“I did, plase your honour; but _my_ mother would never do the like, I’ll answer for _her_, any way; and them that said any thing of the kind, belied her; and don’t be believing them, my lord.” “But Ellinor was the person who told me this secret.” “Was she so? Oh, she must have been _draaming_; she was always too good a mother to me to have sarved me so. But,” added he, struggling to clear his intellects, “you say it’s not my mother she is; but whose mother is she then? Can it be that she is yours? ‘tis not possible to think such a great lord was the son of such as her, to look at you both: and was you the son of my father Johnny O’Donoghoe? How is that again?” He rubbed his forehead; and I could scarcely forbear laughing at his odd perplexity, though the subject was of such serious importance. When he clearly understood the case, and thoroughly believed the truth, he did not seem elated by this sudden change of fortune; he really thought more of me than of himself. “Well, I’ll tell you what you will do then,” continued he, after a pause of deep reflection; “say nothing to nobody, but just keep asy on, even as we are. Don’t let there be any surrendering at all, and I’ll speak to my mother, that is, Ellinor O’Donoghoe, and settle it so; and let it be so settled, in the name of God, and no more about it: and none need never be the wiser; ‘tis so best for all. A good day to your honour, and I’ll go shoe the mare.” “Stay,” said I; “you may hereafter repent of this sudden determination. I insist upon your taking four-and-twenty hours--no, that would be too little--take a month to consider of it coolly, and then let me know your final determination.” “Oh! plase your honour, I will say the same then as now. It would be a poor thing indeed of me, after all you done for me and mine, to be putting you to more trouble. It would be a poor thing of me to forget how you liked to have lost your life all along with me at the time of the ‘ruction. No, I’ll not take the fortin from you, any how.” “Put gratitude to me out of the question,” said I. “Far be it from me to take advantage of your affectionate temper. I do not consider you as under any obligations to me; nor will I be paid for doing justice.” “Sure enough, your honour desarved to be born a gentleman,” said Christy. “At least I have been bred a gentleman,” said I. “Let me see you again this day month, and not till then.” “You shall not--that is, you _shall_, plase your honour: but for fear any one would suspect any thing, I’d best go shoe the mare, any way.” CHAPTER XVIII. “What riches give us, let us then inquire-- Meat, fire, and clothes--What more?--Meat, clothes, and fire.”