thief of the world, where are you?  Your health, avourneen; come here, and give us your fist, Katty:  bad manners to me if I could forget you afther all;—­the best crathur, your Reverence, under the sun, except when yer Reverence puts yer comedher on her at confession, and then she’s a little, sharp or so, not a doubt of it:  but no matther, Katty ahagur, you do it all for the best.  And Father Philemy, maybe it’s myself didn’t put the thrick upon you in the Maragy More, about Katty’s death—­ha, ha, ha!  Jack M’Craner, yer health—­all yer healths, and yer welcome here, if you war seven times as many.  Briney, where are you, ma bouchal?  Come up and shake hands wid yer father, as well as another—­come up, acushla, and kiss me.  Ah, Briney, my poor fellow, ye’ll never be the cut of a man yer father was; but no matther, avourneen, ye’ll be a betther man, I hope; and God knows you may asy be that, for Father Philemy, I’m not what I ought to be, yer Reverence; however, I may mend, and will, maybe, before a month of Sundays goes over me:  but, for all that, Briney, I hope to see the day when you’ll be sitting an ordained priest at my own table; if I once saw that, I could die contented—­so mind yer larning, acushla, and, his Reverence here will back you, and make inthorest to get you into the college.  Musha, God pity them crathurs at the door—­aren’t they gone yet?  Listen to them coughin’, for fraid we’d forget them:  and throth and they won’t be forgot this bout any how—­Katty, avourneen, give them every one, big and little, young and ould, their skinful—­don’t lave a wrinkle in them; and see, take one of them bottles—­the crathurs, they’re starved sitting there all night in the cowld—­and give them a couple of glasses a-piece—­it’s good, yer Reverence, to have the poor body’s blessing at all times; and now, as I was saying, Here’s all yer healths! and from the very veins of my heart yer welcome here.”

Our readers may perceive that Phaddhy

     “Was not only blest, but glorious,
     O’er a’ the ills o’ life victorious;”

for, like the generality of our peasantry, the native drew to the surface of his character those warm, hospitable, and benevolent virtues, which a purer system of morals and education would most certainly keep in full action, without running the risk, as in the present instance, of mixing bad habits with frank, manly, and generous qualities.

* * * * *

“I’ll not go, Con—­I tell you I’ll not go till I sing another song.  Phaddhy, you’re a prince—­but where’s the use of lighting more candles now, man, than you had in the beginning of the night?  Is Captain Wilson gone?  Then, peace be with him; it’s a pity he wasn’t on the right side, for he’s not the worst of them.  Phaddhy, where are you?”

“Why, yer Reverence,” replied Katty, “he’s got a little unwell, and jist laid down his head a bit.”

“Katty,” said Father Con, “you had better get a couple of the men to accompany Father Philemy home; for though the night’s clear, he doesn’t see his way very well in the dark—­poor man, his eye-sight’s failing him fast.”