“That goes down to the cottage, sir—Tubber-beg, as they call it. Yer honer isn't Mr. Cashel himself?” said Tom, reverentially taking off his tattered hat, and attempting an air of courtesy, which sat marvellously ill upon him.
“I have not that good luck, my friend.”
“'T is good luck ye may call it,” sighed Tom; “a good luck that does n't fall to many; but, maybe, ye don't want it; maybe yer honer—”
“And who lives in the cottage of Tubber-beg?” said Linton, interrupting.
“One Corrigan, sir; an old man and his granddaughter.”
“Good kind of people, are they?”
“Ayeh! there's worse, and there 's betther! They 're as proud as Lucifer, and poor as naygurs.”
“And this is the Hall itself?” exclaimed Linton, as he stopped directly in front of the old dilapidated building, whose deformities were only exaggerated by the patchy effect of a faint moonlight.
“Ay, there it is,” grinned Tom, “and no beauty either; and ugly as it looks without, it's worse within! There 'a cracks in the walls ye could put your hand through, and the windows is rotten, where they stand.”
“It is not very tempting, certainly, as a residence,” said Linton, smiling.