Sam, who liked a joke very well, laughed heartily at this, bad as it was, or rather he laughed at the shrewd, ludicrous, but satirical grin with which old Dunphy’s face was puckered whilst he uttered it.

“But, sir,” said he, resuming his gravity, “Beck, I’d have you to know, is not like other women, by which I mean that no other woman could be compared to her.  Beck’s the queen of women, upon my soul she is; and all I have to say is, that if you tell me the secret, in half an hour’s time she’ll be as well acquainted with it as either of us.  I have no notion, Dunphy, at this time of life, to separate my mind from Beck’s; my conscience, sir, is my store-room; she has a key for it, and, by fife and drum, I’m not going to take it from her now.  Do you think Beck would treat old Sam so?  No.  And my rule is, and ever has been, treat your wife with confidence if you respect her, and expect confidence in your turn.  No, no; poor Beck must have it if I have it.  The truth is, I have no secrets, and never had.  I keep none, Dunphy, and that’s but natural; however, it’s all the heart of man.”

The next morning the two men took an early walk, for both were in the habit of rising betimes.  Dunphy, it would appear, was one of those individuals, who, if they ever perform a praiseworthy act, do it rather from weakness of character and fear, than from a principle of conscientious rectitude.  After having gone to bed the previous night he lay awake for a considerable time debating with himself the purport of his visit, pro and con, without after all, being able to accomplish a determination on the subject.  He was timid, cunning, shrewd, avaricious, and possessed, besides, a large portion of that peculiar superstition which does not restrain from iniquity, although it renders the mind anxious and apprehensive of the consequences.  Now the honest fellow with whom he had to deal was the reverse of all this in every possible phase of his character, being candid, conscientious, fearless, and straightforward.  Whatever he felt to be his duty, that he did, regardless of all opinion and all consequences.  He was, in fact, an independent man, because he always acted from right principles, or rather from right impulses; the truth being, that the virtuous action was performed before he had allowed himself time to reason upon it.  Every one must have observed that there is a rare class of men whose feelings, always on the right side, are too quick for their reason, which they generously anticipate, and have the proposed virtue completed before either reason or prudence have had time to argue either for or against the act.  Old Sam was one of the latter, and our readers may easily perceive the contrast which the two individuals presented.