She was dressed, as neatly as a new pin, in an "illigant" Connemara cloak, which seemed to be donned for the first time, besides a bran new bonnet; and, thanks to "elbow grease," her peachy, soap-scrubbed cheeks shone again.

She was returning from early chapel, whither she had gone to mass and confession; and where I trust she had received absolution for her little peccadilloes.

I've no doubt she _did_ get absolution, for she told me that Father Macmanus was "a raal gintleman." Then Catch chased a roving cat until it got within the neighbouring shelter of its domiciliary railings, whence it me-ai-ouwed to him, through all the vowels of pussy's vocabulary, a Christmas compliment-- with, probably, a curse tacked on to the tail of it, or that "phoo! phoo! phiz!" meant nothing.

But the feline expletives were all thrown away; for Catch was only "full of fun and with nobody to play with him," like Peter Mooney's goose, and had only chased pussy in the natural exuberance of his spirits, having no "hard feelings" towards her, or any desire, I know, to injure her soft tabby fur.
We next came across old Shuffler, the house-agent, waddling along, with his sound eye rolling buoyantly on its axis, while the artificial orb glared steadily forward in a fixed, glassy stare.
"Bootiful weether!" said he, cordially, to me, touching his hat--"bootiful weether, sir!" "It _is_ a fine day," I responded.

"A merry Christmas to you, Mr Shuffler." "Same to you, sir, and many on 'em," he replied, courteously.
"Thank you, Shuffler," I said, satisfied with the colloquy, "but I must now say good day!" "Good day, and a 'appy noo year to you," answered he, passing on his way.