facing this unmarciful storm," said Tim Carthy, drawing his stool closer
to the turf-piled hearth, and addressing himself to a young man who
occupied a seat in the chimney nook, whose quick bright eye and somewhat
humorous curl of the corner of the mouth indicated his character pretty
accurately, and left no doubt that he was one of those who would laugh
their laugh out, if the _ould boy_ stood at the door. The reply to Tim's
proposal was a jerk of Felix's great-coat on his left shoulder, and a sly
glance at the earthen mug which he held, as he gradually bent it from its
upright position, until it was evident that the process of absorption had
been rapidly acting on its contents. Tim, who understood the freemasonry
of the manoeuvre, removed all the latent scruples of Felix by
adding--"There's more of that stuff--where you know; and by the crook of
St. Patrick we'll have another drop of it to comfort us this blessed
night. Whisht! do you hear how the wind comes sweeping over the hills? God
help the poor souls at say!"

"Wissha amen!" replied Tim's wife, dropping her knitting, and devoutly
making the sign of the cross upon her forehead.

A silence of a few moments ensued; during which, each person present
offered up a secret prayer for the safety of those who might at that
moment be exposed to the fury of the warring elements.

I should here inform my readers that the cottage of Tim Carthy was
situated in the deep valley which runs inland from the strand at
Monkstown, a pretty little bathing village, that forms an interesting
object on the banks of the romantic Lee, near the "beautiful city" of
Cork.

"I never heard such a jearful storm since the night Mahoon, the ould