“The divil resave the yarrib* ever I’ll gather for you agin, so long as my name’s Darby More, except you say either ‘life’ or ‘death,’” said Darby, who forgot his character of sanctity altogether.

     * Herb-Men of Darby’s cast were often in the habit of
     collecting rare medicinal plants for the apothecaries;
     and not bad botanists some of them were.

“Darby, achora,” said Mrs. Reillaghan, “don’t crass the gintleman, an’ him sthrivin’ to do his best.  Here, Paddy Gormly, bring some wather till the docthor washes his hands.”

“Darby,” replied the Doctor, to whom he was well known, “you are a good herbalist, but even although you should not serve me as usual in that capacity, yet I cannot say exactly either life or death.  The case is too critical a one; but I do not despair, Darby, if that will satisfy you.”

“More power to you, Docthor, achora.  Hell-an-age, where’s that bottle? bring it here.  Thank you, Vread.  Docthor, here’s wishin’ you all happiness, an’ may you set Mike on his legs wanst more!  See, Docthor—­see, man alive—­look at this purty girl here, wid her wet cheeks; give her some hope, ahagur, if you can; keep the crathur’s spirits up, an’ I’ll furnish you wid every yarrib in Europe, from the nettle to the rose.”

“Don’t despair, my good girl,” said the Doctor, addressing Peggy.  “I hope, I trust, that he may recover; but he must be kept easy and quiet.”

“May the blessing of God, sir, light down on you for the same words,” replied Peggy, in a voice tremulous, with gratitude and joy.

“Are you done wid him, Docthor?” said old Reillaghan.

“At present,” replied the Doctor, “I can do nothing more for him; but I shall see him early to-morrow morning.”

“Bekase, sir,” continued the worthy man, “here’s Darby More, who’s afflicted with a comflamboration, or some sich thing, inwardly, an’ if you should ase him, sir, I’d pay the damages, whatever they might be.”

The Doctor smiled slightly.  “Darby’s complaint,” said he, “is beyond my practice; there is but one cure for it, and that is, if I have any skill, a little of what’s in the bottle here, taken, as our prescriptions sometimes say, ‘when the patient is inclined for it.’”

“By my sou—­sanctity, Docthor,” said Darby, “you’re a man of skill, any how, an’ that’s well known, sir.  Nothin’, as Father Hoolaghan says, but the sup of whiskey does this sarra of a configuration good.  It rises the wind off o’ my stomach, Docthor!”

“It does, Darby, it does.  Now let all be peace and quietness,” continued the Doctor:  “take away a great part of this fire, and don’t attempt to remove him to any other bed until I desire you.  I shall call again tomorrow morning early.”

The Doctor’s attention to his patient was unremitting; everything that human skill, joined to long experience and natural talent, could do to restore the young man to his family was done; and in the course of a few weeks the friends of Keillaghan had the satisfaction of seeing him completely out of danger.