed that he might, at full leisure, watch the graceful motions of the fair girl, and at his ease admire her beauty, mellowed into a bewitching softness, by the cast of her thoughts on this evening. When Eliza joined Nanny, he was induced to prolong his concealment, in the hope that their discourse would turn upon himself. What he thought of Nanny's sympathy for a former and older lover, she and the reader will soon know.

The Knitter heard a bounding, elastic step behind her. Before she could turn her head, a sonorous, and not unmusical voice, accosted her.

"Whither in such haste, good dame?"

She turned, and at the first glance her sage eye knew her man; and further informed her, that Harry Talbot's case was a desperate one. The person she examined seemed to her good judgment the very finest young man she had ever beheld. And Nanny prided herself upon being a judge in such matters, and a judge whose decision no one need question. He was tall; formed in the haughty kind of beauty of the Belvidere Apollo; (Nanny did not make the comparison, but her homely ideas may bear this classic translation) his face a fine oval, with just as much red and white in it as became a man. His eyes were large, lustrous black; his clustering

hair, glossy as the raven's wing, was, according to the fashion of the time, worn long. His carriage, and the expression of his features, had the bold, dashing character which the fair reader will allow to be highly regarded by that sex whose opinion must give the law, in all such matters.

"Whither in such haste, my gocd dame?"

One moment's reflection was sufficient to inspire Nanny with the idea of how it behoved her to act under the circumstances."Only jest a little way, your honour, my honey!" she answered. "That's a most lovely young lady you parted from just now !" "Faix, an' it's no lie you're tellin', my honey. An' there's a pair o' ye wid the same fault."

66

"She seems very partial to you, Nanny;-is not that your name?" Annystachee the Soggarth put upon me, your honour, my pet, an' Nanny the neighbours calls me out o' frienship, an' by the way of being free wid me. An' faix, yes, Miss Eliza, the gra, is as free wid me too-the blessins pour down on her purty head!- -as free as she'd be wid one o' the quality, afther a manner.”

"Well, harkye, my old dame, you must be my friend with your charming young patroness. Hold out your hand-there is a guinea to get you tobacco, or whiskey, or knitting needles, or whatever you like; and more of the same kind of fruit grows on the same tree, you know!"

"The blessins-"

"Nonsense-keep your tongue quiet, and listen to me.

Never, as long as you breathe or knit, mention to her again that young fellow-that Harry-what d' you call him-?"

"Square Harry Talbot, your honour, my honey!"

66 Ay, the same. If I find you ever do, by all that's charmingmeaning her, and by all that's ugly-including yourself,-your round head shall be wrung off, and put in your pocket for a worstedball, to spin your stockings out of."

66

Why, then, may I never do an ill turn, but Nanny washes her hands of him from this blessed moment out! Would there be any harum in axin you, my pet, if your ear was cocked near the river's side a little while agone ?"

"Certainly I was there, long before you came up, or how could I know what passed between you?"

66

Why then, mind my words, my gra. That I might'nt die in sin but you'll win the prize, as sure as I have my weddin'-stocking ("Weddin'-stockins," in Nanny's phraseology, standing for bare-legs, Nanny's own legs being stockingless.)

on me.'

"Win!-To be sure I shall. Let me see who dares cross me. Win !"

As he spoke, a confidence, perhaps the result as much of former success in less important affairs of the heart, as of his high opinion of his personal qualifications, mingled with the haughty expression of his tone and features.

"Why, then," her whitish eyes twinkling at the ardour of her new acquaintance, as would those of a tradesman viewing a rich sample of his goods," why, then, a merry Aesther to me but it's you I like, your honour, my pet. You have the spudduch* in you. An' if I was a fair lady to-morrow, it's such as you I'd have, that wouldn't be snakin' an' creepin', an'

Good bye;

"Well, I can't stop merely to chatter with you. mind our terms. Be my friend, and expect some fellows to what you have got, and abundance of customers for your stockings, as soon as the beauty of the Slaney is mine. Be my enemy, or even prove indifferent to my hopes and interests, and never wind worsted, or knit stockings more."

"As sure as I'm a lump of a sinner, your honour, my honey, I'll do my enday vours, as pure out o' love an' likin, as for the sake o’ the lucre."

But before she finished this speech of half mistatement and half truth, her new friend had bounded out of view, on his way to Hartley Court; and Nanny jogged on "to give a look after Shawna-Gow's daughther :"-her usual sturdy step, a certain swinging of her nether garments, and a corresponding motion in her shoulders, giving her the air of one who thought herself of some importance in the world.

CHAPTER III.

THE river Slaney, in its course through the county of Wexford, sports amid regions of beauty. Nothing, indeed, of the bold, the magnificent, or the terrific, fills with awe and wonder the mind of a spectator: Nature is there to be placidly contemplated in all her diversities of wood, of verdure, and of water,-such as we may well believe, tempted the old mail-clad Norman to desire the possession of a land of so much lovely promise.

* Spirit.

On either side of the river, the grounds rise and fall in every change of soft form. Demesne succeeds demesne; mansion is in view of mansion; some in the little vallies, some crowning the little eminences. And sloping fields of tenderest green, clustering woods, or scattered trees of beautiful growth, each casting its own single shadow across the silent meadow, present an ever-changing landscape, more soul-subduing, perhaps, than the more tremendous scenes of nature.

Sometimes, the dark wood clothes the quick descent, and seems stooping to bathe its branches in the water. Or the grassy hill rises quickly above the stream's edge, and the foliaged height is at a greater distance. Or the less abrupt mound slopes to the level sward, which, soft and elastic, and studded with bush or tree, stretches to the limpid wave, or here and there discloses itself but in patches between the frequent groves. Or the mysterious glen, with its dusky and shaded sides, conceals the course of some tributary rill.

The Slaney, we have said, appears to gambol through these evervarying beauties. Clear and rapid, it rushes round the protruding point, bounds against the opposing hill, or in devious curves winds towards the occasional level. If ancient superstition were to give to a local deity the care and guidance of the erratic stream, he would be described as a youthful divinity of mixed gentleness and sportiveness, now frolicking along the margin of his river, now gently reclining on her banks, and in every change of mood fascinated with his situation.

In this sketch, we particularly have in view the banks of the Slaney before its near approach to the sea. Further on it becomes more expanded, assumes a more sober and important character, and its attendant fascinations are more stately and less frequent.

Such as has been described was the scenery around Hartley Court, the seat of our heroine's father. And amid all the mansions that looked down on the river, or contributed their lawns or groves to the charms of the general landscape, that of Sir Thomas Hartley was peculiarly distinguished by a venerable character of age and importance.

The house stood on the west bank of the Slaney; in what particular spot, it is not, for sufficiently good reasons, convenient to point out. Its ample front faced the public road between Enniscorthy and Newtownbarry, or more anciently, Bunclody. At the rear its windows overlooked the river, of which the banks sloped up no more than the distance of a few paces, to the boundary of