“You had better come in, ma’am,” said the old fellow, in a tone of voice that could not be misunderstood; “here’s Father M’Mahon, who wants to spake to you.”

“Arra, get out o’ that!” she replied; “didn’t I tell you that he didn’t show his round rosy face to-day yet; but I’ll go bail he’ll be here for all that—­sorra day he missed for the last week, and it’s a scandal for you to thrate him as you’re doin’—­sorra thing else.”

“Stop your goster,” said Dunphy, “and come in—­isn’t he inside here?”

The woman came to the door, and giving a hasty and incredulous look in, started, exclaiming, “Why, then, may I never sin, but he is.  Musha!  Father M’Mahon, how in the name o’ goodness did you get inside at all?”

“Aisily enough,” he replied; “I only made myself invisible for a couple of minutes, and passed in while you were weighing something for a woman in the shop.”

“Troth, then, one would think you must a’ done so, sure enough, for the sorrow a stim of you I seen anyhow.”

“O, she’s so attentive to her business, your reverence,” said Anthony, with bitter irony, “that she sees nothing else.  The lord mayor might drive his coach in, and she wouldn’t see him.  There’s an ould proverb goin’ that says there’s none so blind as thim that won’t see.  Musha, sir, wasn’t that a disagreeable turn that happened you the other morning?”

“But it didn’t last long, that was one comfort.  The Lord save me from ever seeing such another sight.  I never thought our nature was capable of such things; it is awful, even to think of it.  Yes, terrible to reflect, that there were unfortunate wretches there who will probably be hurried into eternity without repenting for their transgressions, and making their peace with God;” and as he concluded, Corbet found that the good pastor’s eye was seriously and solemnly fixed upon him.

“Indeed—­it’s all true, your reverence—­it’a all true,” he replied.

“Now, Anthony,” continued the priest, “I have something very important to spake to you about; something that will be for your own benefit, not only in this world, but in that awful one which is to come, and for which we ought to prepare ourselves sincerely and earnestly.  Have you any objection that your wife should be present, or shall we go upstairs and talk it over there?”

“I have every objection,” replied Corbet; “something she does know, but—­”

“O thank goodness,” replied the old woman, very naturally offended at being kept out of the secret, “I’m not in all your saicrets, nor I don’t wish to know them, I’m sure.  I believe you find some of them a heavy burden; at any rate.”

“Come, then,” said the priest, “put on your hat and take a walk with me as far as the Brazen Head inn, where I’m stopping.  We can have a private room there, where there will be no one to interrupt us.”

“Would it be the same thing to you, sir, if I’d call on you there about this time to-morrow?”