of the present Burke Bodkin Blake Molloy, Esq., Molloyville, county
Mayo."

"Has the course of true love at last begun to run smooth?" thought I, as
I laid down the paper; and the old times, and the old leering bragging
widow, and the high shoulders of her daughter, and the jolly days with
the 120th, and Doctor Jephson's one-horse chaise, and the Warwickshire
hunt, and--and Louisa S----, but never mind HER,--came back to my mind.
Has that good-natured simple fellow at last met with his reward? Well,
if he has not to marry the mother-in-law too, he may get on well enough.

Another year announced the retirement of Assistant-Surgeon Haggarty
from the 120th, where he was replaced by Assistant-Surgeon Angus
Rothsay Leech, a Scotchman, probably; with whom I have not the least
acquaintance, and who has nothing whatever to do with this little
history.

Still more years passed on, during which time I will not say that I kept
a constant watch upon the fortunes of Mr. Haggarty and his lady; for,
perhaps, if the truth were known, I never thought for a moment about
them; until one day, being at Kingstown, near Dublin, dawdling on
the beach, and staring at the Hill of Howth, as most people at that
watering-place do, I saw coming towards me a tall gaunt man, with a pair
of bushy red whiskers, of which I thought I had seen the like in former
years, and a face which could be no other than Haggarty's. It was
Haggarty, ten years older than when we last met, and greatly more grim
and thin. He had on one shoulder a young gentleman in a dirty tartan
costume, and a face exceedingly like his own peeping from under a
battered plume of black feathers, while with his other hand he was
dragging a light green go-cart, in which reposed a female infant of some
two years old. Both were roaring with great power of lungs.

As soon as Dennis saw me, his face lost the dull puzzled expression
which had seemed to characterise it; he dropped the pole of the go-cart
from one hand, and his son from the other, and came jumping forward to
greet me with all his might, leaving his progeny roaring in the road.

"Bless my sowl," says he, "sure it's Fitz-Boodle? Fitz, don't you
remember me? Dennis Haggarty of the 120th? Leamington, you know? Molloy,
my boy, hould your tongue, and stop your screeching, and Jemima's too;
d'ye hear? Well, it does good to sore eyes to see an old face. How fat
you're grown, Fitz; and were ye ever in Ireland before? and a'n't ye
del