lf act
openly and freely without incurring suspicion or observation. Paudeen,
however, or, as we shall call him in future, Pat Sharpe, had promised
to procure a person of the strictest honesty, in whom every confidence
could be placed. This man's name, or rather his nickname, was Dandy
Dulcimer, an epithet bestowed upon him in consequence of the easy and
strolling life he led, supporting himself, as he passed from place to
place, by his performances upon that simple but pleasing instrument.

"Pat," said the stranger in the course of the evening, "have you
succeeded in procuring me this cousin of yours?" for in that relation he
stood to Pat.

"I expect him here every minute, sir," replied Pat; "and there's one
thing I'll lay down my life on--you may trust him as you would any one
of the twelve apostles--barring that blackguard Judas. Take St. Pettier,
or St. Paul, or any of the dacent apostles, and the divil a one of them
honester than Dandy. Not that he's a saint like them either, or much
overburdened with religion, poor fellow; as for honesty and truth--divil
a greater liar ever walked in the mane time; but, by truth, I mane truth
to you, and to any one that employs him--augh, by my soul, he's the
flower of a boy."

"He won't bring his dulcimer with him, I hope."

"Won't he, indeed? Be me sowl, sir, you might as well separate sowl and
body, as take Dandy from his dulcimer. Like the two sides of a scissors,
the one's of no use widout the other. They must go together, or Dandy
could never cut his way through the world by any chance. Hello! here he
is. I hear his voice in the hall below."

"Bring him up, Pat," said the stranger; "I must see and speak to him;
because if I feel that he won't suit me, I will have nothing to do with
him."

Dandy immediately entered, with his dulcimer slung like a peddler's bos
at his side, and with a comic movement of respect, which no presence or
position could check, he made a bow to the stranger, that forced him to
smile in spite of himself.

"You seem a droll fellow," said the stranger. "Are you fond of truth?"

"Hem! Why, yes, sir. I spare it as much as I can. I don't treat it as
an everyday concern. We had a neighbor once, a widow M'Cormick, who
was rather penurious, and whenever she saw her servants buttering their
bread too thickly, she used to whisper to them in a confidential
way, 'Ahagur, the thinner you spread it the further it will go.' Hem!
However, I must confess that