“The never a one o’ the man but’s doatin’ downright, so he is,” observed the wife, “to go to fill the tired child’s stomach wid plash.  Can’t you wait till he ates a thrifle o’ some-thin’ stout, to keep life in him, afther his hard journey?  Does your feet feel themselves cool an’ asy now, ahagur?”

“Indeed,” said Jemmy, “I’m almost as fresh as when I set out.  ’Twas little thought I had, when I came away this mornin’, that I’d meet wid so much friendship on my journey.  I hope it’s a sign that God’s on my side in my undertakin’!”

“I hope so, avourneen—­I hope so, an’ it is, too,” replied the farmer, taking the pipe out of his mouth, and mildly whiffing away the smoke, “an’ God’ll be always on your side, as long as your intentions are good.  Now ate somethin’—­you must want it by this; an’ thin, when you rest yourself bravely, take a tass into a good feather-bed, where you can sleep rings round you. (* As much as you please.) Who knows but you’ll be able to say mass for me or some o’ my family yit.  God grant that, any way, avick!”

Poor James’s heart was too full to eat much; he took, therefore, only a very slender portion of the refreshments set before him; but his hospitable entertainer had no notion of permitting him to use the free exercise of his discretion on this important point.  When James put away the knife and fork, as an indication of his having concluded the meal, the farmer and his wife turned about, both at the same moment, with a kind of astonishment.

“Eh? is it giving over that way you are?  Why, alanna, it’s nothin’ at all you’ve tuck; sure little Brian there would make a fool of you, so he would, at the atin’.  Come, come, a bouchal—­don’t be ashamed, or make any way sthrange at all, but ate hearty.”

“I declare I have ate heartily, thank you,” replied James; “oceans itself, so I did.  I couldn’t swally a bit more if the house was full.”

“Arrah, Brian,” said the wife, “cut him up more o’ that hung beef, it’s ashamed the crathur is!  Take it, avick; don’t we know the journey you had!  Faix, if one o’ the boys was out on a day’s thravellin’, you’d see how he’d handle himself.”

“Indeed,” said James, “I can’t—­if I could I would.  Sure I would be no way backward at all, so I wouldn’t.”

“Throth, an’ you can an’ must,” said the farmer:  “the never a rise you’ll rise, till you finish that”—­putting over a complement out of all reasonable proportion with his age and size.

“There now’s a small taste, an’ you must finish it.  To go to ate nothin’ at all!  Hut tut! by the tops o’ my boots, you must put that clear an’ clane out o’ sight, or I’ll go mad an’ barn them.”

The lad recommenced, and continued to eat as long as he could possibly hold out; at length he ceased:—­

“I can’t go on,” said he; “don’t ax me:  I can’t indeed.”

“Bad manners to the word I’ll hear till you finish it; you know it’s but a thrifle to spake of.  Thry agin, avick, but take your time; you’ll be able for it.”