“I 'll tell you, then,” said Dalton, slowly, as he filled a capacious glass with champagne. “It is n't the priests, nor it isn't the potatoes, nor it isn't the Protestants either, though many respectable people think so; for you see we had always priests and potatoes, and a sprinkling of Protestants besides; but the real evil of Ireland--and there's no man living knows it better than I do--is quite another thing, and here's what it is.” And he stooped down and dropped his voice to a whisper. “'Tis this: 'tis paying money when you have n't it!” The grave solemnity of this enunciation did not seem to make it a whit more intelligible to Mrs. Ricketts, who certainly looked the very type of amazement. “That's what it is,” reiterated Dalton, “paying money when you have n't it! There's the ruin of Ireland; and, as I said before, who ought to know better? For you see, when you owe money, and you have n't it, you must get it how you can. You know what that means; and if you don't, I 'll tell you. It means mortgages and bond debts; rack-renting and renewals; breaking up an elegant establishment; selling your horses at Dycer's; going to the devil entirely; and not only yourself, but all belonging to you. The tradesmen you dealt with, the country shop where you bought everything, the tithes, the priests' dues,--not a farthing left for them.” “But you don't mean to say that people shouldn't p-p-pay their debts?” screamed Purvis. “There's a time for everything,” replied Dalton. “Shaving oneself is a mighty useful process, but you wouldn't have a man get up out of his bed at night to do it? I never was for keeping money,--the worst enemy would n't say that of me. Spend it freely when you have it; but sure it's not spending to be paying debts due thirty or forty years back, made by your great-grandfather?” “One should be just before being ge-gen-gene-gene----” “Faix! I'd be both,” said Dalton, who with native casuistry only maintained a discussion for the sake of baffling or mystifying an adversary. “I'd be just to myself and generous to my friends, them's my sentiments; and it 's Peter Dalton that says it!” “Dalton!” repeated Mrs. Ricketts, in a low voice,----“did n't he say Dalton, Martha?” “Yea, sister; it was Dalton.” “Did n't you say your name was Da-Da-a-a----” “No, I didn't!” cried Peter, laughing. “I said Peter Dalton as plain as a man could speak; and if ever you were in Ireland, you may have heard the name before now.” “We knew a young lady of that name at Florence.” “Is it Kate,--my daughter Kate?” cried the old man, in ecstasy. “Yes, she was called Kate,” replied Mrs. Ricketts, whose strategic sight foresaw a world of consequences from the recognition. “What a lovely creature she was!” “And you knew Kate?” cried Dalton again, gazing on the group with intense interest. “But was it my Kate? Perhaps it was n't mine!” “She was living in the Mazzarini Palace with Lady Hester Onslow.”