The last day of my holiday I was obliged, of course, to devote to Mrs. Hoggarty.  My aunt was excessively gracious; and by way of a treat brought out a couple of bottles of the black currant, of which she made me drink the greater part.  At night when all the ladies assembled at her party had gone off with their pattens and their maids, Mrs. Hoggarty, who had made a signal to me to stay, first blew out three of the wax candles in the drawing-room, and taking the fourth in her hand, went and unlocked her escritoire.

I can tell you my heart beat, though I pretended to look quite unconcerned.

“Sam my dear,” said she, as she was fumbling with her keys, “take another glass of Rosolio” (that was the name by which she baptised the cursed beverage):  “it will do you good.”  I took it, and you might have seen my hand tremble as the bottle went click—­click against the glass.  By the time I had swallowed it, the old lady had finished her operations at the bureau, and was coming towards me, the wax-candle bobbing in one hand and a large parcel in the other.

“Now’s the time,” thought I.

“Samuel, my dear nephew,” said she, “your first name you received from your sainted uncle, my blessed husband; and of all my nephews and nieces, you are the one whose conduct in life has most pleased me.”

When you consider that my aunt herself was one of seven married sisters, that all the Hoggarties were married in Ireland and mothers of numerous children, I must say that the compliment my aunt paid me was a very handsome one.

“Dear aunt,” says I, in a slow agitated voice, “I have often heard you say there were seventy-three of us in all, and believe me I do think your high opinion of me very complimentary indeed:  I’m unworthy of it—­indeed I am.”

“As for those odious Irish people,” says my aunt, rather sharply, “don’t speak of them, I hate them, and every one of their mothers” (the fact is, there had been a lawsuit about Hoggarty’s property); “but of all my other kindred, you, Samuel, have been the most dutiful and affectionate to me.  Your employers in London give the best accounts of your regularity and good conduct.  Though you have had eighty pounds a year (a liberal salary), you have not spent a shilling more than your income, as other young men would; and you have devoted your month’s holidays to your old aunt, who, I assure you, is grateful.”

“Oh, ma’am!” said I. It was all that I could utter.

“Samuel,” continued she, “I promised you a present, and here it is.  I first thought of giving you money; but you are a regular lad; and don’t want it.  You are above money, dear Samuel.  I give you what I value most in life—­the p,—­the po, the po-ortrait of my sainted Hoggarty” (tears), “set in the locket which contains the valuable diamond that you have often heard me speak of.  Wear it, dear Sam, for my sake; and think of that angel in heaven, and of your dear Aunt Susy.”