“God save the house!” exclaimed Darby, on entering—­“God save the house, an’ all that’s in it!  God save it to the North!” and he formed the sign of the cross in every direction to which he turned:  “God save it to the South! + to the Aiste! + and to the Waiste! + Save it upwards! + and save it downwards! + Save it backwards! + and save it forwards! + Save it right! + and save it left! + Save it by night! + save it by day! + Save it here! + save it there! + Save it this way! + an’ save it that way! + Save it atin’! + + + an’ save it drinkin’! + + + + + + + + Oxis Doxis Glorioxis—­Amin.  An’ now that I’ve blessed the place in the name of the nine Patriarchs, how are yez all, man, woman, an’ child?  An’ a merry Christmas to yez, says Darby More!”

Darby, in the usual spirit of Irish hospitality, received a sincere welcome, was placed up near the fire, a plate filled with the best food on the table laid before him, and requested to want nothing for the asking.

“Why, Darby,” said Reillaghan, “we expected you long ago:  why didn’t you come sooner?”

“The Lord’s will be done! for ev’ry man has his throubles,” replied Darby, stuffing himself in the corner like an Epicure; “an’ why should a sinner like me, or the likes of me, be without thim?  ’Twas a dhrame I had last night that kep me.  They say, indeed, that dhrames go by contriaries, but not always, to my own knowledge.”

“An’ what was the dhrame about, Darby?” inquired Reillaghan’s wife.

“Why, ma’am, about some that I see on this hearth, well, an’ in good health; may they long live to be so!  Oxis Doxis Glorioxis—­Amin!” + + +

“Blessed Virgin!  Darby, sure it would be nothin’ bad that’s to happen?  Would it, Darby?”

“Keep yourself aisy on that head.  I have widin my own mind the power of makin’ it come out for good—­I know the prayer for it.  Oxis Doxis!” + +

“God be praised for that, Darby; sure it would be a terrible business, all out, if any thing was to happen.  Here’s Mike that was born on Whissle * Monday, of all days in the year, an’ you know, they say that any child born on that day is to die an unnatural death.  We named Mike after St. Michael that he might purtect him.”

* The people believe the superstition to be as is stated above.  Any child born on Whitsunday, or the day after, is supposed to be doomed to die an unnatural death.  The consequence is, that the child is named after and dedicated to some particular saint, in the hope that his influence may obviate his evil doom.

“Make yourself aisy, I say; don’t I tell you I have the prayer to keep it back—­hach! hach!—­why, there’s a bit stuck in my throath, some way!  Wurrah dheelish, what’s this!  Maybe, you could give me a sup o’ dhrink—­wather, or anything to moisten the morsel I’m atin?  Wurrah, ma’am dear, make haste, it’s goin’ agin’ the breath wid me!”

“Oh, the sorra taste o’ wather, Darby,” said Owen; “sure this is Christmas-eve, you know:  so you see, Darby, for ould acquaintance sake, an’ that you may put up an odd prayer now an’ thin for us, jist be thryin’ this.”