Lord Kilgobbin : a tale of Ireland in our own time . I must have, sir, for the hair. You had itbeautifully yesterday; it fell over on one side with a most perfectlight on a large lock here. Will you give me half an hour to-morrow, say ? I cant promise you, my dear. Peter Gill has been urging meto go over to Loughrea for the fair; and if we go, we ought to bethere by Saturday, and have a quiet look at the stock before the salesbegin. And are you going to be long away ? said she, poutingly, asshe leaned over the back of his chair, and suffered her curls to fallhalf across his face. Ill be right
Lord Kilgobbin : a tale of Ireland in our own time . I must have, sir, for the hair. You had itbeautifully yesterday; it fell over on one side with a most perfectlight on a large lock here. Will you give me half an hour to-morrow, say ? I cant promise you, my dear. Peter Gill has been urging meto go over to Loughrea for the fair; and if we go, we ought to bethere by Saturday, and have a quiet look at the stock before the salesbegin. And are you going to be long away ? said she, poutingly, asshe leaned over the back of his chair, and suffered her curls to fallhalf across his face. Ill be right glad to be back again, said he, pressing her headdown till he could kiss her cheek, right glad ! CHAPTER VI. THE BLUE GOAT. The Blue Goat in the small town of Moate is scarcely a modelhostel. The entrance-hall is too much encumbered by tramps andbeggars of various orders and ages, who not only resort there to taketheir meals and play at cards, but to divide the spoils and settle theaccounts of their several industries, and occasionally to clear off. THE BLUE GOAT. 39 other scores which demancl police iuterfereuce. On the left is thebar; the right-hand being used as the office of a land-agent, isbesieged by crowds of country people, in whom, if language is to betrusted, the grievous wrongs of land-tenure are painfully portrayed—nothing but complaint, dogged determination, and resistance beingheard on every side. Behind the bar is a long low-ceilinged apart-ment, the parlour 7;rtr excellence, only used by distinguished visitors,and reserved on one especial evening of the week for the meeting ofthe Goats, as the members of a club call themselves—the chief,indeed the founder, being our friend Mathew Kearney, whose title ofsovereignty was Buck-Goat, and whose portrait, painted by anative artist and presented by the society, figured over the mantel-piece. The village Vandyke would seem to have invested largely incarmine, and though far from parsimonious of it on the cheeks andthe
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