“He’ll never let me do it,” thought Corbet, vexed, and still more softened by the piety, the charity, and the complete forgetfulness of self, which the priest’s conduct manifested.  Yet was this change not brought about without difficulty, and those pitiful misgivings and calculations which assail and re-assail a heart that has been for a long time under the influence of the world and those base principles by which it is actuated.  In fact, this close, nervous, and penurious old man felt, when about to perform this generous action, all that alarm and hesitation which a virtuous man would feel when on the eve of committing a crime.  He was about to make an inroad upon his own system—­going to change the settled habits of his whole life, and, for a moment, he entertained thoughts of altering his purpose.  Then he began to think that this visit of the priest might have been a merciful and providential one; he next took a glimpse at futurity—­reflected for a moment on his unprepared state, and then decided to assist the priest now, and consider the necessity for repentance as soon as he felt it convenient to do so afterwards.

How strange and deceptive, and how full of the subtlest delusions, are the workings of the human heart!

“And now, Anthony,” proceeded the priest, “while I think of it, let me speak to you on another affair.”

“I see, sir,” replied Corbet, somewhat querulously, “that you’re determined to prevent me from sarvin’ you.  If my mind changes, I won’t do it; so stick to your own business first.  I know very well what you’re goin’ to spake about.  How much do you want, you say?”

“Fifty guineas.  I’m responsible for three bills to that amount.  The bills are not for myself, but for three honest families that have been brought low by two of the worst enemies that ever Ireland had—­bad landlords and bad times.”

“Well, then, I’ll give you the money.”

“God bless you, Anthony!” exclaimed the good man, “God bless you! and above all things may He enable you and all of us to prepare for the life that is before us.”

Anthony paused a moment, and looked with a face of deep perplexity at the priest.

“Why am I doin’ this,” said he, half repentant of the act, “and me can’t afford it?  You must give me your bill, sir, at three months, and I’ll charge you interest besides.”

“I’ll give you my bill, certainly,” replied the priest, “and you may charge interest too; but be moderate.”

Corbet then went upstairs, much at that pace which characterizes the progress of a felon from the press-room to the gallows; here he remained for some time—­reckoning the money—­paused on the stairhead—­and again the slow, heavy, lingering step was heard descending, and, as nearly as one could judge, with as much reluctance as that with which it went up.  He then sat down and looked steadily, but with a good deal of abstraction, at the priest, after having first placed the money on his own side of the table.