“Never drink at bargain makin’; an’ never pay money in a public-house if you can help it; if you must do it, go into an inn, or a house that you know to be dacent.

“Never stay out late in a fair or market; don’t make a poor mouth; on the other hand, don’t boast of your wealth; keep no low company; don’t be rubbin’ yourself against your betthers, but keep wid your aquils.  File your loose papers an’ accounts, an’ keep your books up to the day.  Never put off anything that can be done, when it ought to be done.  Go early to bed; but be the last up at night, and the first in the mornin’, and there’s no fear o’ you.”

Having now settled all her children in comfort and independence, with each a prospect of rising still higher in the world, Mrs. Connell felt that the principal duties devolving upon her had been discharged.  It was but reasonable, she thought, that, after the toil of a busy life, her husband and herself should relax a little, and enjoy with lighter minds the ease for which they had labored so long and unremittingly.

“Do you know what I’m thinkin’ of, Pether?” said she, one summer evening in their farm-yard.

“Know, is it?” replied Peter—­“some long-headed plan that none of us ’ud ever think of, but that will stare us in the face the moment you mintion it.  What is it, you ould sprig o’ beauty?”

“Why, to get a snug jauntin’-car, for you an’ me.  I’d like to see you comfortable in your old days, Peter.  You’re gettin’ stiff, ahagur, an’ will be good for nothin’ by an’ by.”

“Stiff!  Arrah, by this an’ by—­my reputation, I’m younger nor e’er a one o’ my sons yet, you——­eh?” said Peter, pausing—­

“Faith, then I dunna that.  Upon my credit, I think, on second thoughts, that a car ‘ud be a mighty comfortable thing for me.  Faith, I do, an’ for you, too, Ellish.”

“The common car,” she continued, “is slow and throublesome, an’ joults the life out o’ me.”

“By my reputation, you’re not the same woman since you began to use it, that you wor before at all.  Why, it’ll shorten your life.  The pillion’s dacent enough; but the jauntin’-car!—­faix, it’s what ’ud make a fresh woman o’ you—­divil a lie in it.”

“You’re not puttin’ in a word for yourself now, Pether?”

“To be sure I am, an’ for both of us.  I’d surely be proud to see yourself an’ myself sittin’ in our glory upon our own jauntin’-car.  Sure we can afford it, an’ ought to have it, too.  Bud-an’-ager! what’s the rason I didn’t, think of it long ago?”

“Maybe you did, acushla; but you forgot, it.  Wasn’t that the way wid you, Pether?  Tell the thruth.”

“Why, thin, bad luck to the lie in it, since you must know.  About this time twelve months—­no, faix, I’m wrong, it was afore Dan’s marriage—­I had thoughts o’ spakin’ ta you about it, but somehow it left my head.  Upon my word, I’m in airnest, Ellish.”

“Well, avick, make your mind asy; I’ll have one from Dublin in less nor a fortnight.  I can thin go about of an odd time, an’ see how Dan an’ Pether’s comin’ an.  It’ll be a pleasure to me to advise an’ direct them, sure, as far an’ as well as I can.  I only hope?  God will enable thim to do as much for their childher, as he enabled us to do for them, glory be to his name!”