“Ay, Pether,” proceeded this benevolent hypocrite, forgetting everything but the image that was before him—­“Ay, in troth, your own children—­your own children, poor things, without a morsel to put into their mouths; and your wife, Pether, that you love betther than—­than—­aye, than a station dinner, a thousand times—­sittin’ with a pale face and a breaking, or, maybe, a broken heart, looking on at their privations and their miserable destitution, without being able to render them the laist assistance.  Bad luck to it, for a mammon of unrighteousness, it’s never in the way when it’s wanted.”

After he had concluded, he took out a red cotton pocket-handkerchief, spotted at equal distances with white dice, and wiped away the tears that had gushed to his eyes whilst he spoke.

“Pettier,” said he, immediately, “finish your tumbler and go to bed; you know we must be off to-morrow to station before six o’clock, and after your bitther ride to-night you want rest, poor fellow.”

When about a quarter of an hour had elapsed, and he had seen Peter to bed, he went to the kitchen, and asked Katty, his housekeeper, who always attended upon him and his curate, if she had done what he desired her.

“It’s done, your reverence,” she replied, “but you’ll never be able to carry it.”

“That’s not your affair, Katty—­do you hear now?”

“I do, your reverence.”

“Very well, then, I tell you that’s none of your affair,—­the sorra bit.  I hope you did’nt let Barney go to bed?”

“Of coorse not, sir, when you bid me keep him up.”

“Very well, then; and if either he or you brittle a syllable of this to Father Pether, I’ll read you both oat—­do you hear that now?  Bring Barney here, then.”

Barney accordingly made his appearance.

“Now mark me,” continued the priest, “if either of you ever brathes a syllable of this, salvation to me, but I’ll read you both out from the althar.  Here now help me on with this sack; it’s for a distressed person in the neighborhood that wants it badly, as you may judge, or I wouldn’t be trudging off with it at this hour of the night.  Katty, you go to bed, and let Barney stay up till I come back—­did you mind my words, I repate—­read you both out, if ever a syllable comes to Father Pother’s ears, or anybody’s else’s but our own.”

The servant man accordingly assisted him to raise upon his stout and honest shoulders a short heavy bag of oatmeal, into which he had thrust a large flitch of newly-hung bacon; and thus loaded, the violent anti-tithe priest bent his way, nearly at the hour of twelve o’clock, to the residence of the Rev. Mr. Goodison, his neighbor.