“Well, well,” said Lynch, smiling, “I’ll give you the legend of Saint Swithin exactly as it was told to me about a month since—­I have occasionally employed an industrious, poor man, named Tom Doody, to work in my garden.  ‘Well, Tom,’ said I to him, ’this is Swithin’s day, and not a drop of rain—­you see the old saying of “forty days’ rain” goes for nothing.’—­’O, but the day isn’t over yet,’ said Tom, ’so you’d better not halloo, sir, till you’re out of the wood.  I’ll go bail we’ll have rain some time of the day, and then you may be sure of it for the forty days.’—­’If that’s the way, Tom,’ said I, ’this same Swithin must have been the thirstiest saint in the calendar; and it’s quite certain he must be a real Irish saint, since he’s so fond of the drop.’—­’You may laugh if you please,’ said Tom, resting on his spade, ’you may laugh if you please, but it’s a bad thing any how to spake that way of the saints; and, sure, Saint Swithin was a blessed priest, and the rain was a miracle sent on his account; but may be you never heard how it came to pass.’—­’No, Tom, I did not,’ said I—­’Well, then, I’ll tell you,’ said he, ’how it was.  Saint Swithin was a priest, and a very holy man, so holy that he went by no other name but that of the blessed priest.  He wasn’t like the priests now-a-days, who ride about on fine horses, with spectacles stuck upon their noses, and horsewhips in their hands, and polished boots on their legs, that fit them as nate as a Limerick glove (God forgive me for spaking ill of the clargy, but some of them have no more conscience than a pig in a pratie garden;’) I give you Doody’s own words,” said Mr. Lynch.

“That’s exactly what I wish.”

“And he continued—­’Saint Swithin was not that kind of priest, no such thing; for he did nothing but pray from morning to night, so that he brought a blessing on the whole country round; and could cure all sorts of diseases, and was so charitable that he’d give away the shirt off his back.  Then, whenever he went out, it was quite plain and sober, on a rough little mountainy garran; and he thought himself grand entirely if his big ould fashioned boots got a rub of the grase.  It was no wonder he should be called the blessed priest, and that the people far and near should flock to him to mass and confession; or that they thought it a blessed thing to have him lay his hands on their heads.  It’s a pity the likes of him should ever die, but there’s no help for death; and sure if he wasn’t so good entirely he’d have been left, and not be taken away as he was; for ’tis them that are most wanting the first to go.  The news of his death flew about like lightning; and there was nothing but ullagoning through all the country, and they had no less than right, for they lost a good friend the day he died.  However, from ullagoning, they soon came to fighting about where he was to be buried.  His own parish wouldn’t part with