"Yer honour, this is Misthress Casey--the gossip she was to me many a long year in ould Ireland and since we comed to this; and much is it I made of her at all times, your honour--for we got our bits o' livings, and we ate, and slept, and we drink't together"-- "And got _drunk_ together," said his worship. "Faith did we, your honour--and wonst _too often_;" rejoined Mrs. Judith O'Leary, making an _illigant_ curt'sy. "T'other day, your honour, we were taking the drops at the Blue Pig, and talking of the ould consarns, and the talk came up, and the drops went down softly and swately--that's the throats of us, your honour; and by-and-by, says Misthress Casey to me, says she--'Misthress O'Leary,' says she to me, 'let's be home to our own place.'--'And so I will, Misthress Casey,' says I--'ounly we'll have t'other drop with the three halfpence that's left in the bottom of it,'--that's the pocket your honour. 'Gad's blood, we'll have t'other drop, gossip,' says I to her. And sure we had, and it was a drop too much for the head of me--it went round like the hind wheel of an _ackney_--rowling and rowling, your honour, and I rowl'd home mighty queer that day; and I laid meself down on my own bed; and the child I had be my own lawful husband, Tom Leary, laid be the side of me fast asleep--ounly sober as a judge was the child at that same time--why shouldn't it? And when I waked up, says I to me--'how comed I here,' says I, 'in my own bed,' says I, 'before dark?' says I to myself; but I couldn't tell, for the life of me, your honour, in regard of the gin--that's the _blue ruin_, as Misther Jenkins the pratur marchant calls it, your honour. 'Well,' says I to meself, 'sure I'll get up,' says I, 'for what's the use of lying here like a baste,' says I, 'when Tom Leary isn't in it, and is coming to it may be?' And I got up and shook meself, and got the water to wash my hands, and I looked at 'em--that's the fingers, but d--l a _ring_ was on 'em! '_Deevle_ burn ye, Kate Casey,' thinks I to myself, 'but ye've got the bit of gould from me at last!' and I went to her place--that's in Bainbridge-street, your honour; 'and Misthress Casey,' says I, 'where's me _ring_?' 'What ring?' says she.--'My wedding ring that I got with Tom Leary,' says I.--'_Deevle_ a know I know!' says she.--'Don't be tellin the lie to the face of me,' says I, 'for sure there's them that seen ye _slither_ it off the finger of me,' says I.--'Be the mother of Moses! it's a graat lie!' says she.--'Thank ye, Misthress Casey,' says I.--'Take _that_ for yerself, Mrs. O'Leary,' says she"-- "And what was _that_?" asked his worship. "Faith, a beautiful blow on the mouth of me!" your honour, replied Mrs. O'Leary--laying hold of her upper lip, and turning it inside out for his worship's inspection.