Seated in this clear-obscure of domestic light--which, after all, gives
the heart a finer and more touching notion of enjoyment than the glitter
of the theatre or the blaze of the saloon--might be found first, Andy
Morrow,* the juryman of the quarter-sessions, sage and important in the
consciousness of legal knowledge, and somewhat dictatorial withal in its
application to such knotty points as arose out of the subjects of
their nocturnal debates. Secondly, Bob Gott, who filled the foreign and
military departments, and related the wonderful history of the ghost
which appeared to him on the night after the battle of Bunker's-hill. To
him succeeded Tom M'Roarkin, the little asthmatic anecdotarian of half
the country,--remarkable for chuckling at his own stories. Then came old
M'Kinny, poacher and horse-jockey; little, squeaking, thin-faced Alick
M'Kinley, a facetious farmer of substance; and Shane Fadh, who handed
down, traditions and fairy tales. Enthroned on one hob sat Pat Frayne,
the schoolmaster with the short arm, who read and explained the
newspaper for "old Square Colwell," and was looked upon as premier to
the aforesaid cabinet; Ned himself filled the opposite seat of honor.

One night, a little before the Christmas holidays in the year 18--, the
personages just described were seated around Ned's fire, some with their
chirping pints of ale or porter, and others with their quantum of
_Hugh Traynor_, or mountain-dew, and all with good humor, and a strong
tendency to happiness, visible in their faces. The night was dark,
close, and misty; so dark, indeed, that, as Nancy said, "you could
hardly see your finger before you." Ned himself was full of fun, with
a pint of porter beside him, and a pipe in his mouth, just in his glory
for the night. Opposite to him was Pat Frayne, with an old newspaper on
his knee, which he had just perused for the edification of his
audience; beside him was, Nancy, busily employed in knitting a pair
of sheep's-grey stockings for Ned; the remaining personages formed a