“Now,” said Honora’s mother to the servants of both sexes, “now, childre, that you’ve aite a trifle, you must taste something in the way of dhrink.  It would be too bad on this night above all nights we’ve seen yet, not to have a glass to the stranger’s health at all events.  Here, Nogher, thry this, avick—­you never got a glass wid a warmer heart.”

Nogher took the liquor, his grave face charged with suppressed humor, and first looking upon his fellow-servants with a countenance so droll yet dry, that none but themselves understood, it, he then directed a very sober glance at the good woman.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he exclaimed; “be goxty, sure enough if our hearts wouldn’t get warm now, they’d never warm.  A happy night it is for Fardorougha and the misthress, at any rate.  I’ll engage the stranger was worth waitin’ for, too.  I’ll hould a thrifle, he’s the beauty o’ the world this minnit—­an’ I’ll engage it’s breeches we’ll have to be I gettin for him some o’ these days, the darlin’.  Well, here’s his health, any way; an’ may he——­”

“Husth, arogorah!” exclaimed the mid-wife; “stop, I say—­the tree afore the fruit, all the world over; don’t you know, an’ bad win to you, that if the sthranger was to go to-morrow, as good might come afther him, while the paarent stocks are to the fore.  The mother an’ father first, acushla, an’ thin the sthranger.”

“Many thanks to you, Mrs. Moan,” replied Nogher, “for settin’ me right—­sure we’ll know something ourselves whin it comes our turn, plase goodness.  If the misthress isn’t asleep, by goxty, I’d call in to her, that I’m dhrinkin’ her health.”

“She’s not asleep,” said her mother; “an’ proud she’ll be, poor thing, to hear you, Nogher.”

“Misthress!” he said in a loud voice, “are you asleep, ma’am?”

“No, indeed, Nogher,” she replied, in a good-humored tone of voice.

“Well, ma’am,” said Nogher, still in a loud voice, and scratching his head, “here’s your health; an’ now that the ice is bruk—­be goxty, an’ so it is sure,” said he in an undertone to the rest—­“Peggy, behave yourself,” he continued, to one of the servant-maids, “mockin’s catchin’:  faix, you dunna what’s afore yourself yet—­beg pardon—­I’m forgettin’ myself—­an’ now that the ice is bruk, ma’am,” he resumed, “you must be dacent for the futher.  Many a bottle, plase goodness, we’ll have this way yet.  Your health, ma’am, an’ a speedy recovery to you—­an’ a sudden uprise—­not forgettin’ the masther—­long life to him!”

“What!” said the midwife, “are you forgettin’ the sthranger?”

Nogher looked her full in the face, and opened his mouth, without saying a word, literally pitched the glass of spirits to the very bottom of his throat.

“Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am,” he replied, “is it three healths you’d have me dhrink wid the one glassful?—­not myself, indeed; faix, I’d be long sorry to make so little of him—­if he was a bit of a girsha I’d not scruple to give him a corner o’ the glass, but, bein’ a young man althers the case intirely—­he must have a bumper for himself.”