“Heaven defend us! – did ye ever hear sich a storm? – and the snow's as good as knee-deep this blessed minit, in the yard; it's hard to say whether sleet, snow, or hail, is the bittherest, for they are all drifting together, and always in a body's face. Martin, is there no sign of his reverence yet?”

Martin, who had been industriously stuffing some straw into his huge brogue, and Molly M'Clathery, who had made the inquiry, rose at the same moment, opened the window-shutter, looked forth upon the night, and listened, in hopes to hear the wonted tokens of the priest's return.

In the kitchen of old Father Mike, the usual “family circle” had assembled, of which Molly and Martin formed a principal part. The house stood on a bleak hill-side, exposed to the full rush of the sea blast, without a tree to shelter either dwelling, barn, or hayrick. On such a night, its exterior presented anything but a comfortable appearance; it was an ill-built, slated house, flanked by thatched offices, which formed a sort of triangle, at the smallest point of which a wide gate stood, or rather hung, almost always open; to say the truth, it was only supported by one hinge, the other never having been repaired since the county member's carriage frightened it to pieces, when he visited the worthy priest, a month or two before the last general election; although Father Mike had, a thousand times, directed Martin to get it mended, and Martin had as often replied, “Yes, plase yer reverence, I'll see about it.”

At the back of the house nearly an acre of land was enclosed, as “a garden;” but the good priest cared little for vegetables, and less for flowers; and it was, of course, overrun with luxuriant weeds, insolently triumphant, in the summer time, over the fair, but dwindling rose, or timid lily, that still existed, but looked as if they pined and mourned at the waste around them.