Andy thought of the effigy on the wall, and his dream, and grew pale. "By the hokey," said Mick, "I never see him in sitch a tattherin' rage!"--bang went the bell again--"Ow, ow!" cried Mick, bolting a piece of fat bacon, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his livery, and running up-stairs. "Misses Cook, ma'am," said Andy, shoving back his chair from the table; "thank you, ma'am, for your good supper. I think I'll be goin' now." "Sure, you're not done yet, man alive." "Enough is as good as a feast, ma'am," replied Andy. "Augh! sure the morsel you took is more like a fast than a feast," said the cook, "and it's not Lent." "It's not lent, sure enough," said Larry Hogan, with a sly grin; "it's not _lent_, for you _gave_ it to him." "Ah, Misther Hogan, you're always goin' on with your conundherums," said the cook; "sure, that's not the lent I mane at all--I mane Good Friday Lent." "Faix, every Friday is good Friday that a man gets his supper," said Larry. "Well, you _will_ be goin' on, Misther Hogan," said the cook. "Oh, but you're a witty man; but I'd rather have a yard of your lace, any day, than a mile o' your discourse." "Sure, you ought not to mind my goin' _on_, when you're lettin' another man go _off_, that-a-way," said Larry, pointing to Andy, who, hat in hand, was quitting the kitchen. "Faix an' he mustn't go," said the cook; "there's two words to that bargain;" and she closed the door, and put her back against it. "My mother's expectin' me, ma'am," said Andy. "Throth, if 't was your wife was expectin' you, she must wait a bit," said the cook; "sure you wouldn't leave the thirsty curse on my kitchen?--you must take a dhrop before you go; besides the dogs outside the place would ate you onless there was some one they knew along wid you: and sure, if a dog bit you, you couldn't dhrink wather afther, let alone a dhrop o' beer, or a thrifle o' sper'ts: isn't that thrue, Misther Hogan?" "Indeed an' it is, ma'am," answered Larry; "no one can dhrink afther a dog bites them, and that's the rayson that the larn'd fackleties calls the disaise high-_dhry_----" "High-dhry what?" asked the cook. "That's what I'm thinkin' of," said Larry. "High-dhry--high-dhry--something." "There's high-dhry snuff," said the cook. "Oh, no--no, no, ma'am!" said Larry, waving his hand and shaking his head, as if unwilling to be interrupted in endeavouring to recall "Some fleeting remembrance;" "high-dhry--po--po--something about po; 'faith, it's not unlike popery," said Larry. "Don't say popery," cried the cook; "it's a dirty word! Say Roman Catholic when you spake of the faith." "Do you think _I_ would undhervalue the faith?" said Larry, casting up his eyes. "Oh, Missis Mulligan, you know little of me; d' you think I would undhervalue what is my hope, past, present, and to come?--_what_ makes our hearts light when our lot is heavy?--_what_ makes us love our neighbour as ourselves?"