“Hem, a-hem!—­Phaddhy,” replied the priest, “he has raised you and your children from poverty, at all events, and you ought to consider that.  If there is anything in your power to contribute to the relief of his soul, you havs a strong duty upon you to do it; and a number of masses, offered up devoutly, would—­”

“Why, he did, sir, raise both myself and my childre from poverty,” said Phaddhy, not willing to let that point go farther—­“that I’ll always own to; and I hope in God that whatever little trouble might be upon him for the dhrop of dhrink, will be wiped off by this kindness to us.”

“He hadn’t even a Month’s mind!"*

* A Mouth’s Mind is the repetition of one or more masses, at the expiration of a month after death, for the repose of a departed soul.  There are generally more than the usual number of priests on such occasions:  each of whom receives a sum of money, varying according to the wealth of the survivors—­sometimes five shillings, and sometimes five guineas.

“And it’s not but I spoke to him about both, yer Eeverence.”

“And what did he say, Phaddy?”

“‘Phaddy,’ said he, ’I have been giving Father M’Guirk, one way or another, between whiskey, oats, and dues, a great deal of money every year; and now, afther I’m dead,’ says he, ’isn’t it an ungrateful thing of him not to offer up one mass for my sowl, except I leave him payment for it?’”

“Did he say that, Phaddhy?”

“I’m giving you his very words, yer Reverence.”

“Phaddhy, I deny it; it’s a big lie—­he could not make much use of such words, and he going to face death.  I say you could not listen to them; the hair would stand on your head if he did; but God forgive him—­that’s the worst I wish him.  Didn’t the hair stand on your head, Phaddhy, to hear him?”

“Why, then, to tell yer Reverence God’s truth, I can’t say it did.”

“You can’t say it did! and if I was in your coat, I would be ashamed to say it did not.  I was always troubled about the way the fellow died, but I hadn’t the slightest notion:  that he went off such a reprobate.  I fought his battle and yours hard enough yesterday; but I knew less about him than I do now.”

“And what, wid submission, did you fight our battles about, yer Reverence?” inquired Phaddhy.

“Yesterday evening, in Parrah More Slevin’s, they had him a miser, and yourself they set down as very little better.”

“Then I don’t think I desarved that from Parrah More, anyhow, Father Philemy; I think I can show myself as dacent as Parrah More or any of his faction.”

“It was not Parrah More himself, nor his family, that said anything about you, Phaddhy,” said the priest, “but others that were present.  You must know that we were all to be starved here to-day.”

“Oh! ho!” exclaimed Phaddhy, who was hit most palpably upon the weakest side—­the very sorest spot about him, “they think bekase this is the first station that ever was held in my house, that you won’t be thrated as you ought; but they’ll be disappointed; and I hope, for so far, that yer Reverence and yer friends had no rason to complain.”