"Oh, behave now. Father Magrath says--"

"Who's he?"

"The priest; no less."

"Oh, confound him!"

"Confound Father Magrath, young man?"

"Well, then, Judy, don't be angry; I only meant that a dragoon knows rather more of these matters than a priest."

"Well, then, I'm not so sure of that. But anyhow, I'd have you to remember it ain't a Widow Malone you have beside you."

"Never heard of the lady," said Power.

"Sure, it's a song,--poor creature,--it's a song they made about her in the North Cork, when they were quartered down in our county."

"I wish to Heaven you'd sing it."

"What will you give me, then, if I do?"

"Anything,--everything; my heart, my life."

"I wouldn't give a trauneen for all of them. Give me that old green ring on your finger, then."

"It's yours," said Power, placing it gracefully upon Miss Macan's finger; "and now for your promise."

"May be my brother might not like it."

"He'd be delighted," said Power; "he dotes on music."

"Does he now?"

"On my honor, he does."

"Well, mind you get up a good chorus, for the song has one, and here it is."

"Miss Macan's song!" said Power, tapping the table with his knife.

"Miss Macan's song!" was re-echoed on all sides; and before the luckless general could interfere, she had begun. How to explain the air I know not, for I never heard its name; but at the end of each verse a species of echo followed the last word that rendered it irresistibly ridiculous.

THE WIDOW MALONE.

Did ye hear of the Widow Malone, Ohone!

Who lived in the town of Athlone, Alone?

Oh, she melted the hearts Of the swains in them parts, So lovely the Widow Malone, Ohone!

So lovely the Widow Malone.

Of lovers she had a full score, Or more; And fortunes they all had galore, In store; From the minister down To the clerk of the crown, All were courting the Widow Malone, Ohone!

All were courting the Widow Malone.

But so modest was Mrs. Malone, 'T was known No one ever could see her alone, Ohone!

Let them ogle and sigh, They could ne'er catch her eye, So bashful the Widow Malone, Ohone!

So bashful the Widow Malone.

Till one Mister O'Brien from Clare, How quare!

It's little for blushin' they care Down there; Put his arm round her waist, Gave ten kisses at laste, "Oh," says he, "you're my Molly Malone, My own; Oh," says he, "you're my Molly Malone."

And the widow they all thought so shy, My eye!

Ne'er thought of a simper or sigh, For why?

But "Lucius," says she, "Since you've made now so free, You may marry your Mary Malone, Ohone!

You may marry your Mary Malone."

There's a moral contained in my song, Not wrong; And one comfort it's not very long, But strong; If for widows you die, Larn to _kiss, not_ to _sigh_, For they're all like sweet Mistress Malone, Ohone!

Oh, they're very like Mistress Malone.

Never did song create such a sensation as Miss Macan's; and certainly her desires as to the chorus were followed to the letter, for "The Widow Malone, ohone!" resounded from one end of the table to the other, amidst one universal shout of laughter. None could resist the ludicrous effect of her melody; and even poor Sir George, sinking under the disgrace of his relationship, which she had contrived to make public by frequent allusions to her "dear brother the general," yielded at last, and joined in the mirth around him.

"I insist upon a copy of 'The Widow,' Miss Macan," said Power.

"To be sure; give me a call to-morrow,--let me see,--about two. Father Magrath won't be at home," said she, with a coquettish look.

"Where, pray, may I pay my respects?"

"No. 22 South Anne Street,--very respectable lodgings. I'll write the address in your pocket-book."

Power produced a card and pencil, while Miss Macan wrote a few lines, saying, as she handed it:--

"There, now, don't read it here before the people; they'll think it mighty indelicate in me to make an appointment."

Power pocketed the card, and the next minute Miss Macan's carriage was announced.

Sir George Dashwood, who little flattered himself that his fair guest had any intention of departure, became now most considerately attentive, reminded her of the necessity of m.u.f.fling against the night air, hoped she would escape cold, and wished her a most cordial good-night, with a promise of seeing her early the following day.

Notwithstanding Power's ambition to engross the attention of the lady, Sir George himself saw her to her carriage, and only returned to the room as a group was collecting around the gallant captain, to whom he was relating some capital traits of his late conquest,--for such he dreamed she was.

"Doubt it who will," said he, "she has invited me to call on her to-morrow, written her address on my card, told me the hour she is certain of being alone. See here!" At these words he pulled forth the card, and handed it to Lechmere.

Scarcely were the eyes of the other thrown upon the writing, when he said, "So, this isn't it, Power."

"To be sure it is, man," said Power. "Anne Street is devilish seedy, but that's the quarter."

"Why, confound it, man!" said the other; "there's not a word of that here."

"Read it out," said Power. "Proclaim aloud my victory."

Thus urged, Lechmere read:--