"Why, you see," said Andy, "I didn't like the poor mother's pride should be let down in the eyes o' the neighbours; and so I made the weeshy bit o' hay look as dacent as I could--but, at the same time, I wouldn't chate any one for the world, Misther Doyle." "Throth, I b'lieve you wouldn't, Andy; but, 'pon my sowl, the next time I go buy hay, I'll take care that Saint Pether hasn't any hand in it." Owny turned on his heel, and was walking away with that air of satisfaction which men so commonly assume after fancying they have said a good thing, when Andy interrupted his retreat by an interjectional "Misther Doyle?" "Well," said Owny, looking over his shoulder. "I was thinkin', sir," said Andy. "For the first time in your life, I b'lieve," said Owny: "and what was it you wor thinkin'?" "I was thinkin' o' dhrivin' a chay, sir." "And what's that to me?" said Owny. "Sure I might dhrive one o' your chaises." "And kill more o' my horses, Andy--eh? No, no, faix, I'm afeer'd o' you, Andy." [Illustration: The Reward of Humanity] "Not a boy in Ireland knows dhrivin' betther nor me, any way," said Andy. "Faix, it's any way and every way but the way you ought you'd dhrive, sure enough, I b'lieve: but, at all events, I don't want a post-boy, Andy--I have Micky Doolin, and his brother Pether, and them's enough for me. "Maybe you'd be wantin' a helper in the stable, Misther Doyle?" "No, Andy; but the first time I want to make hay to advantage, I'll send for you," said Owny, laughing, as he entered his house, and nodding at Andy, who returned a capacious grin to Owny's shrewd smile, like the exaggerated reflection of a concave mirror. But the grin soon subsided, for men seldom prolong the laugh that is raised at their own expense; and the corners of Andy's mouth turned down as his hand turned up to the back of his head, which he rubbed, as he sauntered down the street from Owny Doyle's.