'“Why, pretty much in this fashion; during the hazy season we go about to one another's houses, as you see; and one gets so accustomed to the darkness——”
'“Ah, now, don't tell me that! I know I never could—it's no use my trying it. I 'm used to the daylight; I have seen it, man and boy, for about fifty years, and I never could grope about this way. Not but that I am very grateful to you for all your hospitality; but I had rather go home.”
'“You'll wait for morning, at all events,” said I; “you will not leave the house in the dead of the night?”
'“Oh, indeed, for the matter of that, it doesn't signify much; night and day is much about the same thing in this country.”
'And so he grew obstinate, and notwithstanding all I could say, insisted on his departure; and the same evening he sailed from the quay of Waterford, wishing me every health and happiness, while he added, with a voice of trembling earnestness—
'“Yes, Mr. Mahon, pardon me if I am wrong, but I wish to heaven you had a little more light in Ireland!”'
I am unable to say how far the good things of Major Mahon's table seasoned the story I have just related; but I confess I laughed at it loud and long, a testimony on my part which delighted the Major's heart; for, like all anecdote-mongers, he was not indifferent to flattery.
'The moral particularly pleases me,' said I.
'Ah, but the whole thing's true as I am here. Whisht! there's somebody at the door. Come in, whoever you are.'
At these words the door cautiously opened, and a boy of about twelve years of age entered. He carried a bundle under one arm, and held a letter in his hand.