"Ah!" said the poet, his eyes glistening as he uncorked it. "That's the real old stuff. That's what puts the life into a man, eh, lad?"

As he spoke, Moore held up the jug, and shutting an eye endeavored to peer into it.

"There is n't much life left in it, Buster."

Then, taking a whiff, the poet smacked his lips, but placed the jug upon the table, its contents untouched.

"No," he said, shaking his head, "it is too precious to waste. I must save that, laddie."

"Yessir," said Buster, "fer some joyous hoccasion. 'Ave hanother smell, sir?"

"No, no," exclaimed Moore, waving the boy away. "Get thee behind me, Satan. Don't tempt me, Buster, for I am not over strong in that direction. Cork it up tightly. They say it evaporates and it's too good to have even a drop wasted."

Buster stowed the little jug in the depths of the cupboard and returned briskly to where Moore was eating his dinner.

"Hi 've seen the shoemakers, sir," he announced.

"Ah, did you?"

"Yessir. The boots is hall done hand ready to be delivered."

"Good enough," commented Moore. "Did you appoint a time for them to come?"

"Hi did that, sir. One will be 'ere at four, the hother at twenty minutes past the hower," replied the youth, shaking his finger warningly at Lord Castlereagh, who manifested more interest in the eatables than was in strict accordance with good manners.

"First rate, Buster," said Moore, approvingly. "Is there any other news?"

The boy hesitated a moment, but with an effort continued:

"Yessir, that ain't hall. Hi 'as a confession to make, sir."

"You have?" said Moore in a surprised tone. "Well, let's have it, my lad."

"Yessir--"

"One moment, Buster," exclaimed the poet, an expression of alarm coming over his face. "One moment in which to compose myself. Now I am calmer. Tell me, Buster, tell me you have n't secretly married Mrs.

Malone?"

"Married _'ell_!" exclaimed the lad, his nose turning up in disdain at the idea.

"'T would be much the same thing, I 'm thinking," chuckled Moore.

"Well, that is one peril escaped. Go on with your confession."

"You know that pome you sent me with to the _Times_, sir?" began Buster, still ill at ease.

"'The Last Rose of Summer,' wasn't it?"

"Yessir. Hi did n't take it to the _Times_."

"You did n't? Why not, Buster?"

"Hit was this way, sir, just 'as Hi wuz a coming by Carlton 'Ouse, who should Hi see stepping hout 'er carriage but Mrs. Fitz'erbert 'erself, looking that sweet and beautiful has would make your mouth water."

"So there is a woman in it, after all?" observed Moore. "'T was ever thus, Buster."

"Yessir, so wot does Hi do but rip horf the wrapper hand run hup to 'er with the poem, hand sticks. .h.i.t into 'er 'and. 'That's for you,' ses Hi, hand tips me 'at hand is horf through the crowd like a hantelope."

"Nicely done, Buster," said Moore. "It may come in handy for her ladyship. She can make curlpapers of it. Well, you are forgiven, my boy."

"Thank you, sir," said Buster, greatly relieved.

"Was my name signed?"

"Yessir, hand your haddress too."

"Very good, Buster. Perhaps she 'll come to call and bring the Prince of Wales with her."

"Well, sir," replied Buster, "hit's my hopinion has 'ow neither hov 'em is one bit too good for hus."

"That sounds like treason, Buster."

"Does it, sir?" cried Buster, apparently delighted to hear it.

A knock at the door disturbed both servant and master, as well as arousing suspicions of the worst nature in the bosom of Lord Castlereagh, who growled ominously.

"Oh, Lord!" exclaimed Moore, rising hurriedly from the table, which was saved from an upset by the quick hand of Buster. "Is it the rent again?"

Buster tiptoed to the door as the knock was repeated, and whispered, after listening:

"Hit's all right, sir. Who is it?"

"It's Mr. d.y.k.e," declared the person desirous of entering.

Moore's face fell.

"With another treasonable poem, I suppose," he muttered. "Worse luck."

"Wot does you listen to 'em for?" asked Buster, disgustedly, leaving the door as Moore crossed to open it.

"Ah, that is the question," said the poet, softly.

"Hi knows," remarked Buster under his breath. "'Cos 'ee 's 'er father, that's why."

"Come in, Mr. d.y.k.e," said Moore, opening the door. "How are you to-day, sir?"

"Oh, very well, Thomas," replied the old gentleman, entering with a self-satisfied air. "How do you, my boy?"

Mr. d.y.k.e's dress showed that he was enjoying prosperity. His coat and hat had hardly lost their appearance of newness, while the rest of his costume, though evidently not of recent purchase, was of good quality, greatly exceeding in costliness the apparel in which he was wont to garb himself in Ireland.