“Why, thin, I’m very much obliged to your Rev’rence for purscribin’ for her,” replied Phaddhy; “for, sure enough, she has neither pain nor ache, at the present time, for the best rason in the world, docthor, that she’ll be dead jist seven years, if God spares your Rev’rence an’ myself till to-morrow fortnight, about five o’clock in the mornin’.”

This was more than Father Philemy could stand with a good conscience, so after getting himself out of the dilemma as well as he could, he shook Phaddhy again very cordially by the hand, saying, “Well, good-bye, Phaddliy, and God be good to poor Sarah’s soul—­I now remember her funeral, sure enough, and a dacent one it was, for indeed she was a woman that had everybody’s good word—­and, between you and me, she made a happy death, that’s as far as we can judge here; for, after all, there may be danger, Phaddy, there may be danger, you understand—­however, it’s your own business, and your duty, too, to think of that; but I believe you’re not the man that would be apt to forget her.”

“Phaddhy, ye thief o’ the world,” said Jim Dillon, when Father Philemy was gone, there’s no comin’ up to ye; how could you make sich a fool of his Rev’rence, as to tell im that Katty was dead, and that you had only four childher, an’ you has eleven o’ them, an’ the wife in good health?”

“Why, jist, Tim,” replied Phaddhy, with his usual shrewdness, “to tache his Reverence himself to practise truth a little; if he didn’t know that I got the stockin’ of guineas and the Linaskey farm by my brother Barney’s death, do ye think that he’d notish me at all at all?—­not himself, avick; an’ maybe he won’t be afther comin’ round to me for a sack of my best oats,* instead of the bushel I used to give him, and houldin’ a couple of stations wid me every year.”

* The priest accompanied by a couple of servants each with a horse and sack, collects from such of his parishioners as can afford it, a quantity of oats, varying with the circumstances of the donor.  This collection—­called Questing—­is voluntary on the part of his parishioners who may refuse it it they wish; very few are found however, hardy enough to risk the obloquy of declining to contribute, and the consequence is that the custom operates with as much force as if it were legal and compulsory.

“But won’t he go mad when he hears you tould him nothing but lies?”

“Not now, Tim,” answered Phaddhy—­“not now; thank God,—­I’m not a poor man, an’ he’ll keep his temper.  I’ll warrant you the horsewhip won’t be up now, although, afore this, I wouldn’t say but it might—­though the poorest day I ever was, ’id’s myself that wouldn’t let priest or friar lay a horsewhip to my back, an’ that you know, Tim.”

Phaddhy’s sagacity, however, was correct; for, a short time after this conversation, Father Philemy, when collecting his oats, gave him a call, laughed heartily at the sham account of Katty’s death, examined young Briney in his Latin, who was called after his uncle, pronounced him very cute, and likely to become a great scholar—­promised his interest with the bishop to get him into Maynooth, and left the family, after having shaken hands with, and stroked down the heads of all the children.