“I don’t forget them, but sure you’re always in somebody’s affairs; always goin’ security for some of your poor parishioners; and then, when they’re not able to pay, down comes the responsibility upon you.”

“I cannot see a poor honest man, struggling and industrious, at a loss for a friendly act.  No; I never could stand it, so long as I had it in my power to assist him.”

“And what’s wrong now, if it’s a fair question?”

“Two or three things; none of them very large, but amounting in all to about fifty guineas.”

“Whew!—­fifty guineas!”

“Ay, indeed; fifty guineas, which you will lend me on my own security.”

“Fifty guineas to you?  Don’t I know you?  Why, if you had a thousand, let alone fifty, it’s among the poor o’ the parish they’d be afore a week.  Faith, I know you too well Father Peter.”

“You know me, man alive—­yes, you do know me; and it is just because you do that I expect you will lend me the money.  You wouldn’t wish to see my little things pulled about and auctioned; my laughy little library gone; nor would you wish to see me and poor Freney the Robber separated.  Big Ruly desaved me, the thief; but I found him out at last.  Money I know is a great temptation, and so is mate when trusted to a shark like him; but any way, may the Lord pardon the blackguard! and that’s the worst I wish him.”

There are some situations in life where conscience is more awakened by comparison, or perhaps we should say by the force of contrast, than by all the power of reason, religion, or philosophy, put together, and advancing against it in their proudest pomp and formality.  The childlike simplicity, for instance, of this good and benevolent man, earnest and eccentric as it was, occasioned reflections more painful and touching to the callous but timid heart of this old manoeuvrer than could whole homilies, or the most serious and lengthened exhortations.

“I am near death,” thought he, as he looked upon the countenance of the priest, from which there now beamed an emanation of regret, not for his difficulties, for he had forgotten them, but for his knavish servant—­so simple, so natural, so affecting, so benevolent, that Corbet was deeply struck by them.  “I am near death,” he proceeded, “and what would I not give to have within me a heart so pure and free from villany as that man.  He has made me feel more by thinkin’ of what goodness and piety can do, than I ever felt in my life; and now if he gets upon Freney the Robber, or lugs in that giant Ruly, he’ll forget debts, difficulties, and all for the time.  Heavenly Father, that I had as happy a heart this day, and as free from sin!”

“Anthony,” said the priest, “I must tell you about Freney—­”

“No, sir, if you plaise,” replied the other, “not now.”

“Well, about poor Mat Ruly; do you know that I think by taking him back I might be able to reclaim him yet.  The Lord has gifted him largely in one way, I admit; but still—­”