"A thrate, a thrate, if of the best, We hope in heaven your sowl will rest; But if you give it of the small It won't agree with our boys at all." And, on his part, Father Letheby listened with intense delight to this dithyrambic, which ushers in St. Stephen's day all over Ireland; and he dispensed sundry sixpences to the boys with the injunction to be always good Irishmen and to buy sweets. That night, just as I was thinking of retiring, for I am an early riser, I heard a gentle tap at the hall door, then a hurried colloguing in the hall; and Hannah put in her head and whispered:-- "Lizzie is afraid, sir, that the priest is sick. Would you mind coming down to see him?" "God bless me! no," I said, quite alarmed. I followed the servant rapidly and was ushered into Father Letheby's parlor, unexpected and almost unannounced. "What's the matter, sir?" he cried; "what's the matter?" "Nothing particular," I replied. "'T is a rather fine night, is it not?" "Lizzie must have sent for you?" he answered. "Yes," I said, "she did. She thought you were unwell. Are you?" He looked ill enough, poor fellow, and at these words he sank wearily into a chair. "I am afraid you're unwell," I repeated. "I'm not unwell," he said, blubbering like a child, "but--but--my heart is broken." "Oh," I cried, "if that's all, it's easily mended. Come now, let's hear all, and see if we can't put the pieces together." "I wouldn't mind," he cried, standing up and striding along the little room, his hands tightly clasped behind his back, "but the poor little altar boys--the poor little beggars--they looked so nice yesterday, and oh to think of it! Good God!" "Very dramatic, very dramatic," I said, "but not the quiet narrative and consecutive style that I affect. Now, supposing you told me the story. There's balm in Gilead yet." And this was the story, told with much impressiveness, a fair amount of gesticulation, and one or two little profane expressions, which made the Recording Angel cough and look away to see how was the weather. It appears that about seven o'clock Father Letheby had a sick-call outside the village. There are generally a fair share of sick-calls on the day succeeding the great festivity, for obvious reasons. He was returning home through the village, when the sound of singing arrested his steps just outside Mrs. Haley's public house. His heart gave a bound of delight as he heard the familiar lines and notes of the _Adeste_. "Thank God!" he said, "at last, the people are beginning to bring our Catholic hymns into their own homes." As he listened intently there was a slight reaction as he recognized the sweet liquid notes, with all the curls and quavers that are the copyright and strictly legal and exclusive possession of Jem Deady. "Good heavens!" said the young priest, in a frenzy of indignation, "has that ruffian dared to introduce into the taproom our Christmas melodies, and to degrade them into a public-house chorus?"