'Yes, that is my home now.' 'Good luck to you both, then. I will certainly attend the wedding; and if father had been dead a little longer, I would play the fiddle, that I might see Miss Lucy dance for the last time. Yes, it would be the last time. Never will I see such another figure on the floor. And never shall any other woman dance to music of mine. I have hung up my violin. There will be nobody in the village fit to play for when she is gone. I have played my last tune, and I shall now do as my father did-bake bread, and lock up my dollars in the old oak chest.' Johnny kept his word. Several years have passed, and he may now be seen any summer's day, seated at the door of his cottage, with a red night cap on his head, and a short black pipe in his mouth, chuckling over the idea that he has more hard dollars under lock and key than any man in the village. He bakes excellent bread, gives good weight, and drinks nothing but his own beer, while the sound of a violin, or the smile of a woman, never gladdens his roof, and "The harp that once in Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls, |