“And tell me, Poll, did you ever happen to get a job from a sartin pious gentleman, o’ the name of M’Slime?—­now tell the truth.”

“It’s a question,” replied Poll, “you have no right to axe—­you must know, Darby O’Drive, that I’ve had my private business, as well as my public business, an’ that I’d suffer that right hand to be cut off sooner than betray trust.  Honor bright, or what’s the world good for!”

They now reached a spot where the road branched into two, but Poll still kept to that which led to M’Clutchy’s.  “Are you for the Cottage too,” asked Darby.

“I am,” replied Poll, “I’ve been sent for; but what he wants wid me, I know no more than the man in the moon.”

Just then the tramp of a horse’s feet was heard behind’ them, and in a minute or two, Solomon M’Slime, who was also on his way to the Cottage, rode up to them.

“A kind good morning to you Darby, my friend!  I trust you did not neglect to avail yourself of the—­Ah!” said he complacently on catching a glimpse of Poll’s face, “I think I ought to recollect your features, my good woman—­but, no—­I can’t say I do—­No, I must mistake them for those of another—­but, indeed, the best of us is liable to mistake and error—­all frail—­flesh is grass.”

“You might often see my face,” returned Poll, “but I don’t think ever we spoke before.  I know you to look at you, sir, that’s all—­an’ it’s thrue what you say too, sir, there’s nothing but frailty in the world—­divil a much else—­howsomever, be that as is may, honor bright’s my motive.”

“And a good motto it is, my excellent woman—­is that interesting young man your son?”

“He is, sir; but he’s a poor innocent that, hasn’t the full complement of wit, sir, God help him!”

“Well, my good woman,” continued Solomon, “as he appears to be without shoes to his feet, will you accept of five shillings, which is all the silver I have about me, to buy him a pair.”

“Many thanks, Mr. M’Sl—­hem—­many thanks, sir; honor bright’s my motive.”

“And let it always be so, my excellent, woman; a good morning to you very kindly!  Darby, I bid you also good morning, and peace be with you both.”

So saying, he rode on at a quiet, easy amble, apparently at peace with his heart, his conscience, his sleek cob, and all the world besides.

The sessions of Castle Cumber having concluded as sessions usually conclude, we beg our reader to accompany us to Deaker Hall the residence of M’Clutchy’s father, the squire.  This man was far advanced in years, but appeared to have been possessed of a constitution which sustains sensuality, or perhaps that retrospective spirit which gloats over its polluted recollections, on the very verge of the grave.  In the case before us, old age sharpened the inclination to vice in proportion as it diminished the power of being vicious, and presented an instance of a man, at the close of a long life, watching over the grave