you have pampered them with.” “_Pampered_, oh Ch--st!” ejaculated the housekeeper. “Aye, and what are there so many candles for, all _fours_, and the same below I warrant. Ah! you--you--worthless, wasteful old devil.” “Indeed, your honor, they are all _sixes_.” “Sixes,--and what the devil are you burning sixes for, d’ye think it’s _the wake_ already? Ha?” “Oh! not yet, your honor, not yet,” chorussed the beldams; “but in God’s good time, your honor knows,” in a tone that spoke ill suppressed impatience for the event. “Oh! that your honor would think of making your soul.” “That’s the first sensible word you have said,” said the dying man, “fetch me the prayer-book,--you’ll find it there under that old boot-jack,--blow off the cobwebs;--it has not been opened this many a year.” It was handed to him by the old governante, on whom he turned a reproaching eye. “What made you burn sixes in the kitchen, you extravagant jade? How many years have you lived in this house?” “I don’t know, your honor.” “Did you ever see any extravagance or waste in it?” “Oh never, never, your honor.” “Was any thing but a farthing candle ever burned in the kitchen?” “Never, never, your honor.” “Were not you kept as tight as hand and head and heart could keep you, were you not? answer me that.” “Oh yes, sure, your honor; every _sowl_ about us knows that,--every one does your honor justice, that you kept the closest house and closest hand in the country,--your honor was always a good warrant for it.” “And how dare you unlock my hold before death has unlocked it,” said the dying miser, shaking his meagre hand at her. “I smelt meat in the house,--I heard voices in the house,--I heard the key turn in the door over and over. Oh that I was up,” he added, rolling in impatient agony in his bed, “Oh that I was up, to see the waste and ruin that is going on. But it would kill me,” he continued, sinking back on the bolster, for he never allowed himself a pillow; “it would kill me,--the very thought of it is killing me now.” The women, discomfited and defeated, after sundry winks and whispers, were huddling out of the room, till recalled by the sharp eager tones of old Melmoth.--“Where are ye trooping to now? back to the kitchen to gormandize and guzzle? Won’t one of ye stay and listen while there’s a prayer read for me? Ye may want it one day for yourselves, ye hags.” Awed by this expostulation and menace, the train silently returned, and placed themselves round the bed, while the housekeeper, though a Catholic, asked if his honor would not have a clergyman to give him _the rights_, (rites) of his church. The eyes of the dying man sparkled with vexation at the proposal. “What for,--just to have him expect a scarf and hat-band at the funeral. Read the prayers yourself, you old ------; that will save something.” The housekeeper made the attempt, but soon declined it, alleging, as her reason, that her eyes had been watery ever since his honor took ill.