the most part with them, that is to say except while ascertaining from time to time the situation of his wife.  His presence, however, was only a restraint upon their good-humor, and his niggardly habits raised some rather uncomplimentary epithets during his short visits of inquiry.  It is customary upon such occasions, as soon as the mistress of the family is taken ill, to ask the servants to drink “an aisy bout to the misthress, sir, an’ a speedy recovery, not forgettin’ a safe landin’ to the youngsther, and, like a Christmas compliment, many of them to you both.  Whoo! death alive, but that’s fine stuff.  Oh, begorra, the misthress can’t but thrive wid that in the house.  Thank you, sir, an’ wishin’ her once more safe over her troubles!—­divil a betther misthress ever,” etc., etc., etc.

Here, however, there was nothing of the kind.  Fardorougha’s heart, in the first instance, was against the expense, and besides, its present broodings resembled the throes of pain which break out from the stupor that presses so heavily upon the exhausted functions of life in the crisis of a severe fever.  He could not, in fact, rest nor remain for any length of time in the same spot.  With a slow but troubled step he walked backward and forward, sometimes uttering indistinct ejaculations and broken sentences, such as no one could understand.  At length he approached his own servants, and addressed the messenger whose name was Nogher M’Cormick.

“Nogher,” said he, “I’m throubled.”

“Throubled! dad, Fardorougha, you ought to be a happy and a thankful man this night, that is, if God sinds the misthress safe over it, as I hope He will, plase goodness.”

“I’m poor, Nogher, I’m poor, an’ here’s a family comin’.”

“Faith, take care it’s not sin you’re com-mittin’ by spakin’ as you’re doin’.”

“But you know I’m poor, Nogher.”

“But I know you’re not, Fardorougha; but I’m afraid, if God hasn’t said it, your heart’s too much fix’d upon the world.  Be my faix, it’s on your knees you ought to be this same night, thankin’ the Almighty for His goodness, and not grumblin’ an’ sthreelin’ about the place, flyin’ in the face of God for sendin’ you an’ your wife ablessin’—­for sure I hear the Scripthur says that all childhres a blessin’ if they’re resaved as sich; an’ wo be to the man, says Scripthur, dat’s born wid a millstone about his neck, especially if he’s cast into the say.  I know you pray enough, but, be my sowl, it hasn’t improved your morals, or it’s the misthress’ health we’d be drinkin’ in a good bottle o’ whiskey at the present time.  Faix, myself wouldn’t be much surprised if she had a hard twist in consequence, an’ if she does, the fault’s your own an’ not ours, for we’re willin’ as the flowers o’ May to drink all sorts o’ good luck to her.”

“Nogher,” said the other, “it’s truth a great dale of what you’ve sed—­maybe all of it.”

“Faith, I know,” returned Nogher, “that about the whiskey it’s parfit gospel.”