Thank you, father—­much obliged; you entertain a good opinion of me.”

“Do I, faith?  Don’t be too sure of that.”

“I’ve bought her at any rate,” said Hycy—­“thirty-five’s the figure; but she’s a dead bargain at fifty.”

“Bought her!” exclaimed the father; “an’ how, in God’s name, do you expect to pay for her?”

“By an order on a very excellent, worthy man and gentleman-farmer—­ycleped James Burke, Esquire—­who has the honor of being father to that ornament of the barony, Hycy Burke, the accomplished.  My worthy sire will fork out.”

“If I do, that I may—­”

“Silence, poor creature!” said his wife, clapping her hand upon his mouth—­“make no rash or vulgar oaths.  Surely, Misther Burke—­”

“How often did I bid you not to misther me?  Holy scrapers, am I to be misthered and pesthered this way, an’ my name plane Jemmy Burke!”

“You see, Hycy, the vulgarian will come out,” said his mother.  “I say, Misther Burke, are you to see your son worse mounted at the Herringstown Hunt than any other gentleman among them?  Have you no pride?

“No, thank God! barin’ that I’m an honest man an’ no gentleman; an’, as for Hycy, Rosha—­”

“Mrs. Burke, father, if you please,” interposed Hycy; “remember who your wife is at all events.”

“Faith, Hycy, she’ll come better off if I forget that same; but I tell you that instead of bein’ the laughin’-stock of the same Hunt, it’s betune the stilts of a plough you ought to be, or out in the fields keepin’ the men to their business.”

“I paid three guineas earnest money, at all events,” said the son; “but ‘it matters not,’ as the preacher says—­

     “’When I was at home I was merry and frisky,
     My dad kept a pig and my mother sold whiskey’—­

Beg pardon, mother, no allusion—­my word and honor none—­to you I mean—­

     “’My uncle was rich, but would never be aisy
     Till I was enlisted by Corporal Casey.’

Fine times in the army, Mr. Burke, with every prospect of a speedy promotion.  Mother, my stomach craves its matutinal supply—­I’m in excellent condition for breakfast.”

“It’s ready.  Jemmy, you’ll—­Misther Burke, I mane—­you’ll pay for Misther Hycy’s mare.”

“If I do—­you’ll live to see it, that’s all.  Give the boy his breakwhist.”

“Thank you, worthy father—­much obliged for your generosity—­

     “’Oh, love is the soul of a nate Irishman
     He loves all that’s lovely, loves all that he can,
     With his sprig of—­’

Ah, Peety Dhu, how are you, my worthy peripatetic?  Why, this daughter of yours is getting quite a Hebe on our hands.  Mrs. Burke, breakfast—­breakfast, madam, as you love Hycy, the accomplished.”  So saying, Hycy the accomplished proceeded to the parlor we have described, followed by his maternal relative, as he often called his mother.

“Well, upon my word and honor, mother,” said the aforesaid Hycy, who knew and played upon his mother’s weak points, “it is a sad thing to see such a woman as you are, married to a man who has neither the spirit nor feelings of a gentleman—­my word and honor it is.”