“What do you mean?” asked Lucre.

“Why, sir, as I said, I don’t like to take my religion from an attorney—­and I’m afeard, besides, that he’s not altogether orthybox, in regard that he hinted once that God was ------; but, indeed I disremember his words, for it wasn’t aisy to hould them when you got them.”

“He, of course, is a Fatalist and Predestinarian,” said Lucre; “but what is this you were about to say?”

“Why, sir, that I’d wish publicly to read my recompensation in your church on Sunday next.”

“And why in my church?” asked the proud parson, who felt his vanity touched, not by anything Darby had yet said, but by the indescribable expression of flattery which appeared in his face.

“Why, sir,” he replied, “bekase it’s given out on all hands that there’s no end to your larnin’—­that it’s wondherful the books you wrote—­and as for your preachin’, that it ’ud make one think themselves in heaven, hell, or purgatory, accordin as you wished.”

“Very well, O’Drive, very well indeed,” exclaimed Lucre, caught on his weakest side by this artful compliment; “but you must forget purgatory—­however I can conceive that it was the mere force of habit that prompted you to utter it.  Well, then, you shall read your recantation on Sunday, since you wish it—­there will be about a dozen or two others, and you had better attend early.  Good-day, O’Drive!”

“Plaise your honor,” said Darby, who never could be honest to both parties, “there’s a batch o’ convarts outside waitin’ to see you, but between you and me, I think you had as well be on your guard wid some o’ them, I know what they want.”

“And pray, what is that, O’Drive?”

“Why, thin, for fraid I may be doin’ the crathurs injustice, sir, I won’t say; only jist take my hint, any how.  Good mornin’ kindly, sir!”

As Darby passed the group we have alluded to, he winked at them very knowingly, “go up,” said he, “go up I say:—­may be I didn’t give yez a lift since, and mark me, huld to the five guineas a head, and to be provided for aftherwards.  Paddy Cummins do you go up, I say—­bannath lath!”

Paddy went up, and in a few minutes a ragged, famine-wasted creature entered with his old caubeen between his hands, and after having ducked down his head, and shrugged his shoulders alternately, stood with an abashed look before Mr. Lucre.

“Well, my good man, what is your business with me?”

To this the countryman prepared to reply,—­first, by two or three additional shrugs; secondly, by raising his right elbow, and pulling up all that remained of the collar of his tattered cothamore, or great coat, after which he gave a hem.

“Have you no tongue, my good fellow?”

A shrug—­“hem—­why, sir, but that was a great sarmon you praiched on last Sunda’, plaise you honor.  Faitha, sir, there was mighty fine discoorsin’ in it about rail-ligion?”

“O! the sermon—­did you hear it, my good man?”