master, the real Lord; but he cares not to

have it thought: only he's such a manner with him, one can't but think it. Then there's Mister O'Kelly, he as calls himself Citizen Wailman—the wallet; and there's another as sings, but has no name, a female; and there's a gentleman cries and sobs, and takes care of a baby; and his name, I think, is Macpherson; then there's the old one as howls; and Mrs. Kelly O'Grady; and St. Clara, the prophetess; besides many more as come to feast and revel here." "And what right have they to be here?" "Why to be sure, then, they've not any right at all; that's what we are all talking of; except them letters from my Lord; and they all live a strange wicked life under ground, the like of thaves; and whatever's the reason, for some time past, that young gentleman as was, is disappeared: nothing's known as to what's gone with him—only he's gone; and the child—och! the young master's here, and the