'
It was, indeed, a remarkably dark night--a rush and downpour of rain!
The doctor stood just under the porch of the stout brick house--of King
William's date, which was then the residence of the worthy rector of
Chapelizod--with his great surtout and cape on--his leggings buttoned
up--and his capacious leather 'overalls' pulled up and strapped over
these--and his broad-leafed hat tied down over his wig and ears with a
mighty silk kerchief. I dare say he looked absurd enough--but it was the
women's doing--who always, upon emergencies, took the doctor's wardrobe
in hand. Old Sally, with her kind, mild, grave face, and gray locks,
stood modestly behind in the hall; and pretty Lilias, his only child,
gave him her parting kiss, and her last grand charge about his shoes and
other exterior toggery, in the porch; and he patted her cheek with a
little fond laugh, taking old John Tracy's, the butler's, arm. John
carried a handsome horn-lantern, which flashed now on a roadside
bush--now on the discoloured battlements of the bridge--and now on a
streaming window. They stepped out--there were no umbrellas in those
days--splashing among the wide and widening pools; while Sally and
Lilias stood in the porch, holding candles for full five minutes after
the doctor and his 'Jack-o'-the-lantern,' as he called honest John,
whose arm and candle always befriended him in his night excursions, had
got round the corner.
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