“Troth, then, he hadn’t an overly civil tongue in his head, sir,” replied the man; “for, when you and he, your honor, were together, there was little harmony to spare between you.”

“That was my own fault, you cur.  No servant but himself would have had a day’s patience with me.  He never abused me but when I deserved it—­did he?”

“No, your honor; I know he didn’t, in troth.”

“You lie, you villain, you know no such thing.  Here am I with my sore leg, and no one to dress it for me.  Who’s to help me upstairs or downstairs?—­who’s to be about me?—­or, who cares for me, now that he’s gone?  Nobody—­not a soul.”

“Doesn’t Masther Richard, sir?”

“No sir; Master Richard gives himself little trouble about me.  He has other plots and plans on his hands—­other fish to fry—­other irons in the fire.  Masther Richard, sirra, doesn’t care a curse if I was under the sod to-morrow, but would be glad of it; neither does, any one about me—­but he did; and you infernal crew, you have driven him away from me.”

“We, your honor?”

“Yes, all of you; you put me first out of temper by your neglect and your extravagance; then I vented it on him, because he was the only one among you I took any pleasure in abusin’—­speaking to.  However, my mind’s made up—­I’ll call an auction—­sell everything—­and live in Dublin as well as I can.  What does that black hound want?”

“Some law business, sir; but I donna what it is.”

“Is the scoundrel honest, or a rogue?”

“Throth it’s more than I’m able to tell your honor, sir.  I don’t know much about him.  Some spakes well, and some spakes ill of him—­just like his neighbors—­ahem!”

“Ay, an’ that’s all you can say of him? but if he was here, I could soon ascertain what stuff he’s made of, and what kind of a hearing he ought to get.  However, it doesn’t matter now—­I’ll auction everything—­in this grange I won’t live; and to be sure but I was a precious-old scoundrel to quarrel with the best servant a man ever had.”

Just at this moment, who should come round from a back passage, carrying a small bundle in his hand, but the object of all his solicitude.  He approached quietly on tiptoe, with a look in which might be read a most startling and ludicrous expression of anxiety and repentance.

“How is he?” said he—­“how is his poor leg?  Oh, thin, blessed saints, but I was the double distilled villain of the airth to leave him as I did to the crew that was about him!  The best masther that ever an ould vagabond like me was ongrateful to!  How is he, Tom?”

“Why,” replied the other, “if you take my advice, you’ll keep from him at all events.  He’s cursin’ an’ abusin’ you ever since you went, and won’t allow one of us even to name you.”

“Troth, an’ it only shows his sense; for I desarved nothing else at his hands.  However, if what you say is true, I’m afeared he’s not long for this world, and that his talkin’ sense at last is only the lightening before death, poor gintleman!  I can stay no longer from him, any how, let him be as he may; an’ God pardon me for my ongratitude in desartin’ him like a villain as I did.”