“Here,” she said, reappearing with a huge bottle in one hand and a glass in the other, “a sip o' the right sort will help you afther your long journey; you must be tired, be coorse, so take this.”
“Aisy, Bridget,” exclaimed her husband, “don't fill it; you'll make me hearty.” (* tipsy)
“Throth an' I will fill it,” she replied, “ay, an' put a heap on it. There now, finish that bumper.”
The old man, with a smiling and happy face, received the glass, and taking his wife's hand in his, looked at her, and then upon them all, with an expression of deep emotion. “Bridget, your health; childre', all your healths; and here's to Carriglasa, an' may we long live happy in it, as we will, plase God! Peety, not forgettin' you!”
We need hardly say that the glass went round, nor that Peety was not omitted in the hospitality any more than in the toast.
“Here, Bryan,” said Mrs. M'Mahon, “lay that bottle on the dresser, it's not worth while puttin' it past till the neighbors comes up; an' it's they that'll be the glad neighbors to see you safe back agin, Tom.”
In this she spoke truth. Honest and hearty was the welcome he received from them, as with sparkling eyes and a warm grasp they greeted him on his return. Not only had Paddy Mullin and Jemmy Kelly run up in haste—the latter, who had been digging in his garden, without waiting to put on his hat or coat—but other families in the neighborhood, young and old, crowded in to welcome him home—-from Dublin—for in that lay the principal charm. The bottle was again produced, and a holiday spirit now prevailed among them. Questions upon questions were put to him with reference to the wonders they had heard of the great metropolis—of the murders and robberies committed upon travellers—the kidnapping of strangers from the country—the Lord Lieutenant's Castle, with three hundred and sixty-four windows in it, and all the extraordinary sights and prodigies which it is supposed to contain. In a few minutes after this friendly accession to their numbers had taken place, a youth entered about nineteen years of age—handsome, tall, and well-made—in fact, such a stripling as gave undeniable promise of becoming a fine, powerful young man. On being handed a glass of whiskey he shook hands with M'Mahon, welcomed him home, and then drank all their healths by name until he came to that of Dora, when he paused, and, coloring, merely nodded towards her. We cannot undertake to account for this omission, nor do more than record what actually happened. Neither do we know why Dora blushed so deeply as she did, nor why the sparkling and rapid glance which she gave him in return occasioned him to look down with an appearance of confusion and pain. That some understanding subsisted between young Cavanagh—for he was Gerald's son—and Dora might have been evident to a close observer; but in truth there was at that moment no such thing as a close observer among them, every eye being fixed with impatience and curiosity upon Tom M'Mahon, who had now most of the conversation to himself, little else being left to the share of his auditors than the interjectional phrases and exclamations of wonder at his extraordinary account of Dublin.
“But, father,” said Bryan, “about the business that brought you there? Did you get the Renewal?”
“I got as good,” replied the simple-hearted old man, “an' that was the, word of a gintleman—an' sure they say that that's the best security in the world.”
“Well, but how was it?” they exclaimed, “an' how did it happen that you didn't get the Lease itself?”