addressed to the Rev. Hugh Walsingham, Doctor of Divinity, at his house,
by the bridge, in Chapelizod, had reached him in the morning, and
plainly troubled him. He kept the messenger a good hour awaiting his
answer; and, just at two o'clock, the same messenger returned with a
second letter--but this time a note sufficed for reply. ''Twill seem
ungracious,' said the doctor, knitting his brows over his closed folio
in the study; 'but I cannot choose but walk clear in my calling before
the Lord. How can I honestly pronounce hope, when in my mind there is
nothing but _fear_--let another do it if he see his way--I do enough in
being present, as 'tis right I should.'

It was, indeed, a remarkably dark night--a rush and downpour of rain!
The doctor stood just under the porch of the stout brick house--of King
William's date, which was then the residence of the worthy rector of
Chapelizod--with his great surtout and cape on--his leggings buttoned
up--and his capacious leather 'overalls' pulled up and strapped over
these--and his broad-leafed hat tied down over his wig and ears with a
mighty silk kerchief. I dare say he looked absurd enough--but it was the
women's doing--who always, upon emergencies, took the doctor's wardrobe
in hand. Old Sally, with her kind, mild, grave face, and gray locks,
stood modestly behind in the hall; and pretty Lilias, his only child,
gave him her parting kiss, and her last grand charge about his shoes and
other exterior toggery, in the porch; and he patted her cheek with a
little fond laugh, taking old John Tracy's, the butler's, arm. John
carried a handsome horn-lantern, which flashed now on a roadside
bush--now on the discoloured battlements of the bridge--and now on a
streaming window. They stepped out--there were no umbrellas in those
days--splashing among the wide and widening pools; while Sally and
Lilias stood in the porch, holding candles for full five minutes after
the doctor and his 'Jack-o'-the-lantern,' as he called honest John,