MR.

MERVYN IN HIS INN.
The morning was fine--the sun shone out with a yellow splendour--all nature was refreshed--a pleasant smell rose up from tree, and flower, and earth.

The now dry pavement and all the row of village windows were glittering merrily--the sparrows twittered their lively morning gossip among the thick ivy of the old church tower--here and there the village cock challenged his neighbour with high and vaunting crow, and the bugle notes soared sweetly into the air from the artillery ground beside the river.
Moore, the barber, was already busy making his morning circuit, servant men and maids were dropping in and out at the baker's, and old Poll Delany, in her weather-stained red hood, and neat little Kitty Lane, with her bright young careful face and white basket, were calling at the doors of their customers with new laid eggs.

Through half-opened hall doors you might see the powdered servant, or the sprightly maid in her mob-cap in hot haste steaming away with the red japanned 'tea kitchen' into the parlour.

The town of Chapelizod, in short, was just sitting down to its breakfast.
Mervyn, in the meantime, had had his solitary meal in the famous back parlour of the Phoenix, where the newspapers lay, and all comers were welcome.