“Shan’t I?—­we’ll see that, though.  To the divil I pitch yourself an’ your discharge—­an’ now mark my words:  I’ll be no longer throubled wid you; you’ve been all my life a torment and a heart-break to me—­a blister of French flies was swan’s down, compared to you, but by the book, I’ll end it at last—­ay, will I—­I give you up—­I surrendher you as a bad bargain—­I wash my hands of you—­This is Tuesday mornin’, God bless the day and the weather—­an’ woeful weather it is—­but sure it’s betther than you desarve, an’ I don’t doubt but it’s you and the likes o’ you that brings it on us!  Ay, this is Tuesday mornin’, an’ I now give you warnin’ that on Saturday next, you’ll see the last o’ me—­an’ don’t think that this warnin’ is like the rest, or that I’ll relint again, as I was foolish enough to do often before.  No—­my mind’s made up—­an’ indeed—­” here his voice sank to a great calmness and philosophy, like a man who was above all human passion, and who could consequently talk in a voice of cool and quiet determination;—­“An’ indeed,” he added, “my conscience was urgin’ me to this for some time past—­so that I’m glad things has taken this turn.”

“I hope you’ll keep your word, then,” said his master, “but before you go, listen to me.”

“Listen to you—­to be sure I will; God forbid I wouldn’t; let there be nothing at any rate, but civility between us while we’re together.  What is it?”

“You asked me last night to let widow Leary’s cow out o’ pound?”

“Ay, did I!”

“And I swore I wouldn’t.”

“I know you did.  Who would doubt that, at any rate?”

“Well, before you leave us, be off now, and let the animal out o’ the pound.”

“Is that it?  Oh, God help you! what’ll you do when you’ll be left to yourself, as you will be on Saturday next?  Let her out, says you.  Troth, the poor woman had her cow safe and sound at home wid her before she went to bed last night, and her poor childre had her milk to kitchen their praties, the craythurs.  Do you think I’d let her stay in till the maggot bit you?  Oh, ay, indeed!  In the mane time, as soon as you are done breakfast, I want you in the study, to put the bindage on that ould, good-for-nothin’ leg o’ yours; an’ mark my words, let there be no shirkin’ now, for on it must go, an’ will, too.  If I see that Hanlon, I’ll tell him you want to see him, Master Richard; an’ now that I’m on it, I had betther say a word to you before I go; bekaise when I do go, you’ll have no one to guide you, God help you, or to set you a Christian patthern.  You see that man sittin’ there wid that bad leg, stretched out upon the chair?”

“I do, Jemmy—­ha, ha, ha!  Well, what next?”

“That man was the worst patthern ever you had.  In the word, don’t folly his example in anything—­in any one single thing, an’ then there may be some chance o’ you still.  I’ll want you by-an’-by in the study, I tould you.”

These last words were addressed to his master, at whom he looked as one might be supposed to do at a man whose case, in a moral sense, was hopeless; after which, having uttered a groan that seemed to imitate the woeful affliction he was doomed, day by day, to suffer, he left the room.