“Lave the rest to me, yer Reverence, I’ll get it; Mr. M’Loughlin will give me the right sort, if he has it betune him and death.”

“M’Laughlin! what are you talking about?”

“Why, what is your Reverence talking about?”

“The scapular,” said the priest.

“But I mane the wine and the mutton,” says Phaddhy.

“And is that the way you treat me, you reprobate you?” replied his Reverence in a passion:  “is that the kind of attention you’re paying me, and I, advising you, all this time, for the good of your soul?  Phaddhy, I tell you, you’re enough to vex me to the core—­five years!—­only once at confession in five years!  What do I care about your mutton and your wine!—­you may get dozens of them if you wish; or, may be, it would be more like a Christian to never mind getting them, and let the neighbors laugh away.  It would teach you humility, you hardened creature, and God knows you want it; for my part, I’m speaking to you about other things; but that’s the way with the most of you—­mention any spiritual subject that concerns your soul, and you turn a deaf ear to it—­here, Dolan, come in to your duty.  In the meantime, you may as well tell Katty not to boil the mutton too much; it’s on your knees you ought to be at your rosary, or the seven penitential psalms, any way.”

“Thrue for you, sir,” says Phaddhy; “but as to going wanst a month, I’m afeard, your Rev’rence, if it would shorten my timper as it does Katty’s, that we’d be bad company for one another; she comes home from confession, newly set, like a razor, every bit as sharp; and I’m sure that I’m within the truth when I say there’s no bearing her.”

“That’s because you’ve no relish for anything spiritual yourself, you nager you,” replied his Reverence, “or you wouldn’t see her temper in that light—­but, now that I think of it, where did you get that stuff we had at breakfast?”

“Ay, that’s the sacret; but I knew your Rev’rence would like it; did Parrah More aiquil it?  No, nor one of his faction couldn’t lay his finger on such a dhrop.”

“I wish you could get me a few gallons of it,” said the priest; “but let us drop that; I say, Phaddhy, you’re too worldly and too careless about your duty.”

“Well, Father Philemy, there’s a good time coming; I’ll mend yet.”

“You want it, Phaddhy.”

“Would three gallons do, sir?”

“I would rather you would make it five, Phaddhy; but go to your rosary.”

“It’s the penitential psalms, first, sir,” said Phaddhy, “and the rosary at night.  I’ll try, anyhow; and if I can make off five for you, I will.”

“Thank you, Phaddhy; but I would recommend you to say the rosary before night.”

“I believe yer Reverence is right,” replied Phaddhy, looking somewhat slyly in the priest’s face; “I think it’s best to make sure of it now, in regard that in the evening, your Reverence—­do you persave?”