“‘Troth,’ said poor Mat, ’I never carried such a creelful in my life as it was when I left home.’

“‘But what has become of the turf, then?’ I asked.

“He gave me a look and almost began to cry—­’Arra now, your reverence,’ he replied, ’how could you expict me to have the heart to refuse a few sods to the great number of poor creatures that axed me for them, to boil their pratees, as I came along?  I hope, your reverence, I am not so hard-hearted as all that comes to.’”

“I know,” proceeded the priest, “that it was wrong not to bring the turf to its destination; but, you see, sir, it was only an error of judgment—­although the head was wrong, the heart was right—­and that’s a great point.”

It was not in human nature, however, to feel annoyed at this characteristic ebullition.  The stranger’s chagrin at once disappeared, and as he was in no particular hurry, and wished to see as much of the priest as possible, he resolved to give him his own way.

He had not long to wait, however.  After about a minute’s deep thought, he expressed himself as follows—­and it may be observed here, once for all, that on appropriate occasions his conversation could rise and adapt itself to the dignity of the subject, with a great deal of easy power, if not of eloquence—­“Now, sir,” said he, “you will plaise to pay attention to what I am about to say:  Beware of Sir Thomas Gourlay—­as a Christian man, it is my duty to put you on your guard; but consider that you ask me to involve myself in a matter of deep family interest and importance, and yet, as I said, you keep yourself wrapped, up in a veil of impenetrable mystery.  Pray, allow me to ask, is Mr. Birney acquainted with your name and secret?”

“He is,” replied the other, “with both”

“Then, in that case,” said the worthy priest, with very commendable prudence, “I will walk over with you to his house, and if he assures me personally that you are a gentleman in whose objects I may and ought to feel an interest, I then say, that I shall do what I can for you, although that may not be much.  Perhaps I may put you in a proper train to succeed.  I will, with these conditions, give you a letter to an old man in Dublin, who may give you, on this very subject, more information than any other person I know, with one exception.”

“My dear sir,” replied the stranger, getting on his legs—­“I am quite satisfied with that proposal, and I feel that it is very kind of you to make it.”

“Yes, but you won’t go,” said the priest, “till you take some refreshment.  It’s now past two o’clock.”

“I am much obliged to you,” replied the other, “but I never lunch.”

“Not a foot you’ll stir then till you take something—­I don’t want you to lunch—­a bit and a sup just—­come, don’t refuse now, for I say you must.”

The other smiled, and replied—­“But, I assure you, my dear sir, I couldn’t—­I breakfasted late.”