Whether this drew the watchman's attention in an unusual degree, of course I do not know, but he stopped to say, "Good-evening, Biddy." "Good-evening to ye, me dear, and a nasty damp evening it is." "You're taking something to keep the damp out, I see, missus." "I am, dear; but it's not for a foine milithrary-looking man like yourself to be having the laugh at a poor old craythur with nothin' but the wind and weather in her bones." "The wind and weather get into my bones, I can tell you," said the watchman; "and I begin my work in the fog just when you're getting out of it." "And that's thrue, worse luck.

Take a dhrop of coffee, allanna, before I lave ye." "No, thank ye, missus; I've just had my supper." "And would that privint ye from takin' the cup I'd be offering ye, wid a taste of somethin' in it against the damps, barrin' the bottle was empty ?" "Well, I'm not particular--as you are so pressing.

Thank ye, mum; here's your good health." I heard the watchman say this, though at the moment I dared not peep, and then I heard him cough.
"My sakes, Biddy, you make your--coffee--strong." "Strong, darlin'?
It's pure, ye mane.

It's the rale craythur, that, and bedad! there's a dhrop or two left that's not worth the removing, and we'll share it anyhow.

Here's to them that's far--r away." "Thank you, thank you, woman." "Thim that's _near_, and thim that's far away!" said Biddy, improving upon her toast.
There was a pause.