Tim O'Daly was an under-gamekeeper upon Lord Powerscourt's estate, and lived in a nice comfortable cottage, near the Dargle. He had a tidy, thrifty, good-tempered wife, and half a dozen fine, hearty boys and girls—the eldest nearly young men and women. Tim, himself, was honest and industrious, and very much trusted by his master, and yet he was not a happy man. He was discontented, because he was poor, and obliged to work for a living. He longed for wealth and ease—to see his wife ride in her carriage, and to make his sons and daughters gentlemen and ladies. In short, he thought that riches were all that was needed to put the O'Dalys where they deserved to be in the world, and make them great and happy. So much did he think of these things, that he was always on the look-out for the Clericaune, determined, if ever he should see him, to catch him, and make him deliver up his treasure.
One evening, as he was going home through the Dargle, he sat down on a mossy stone, and fell to thinking of his hard lot, and wondering what Providence had against the O'Dalys, that he had not been made a lord, or at least, a rich squire.
All at once, he heard the click, click, of the Clericaune's little hammer on his lapstone! He rose softly—parted the bushes, and there sat the wee brogue-maker, busily at work.
The next moment, Tim had him fast in his fist, and fast he held him, till the elf showed him where his treasure was hid.
Then, after loading himself with gold and jewels, he set the fairy free, and went home dancing and singing in a very strange and indecorous way. The news and the treasure he brought set his sober family wild with joy. They had a great feast and dance over it—all to themselves, for they were grown too grand to associate with their poor neighbors.
Then Tim went and bought a castle, a real old castle, from an impoverished lord—with fine furniture, pictures, horses, hounds, plate, wines, whiskey, and a famous Banshee, who lived in an old turret, especially built for her accommodation.
Tim took his family to this castle, and set up a splendid style of living. Nobody was troubled with work or care now, except in the pursuit of pleasure; and yet, to poor Tim's astonishment, nobody was happy. He was most miserable of all, for he found it hardest to get used to rich clothes, rich food, authority, and idleness. His wife had her carriage—but she was always driving about in it—never at home with him. His daughters put on fine airs, with fine clothes, and learned to despise their ignorant old father, His sons took to bad company, drinking, rioting, and fox-chasing—and, as they did not know much about riding, they were always getting tumbles, and breaking their necks. His old friends were too humble to come near him in his grandeur, and the gentry too proud to notice such a rough, vulgar fellow, who had got rich in some sudden, suspicious way. He had hoped that Lord Powerscourt, at least, would visit him, "for the sake of old times, and out of neighborly feeling just,"—and Mrs. O'Daly counted confidently on a "betther acquaintance with her Ladyship." "An' sure," she said, "our young folk will be mighty thick directly, and what should hinder the young lord from taking a fancy to our Peggy? Arrah! they would make an ilegant match, by raison of his height an' her shortness,—an' thin, haven't they hair of the same lively shade of red?"
But Lord Powerscourt, who had always been a kind and affable master, seemed put upon the very tallest stilts of his dignity, when he met his old servant now; and though he congratulated him on his good fortune, never honored him with either a formal or friendly call—while Lady Powerscourt and her daughters, who had often visited the cottage by the Dargle, in times of sickness and trouble, were never seen driving up the avenue of O'Daly Castle,—and as for the young lord, he went abroad, about these days, and was lost to Miss Peggy O'Daly forever.
Tim's new neighbors laughed at him for his pretensions, and the blunders his family made in "aping their betters,"—his servants imposed on him, and there was nothing but coldness, discord, and wicked waste in his grand old castle, so unlike the humble, happy home of the game-keeper.
Even the Banshee, in whom he had felt so much pride, was no consolation; for, being indignant that low-born peasants had dared to take the place of the ancient and noble family she had so long patronized, she did nothing but howl about the castle, every night of her life.