"And who else did you see, Mickey?"
"Oh hosts of the quality. First there was Fin MacCual, and Brian Boro, and old King Cormac and the O'Tooles—with their crowns on, and the O'Neills, and the O'Connors, and the O'Meaghers, and the O'Malleys, and the O'Doghertys, and the O'Briens, and no end of O'Donoghues,—and the Dermods, and Desmonds, and my ancestor, the great MacCarty-Mor himself."
"And what was your dinner, Mickey?"
"Why, principally oysters, and lobsters, and turtles, sarved up in their shells—and plenty of good potheen to drink. The trouble of it was, every thing was cowld, for you see they had no fire down there; and candles wouldn't burn, by raison of the dampness,—so we went to bed by moonlight, and slept on pillows of soft sand, between two sheets of water."
"Ah, Mickey!" cried out Mrs. Bridget, in alarm, "why didn't you excuse yourself, and come home before bed-time, for you know you always take cowld from sleeping in damp sheets."
Michael burst into a laugh at this—"Why Biddy, woman," said he,—"sure you forget it's all a drame."
"Arrah, and so it is," replied his wife, sadly, "and we know no more about our poor Kathleen than we did the day she was spirited away. Ah, Mickey dear, I often think that if I had her back, in my ould arms again, I'd have no more such high notions for her, and I'd niver cross her in any way."
Michael said nothing, but sighed heavily, and turned his face toward the wall.
A short time after this conversation, while Michael More was stirring up the peat fire in the little kitchen, to boil the potatoes for breakfast, and his wife was milking the cow, just outside the door, he was startled by her calling put to him, in a tone of joyful excitement—"Mickey, oh, Mickey! they're coming!"
"Who are coming?" cried he, rushing to the door.