was neither fresh mutton nor fresh beef.  The priest, it must be confessed, was a man of considerable fortitude, but this was a blow for which he was scarcely prepared, particularly as a boiled leg of mutton was one of his fifteen favorite joints at dinner.  He accordingly took two or three pinches of snuff in rapid succession, and a seat at the fire, as I have said, placing Phaddhy, unconscious of his design, immediately beside him.

Now, the reader knows that Phaddhy was a man possessing a considerable portion of dry, sarcastic humor, along with that natural, quickness of penetration and shrewdness for which most of the Irish peasantry are in a very peculiar degree remarkable; add to this that Father Philemy, in consequence of his contemptuous bearing to him before he came in for his brother’s property, stood not very high in his estimation.  The priest knew this, and consequently felt that the point in question would require to be managed, on his part, with suitable address.

“Phaddhy,” says his Reverence, “sit down here till we chat a little, before I commence the duties of the day.  I’m happy to, see that you have such a fine thriving family:  how many sons and daughters have you?”

“Six sons, yer Reverence,” replied.  Phaddhy, “and five daughters:  indeed, sir, they’re as well to be seen as their neighbors, considhering all things.  Poor crathurs, they get fair play* now, thank Grod, compared to what they used to get—­God rest their poor uncle’s sowl for that!  Only for him, your Reverence, there would be very few inquiring this or any other day about them.”

     * By this is meant good food and clothing.

“Did he die as rich as they said, Phaddhy?” inquired his Reverence.

“Hut, sir,” replied Phaddhy, determined to take what he afterwards called a rise out of the priest; “they knew little about it—­as rich as they said, sir! no, but three times as rich, itself:  but, any how, he was the man that could make the money.”

“I’m very happy to hear it, Phaddhy, on, your account, and that of your children.  God be good to him—­requiescat animus ejus in pace, per omnia secula seculorum, Amen!—­he liked a drop in his time, Phaddhy, as well as ourselves, eh?”

“Amen, amen—­the heavens be his bed!—­he-did, poor man! but he had it at first cost, your Reverence, for he run it all himself in the mountains:  he could afford to take it.”

“Yes, Phaddhy, the heavens be his bed, I pray; no Christmas or Easter ever passed but he was sure to send me the little keg of stuff that never saw water; but, Phaddhy, there’s one thing that concerns me about him, in regard of his love of drink—­I’m afraid it’s a throuble to him where he is at present; and I was sorry to find that, although he died full of money, he didn’t think it worth his while to leave even the price of a mass to be said for the benefit of his own soul.”

“Why, sure you know, Father Philemy, that he wasn’t what they call a dhrinking man:  once a quarther, or so, he sartinly did take a jorum; and except at these times, he was very sober.  But God look upon us, yer Reverence—­or upon myself, anyway; for if he’s to suffer for his doings that way, I’m afeard we’ll have a troublesome reck’ning of it.”