“Eight, Dunphy, right—­well, you know the rest.  ‘Education’s the point,’ said I to Beck—­ignorance is a bad inheritance.  What would I be to-day if I didn’t write a good hand, and was a keen accountant!  But no matter, off he went with a decent outfit to honest Mainwairing—­thirty pounds a-year—­five years—­lost no time—­was steady, but always showed a spirit.  Couldn’t get him a commission then, for I hadn’t come in for my Uncle’s legacy, which I got the other day.—­dashed him into the ranks though—­and here he is—­a commissioned officer—­eh, old Dunphy!  Well, isn’t that natural? but it’s all the heart of man.”

“It’s wonderful,” observed Dunphy, ruminating, “it’s wonderful indeed.  Well, now, Mr. Roberts, it really is wonderful.  I came down here to spake to you about that very boy, and see the news I have before me.  Indeed, it is wonderful, and the hand o’ God is surely in it.”

“Right, Dunphy, that’s the word; and under him, in the capacity of agent in the business, book down Sam Roberts, who’s deeply thankful to God for making him, if I may say so, his adjutant in advancing the boy’s fortunes.”

“Did you see him to-day, Sam?” asked Mrs. Roberts.

“No,” replied Sam, “he wasn’t in the barracks, but I’ll engage we’ll both see him tomorrow, if he has life, that is, unless he should happen to be on duty.  If he doesn’t come to-morrow, however, I’ll start the day after for Dublin.”

“Well, now, Mr. Roberts,” said Dunphy, “if you have no objection, I didn’t care if I turned into bed; I’m not accustomed to travelin’, and I’m a thrifle fatigued; only tomorrow morning, plaise God, I have something to say to you about that boy that may surprise you.”

“Not a syllable, Dunphy, nothing about him that could surprise me.”

“Well,” replied the hesitating and cautious old man, “maybe I will surprise you for all that.”

This he said whilst Mrs. Roberts and Molly Byrne were preparing his bed in one of the neat sleeping rooms which stood off the pleasant kitchen where they sat; “and listen, Mr. Roberts, before I tell it, you must pledge your honor as a soldier, that until I give you lave, you’ll never breathe a syllable of what I have to mention to any one, not even to Mrs. Roberts.”

“What’s that?  Keep a secret from Beck?  Come, Dunphy, that’s what I never did, unless the word and countersign when on duty, and, by fife and drum, I never will keep your secret then; I don’t want it, for as sure as I hear it, so shall she.  And is it afraid of old Beck you are?  By fife and drum, sir, old Beck has more honor than either of us, and would as soon take a fancy to a coward as betray a secret.  You don’t know her, old Dunphy, you don’t know her, or you wouldn’t spake as if you feared that she’s not truth and honesty to the backbone.”

“I believe it, Mr. Roberts, but they say, afther all, that once a woman gets a secret, she thinks herself in a sartin way, until she’s delivered of it’.”