found you--you must know!--the posting village, you know--that is,
not the post town, if you know what a post town is."

"To be sure I do, sir--where they sell blankets, you mane."

"No--no--no! I want to go to the village where they keep
post-chaises--now you know."

"Faix, they have po'chayses in all the villages here; there's no betther
accommodation for man or baste in the world than here, sir."

Furlong was mute from downright vexation, till his rage got vent in an
oath, another denunciation of Irish stupidity, and at last a declaration
that the driver _must_ know the village.

"How would I know it, sir, when you don't know it yourself?" asked the
groom; "I suppose it has a name to it, and if you tell me that, I'll
dhrive you there fast enough."

"I cannot wemember your howwid names here--it is a Bal, or Bally, or
some such gibbewish----"

Mat would not be enlightened.

"Is there not Bal or Bally something?"

"Oh, a power o' Bailies, sir; there's Ballygash, and Ballyslash, and
Ballysmish, and Ballysmash, and----" so went on Mat, inventing a string
of Ballies, till he was stopped by the enraged Furlong.

"None o' them! none o' them!" exclaimed he, in a fury; "'t is something
about 'dirt' or 'mud.'"

"Maybe 't would be _gutther_, sir," said Mat, who saw Furlong was near
the mark, and he thought he might as well make a virtue of telling him.

"I believe you're right," said Furlong.

"Then it is Ballysloughgutthery you want to go to, sir."

"That's the name!" said Furlong, snappishly; "dwive _there_!" and,
hastily pulling up the glass, he threw himself back again in the
carriage. Another troubled vision of what the secretary would say came
across him, and, after ten minutes' balancing the question, and
trembling at the thoughts of an official blowing up, he thought he had
better even venture on an Irish squire; so the check-string was again
pulled, and the glass hastily let down.

Mat halted. "Yes, sir," said Mat.

"I think I've changed my mind--dwive to the Hall!"

"I wish you'd towld me, sir, before I took the last turn--we're nigh a
mile towards the village now."

"No matte', sir!" said Furlong; "dwive where I tell you."

Up went the glass again, and Mat turned round the horses and carriage
with some difficulty in a narrow by-road.

Another vision came across the bewildered fancy of Furlong: the
certainty of the fury of O'Grady--the immediate contempt as well as
anger attendant on his being