of the singular likeness which he bore to the subject of the story, both
in face and size, and dwelling upon the remarkable coincidence in the
time and manner of his approach.

"Tut, man!" said the stranger, "a far more extraordinary adventure
happened to one of my father's tenants, which, if none of you have any
objection, I will relate."

There was a buzz of approbation at this; and they all thanked his
honor, expressing the strongest desire to hear his story. He was just
proceeding to gratify them, when another rap came to the door, and,
before any of the inmates had time to open it, Father Ned Deleery and
his curate made their appearance, having been on their way home from a
conference held in the town of ----, eighteen miles from the scene of
our present story.

It may be right here to inform the reader, that about two hundred yards
from Ned's home stood a place of Roman Catholic worship, called "the
Forth,"* from the resemblance it bore to the _Forts_ or _Baths_, so
common in Ireland. It was a small green, perfectly circular, and about
twenty yards in diameter. Around it grew a row of old overspreading
hawthorns, whose branches formed a canopy that almost shaded it from sun
and storm. Its area was encompassed by tiers of seats, one raised above
another, and covered with the flowery grass. On these the congregation
used to sit--the young men chatting or ogling their sweethearts on the
opposite side; the old ones in little groups, discussing the politics of
the day, as retailed by Mick M'Caffry.** the politician; while, up near
the altar, hemmed in by a ring of old men and women, you might perceive
a _voteen_, repeating some new prayer or choice piece of devotion--or
some other, in a similar circle, perusing, in a loud voice. Dr.