“I might be wantin to see you some o' these days,” said the other: “indeed, it's not unlikely, Darby; so don't go, any how, widout seein' me.” “Ah!” said Darby, “had you taken a fool's advice--but it can't be helped now--the harm's done, I doubt; how-an'-ever, for the matther o' that, may be I have as good as Peggy in my eye for you; by the same token, as the night's could, warm your tooth, avick; there's waker wather nor this in Lough Mecall. Sorra sup of it over I keep for my own use at all, barrin' when I take a touch o' configuration in my bowels, or, may be, when I'm too long at my prayers; for, God help me, sure I'm but sthrivin', wid the help o' one thing an' another, to work out my salvation as well as I can! Your health, any how, an' a merry Chris'mas to you!--not forgettin' myself,” he added, putting to his lips a large cow's horn, which he kept slung beneath his arm, like the bugle of a coach-guard, only that this was generally concealed by an outside coat, no two inches of which were of the same materials of color. Having taken a tolerably large draught from this, which, by the “way, held near two quarts, he handed it with a smack and a shrug to Frank, who immediately gave it a wipe with the skirt of his coat, and pledged his companion. “I'll be wantin',” observed Frank, “to see you in the hollydays--faith, that stuff's to be christened yet, Darby--so don't go till we have a dish o' discoorse about somethin' I'll mintion to you. As for Peggy Gartland, I'm done wid her; she may marry ould Nick for me.” “Or you for ould Nick,” said the cynic, “which would be nearly the same thing: but go an, avick, an' never heed me; sure I must have my spake--doesn't every body know Darby More?” “I've nothin' else to say now,” added Frank, “and you have my authority to spread it as far as you plase. I'm done wid her: so good-night, an' good _cuttin'_ (* May what's in it never fail) to your horn, Darby!--You damn ould villian!” he subjoined in a low voice, when Darby had got out of his hearing: “surely it's not in yourself, but in the blessed words and things you have about you, that there is any good.” “Musha, good-night, Frank alanna,” replied the other;--“an' the divil sweep you, for a skamin' vagabone, that's a curse to the country, and has kep me out o' more weddins than any one I ever met wid, by your roguery in puttin' evil between frinds an' neighbors, jist whin they'd be ready for the priest to say the words over them! Good won't come of you, you profligate.” The last words were scarcely uttered by the sturdy mendicant, when he turned round to observe whether or not Frank would stop at Larry Gartland's, the father of the girl to whom he had hitherto unsuccessfully avowed his attachment.