“He tells me, ma’am,” said Flanigan, with an air of great humility, “that the house we passed a quarter of a mile back is a shebeen” (a shebeen is a way-side groggery, where occasional refreshment in the shape of illicitly distilled whisky is sold, but further its accommodations do not extend), “where I am sure we can have a clean meal and a decent room, at least for yourself.”

The pony seemed to partake of my disappointment, as we were a long while retracing our steps to the “shebeen.” The fire was still blazing within, but the children had disappeared from the road-side. I recognized them, however, when we unceremoniously entered the cabin, sitting in the immense fire-place warming their shins with an evident relish. An old man and woman were seated also on the floor near them, and in answer to Flanigan’s salutation of “God save all here!” a younger woman, whom I had not descried, issued from a corner and replied, “You’re welcome.”

She was not only very tall, but very fat, and barefooted and bare-armed. Her attire was composed of the usual red petticoat, the looped-up over-petticoat and apron, with her hair tied up in a red handkerchief. Altogether, with her neatly turned wrists and ankles and her immense body and small head, she presented a strange mixture of brutality and comeliness, as with a defiant air sh eplaced her arms upon her hips and leisurely surveyed us.

“Have you accommodations here for us?” I asked.

“I have not,” she replied, as she took an inventory of me and my belongings.

“Can you give us any thing to eat?”

“I can not.”

I turned helplessly to Flanigan, who was looking hopelessly at the insurmountable barrier which divided us from food and lodging.

“You see, ma’am,” said Flanigan, in an insinuating tone, “the lady is wet, and tired with traveling, and we had come this far thinking the hotel beyond was still open.”

“Will clean straw and a dry floor do ye?” asked Mrs. Murphy—for so was she called—without deigning a glance at her interrupter.

“It will, indeed,” I replied. “’Tis impossible to go further to-night.”

“Will a piece of bacon do ye for supper The potatoes are after being boiled,” she continued.

“Whatever you have I will gladly accept,” I returned, eagerly.

“A hot cake and cup of tea, and fresh eggs?”

I smiled with gratitude, while the mere mention of this unexpected bill of fare made Flanigan’s jaw fall and his eyes moisten.

Whether the gentleness of my answers softened this stern republican into a belief that I was not too aristocratic to accept with proper appreciation her humble hospitality, or she melted, as most defiant natures do, with the amiability of my submission, I know not; but I shall long remember the hot cakes made of buttermilk, eggs, and flour, the tea, bacon, and fresh eggs, that formed my repast. While I enjoyed it my hostess watched me with au approving air, standing always in her favorite position, with her arms akimbo.

My after-supper conversation with Mrs. Murphy was much abridged, firstly, by her extreme reticence; secondly, by my own great fatigue. I was shown into a little side-room smelling strongly of spirits, but unobjectionable on the score of cleanliness, where, in a fresh straw bed, I passed a very comfortable night.

The next morning broke bright. Mrs. Murphy’s stern heart relented so far as to give us an excellent breakfast, after which, while Flanigan harnessed the pony, I sketched our fair hostess. The idea of sitting or standing for her likeness so pleased her that I thought it had influence in the very moderate bill presented; but when, as I paid it, she saw the portrait, I detected a regret in her eye that she had not charged me twice as much—which proved to me that the likeness was good.