“Well thin,” said the father, “let us set about it to-morrow. If we can borry the clo'es, thry your luck.” Phelim and the father, the next morning, set out each in a different direction, to see how far they could succeed on the borrowing system. The father was to make a descent on Dudley Dwire for the breeches, and appeal to the generosity of Sam Appleton for the coat. Phelim himself was to lay his case before the priest, and to assail Buckram-back, the pensioner, on his way home, for the brogues. When Phelim arrived at the priest's house, he found none of the family up but the housekeeper. After bidding her good morrow, and being desired to sit down, he entered into conversation with the good woman, who felt anxious to know the scandal of the whole parish. “Aren't you a son of Larry Toole's, young man?” “I am, indeed, Mrs. Doran. I'm Phelim O'Toole, my mother says.” “I hope you're comin' to spake to the priest about your duty.” “Why, then, be gorra, I'm glad you axed me, so I am--for only you seen the pinance in my face, you'd never suppose sich a thing. I want to make my confishion to him, wid the help o' Goodness.” “Is there any news goin', Phelim?” “Divil a much, barrin' what you hard yourself, I suppose, about Frank Fogarty, that went mad yesterday, for risin' the meal on the poor, an' ate the ears off himself afore anybody could see him.” “_Vick na hoiah_, Phelim; do you tell me so?” “Why man o' Moses, is it possible you did not hear it, ma'am?” “Oh, worra, man alive, not a syllable! Ate the ears off of himself! Phelim, acushla, see what it is to be hard an the poor!” “Oh, he was ever an' always the biggest nagar livin', ma'am. Ay, an' when he was tied up, till a blessed priest 'ud be brought to maliwgue the divil out of him, he got a scythe an' cut his own two hands off.” “No thin, Phelim!” “Faitha, ma'am, sure enough. I suppose, ma'am, you hard about Biddy Duignan?” “Who is she, Phelim?” “Why the misfortunate crathurs a daughter of her father's, ould Mick Duignan, of Tavenimore.” “An' what about her, Phehm! What happened her?” “Faix, ma'am, a bit of a mistake she met wid; but, anyhow, ould Harry Connolly's to stand in the chapel nine Sundays, an' to make three Stations to Lough Dergh for it. Bedad, they say it's as purty a crathur as you'd see in a day's thravellin'.” “Harry Connolly! Why, I know Harry, but I never heard of Biddy Duiguan, or her father at all. Harry Connolly! Is it a man that's bent over his staff for the last twenty years! Hut, tut, Phelim, don't say sich a thing.” “Why, ma'am, sure he takes wid it himself; he doesn't deny it at all, the ould sinner.” “Oh, that I mayn't sin, Phelim, if one knows who to thrust in this world, so they don't. Why the desateful ould--hut, Phelim, I can't give into it.” “Faix, ma'am, no wondher; but sure when he confesses it himself! Bedad, Mrs. Doran, I never seen you look so well. Upon my sowl, you'd take the shine out o' the youngest o' thim!”