“And if they do,” added Connor, “we can fast: the Son of God knew hunger and thirst for _many_ days, and shall we grumble if he lets us feel them for _one_?” Lacy could not think of any answer beyond “good night.” As he walked home his temper got worse: he wondered why Connor should cant like a preacher; and he thought Mary’s content was all pretence; but as it made her so quiet, he wished his Susan could learn it. People often bring on a quarrel by seeming to expect one. When Susan saw him she ran with joyful looks saying, “Oh, Peter! I’ve got the nicest plan for to-morrow!—But, how sulky you are! What is the matter?—Where is the tea? Why, you look as black as that cloud.” “Aye, wife,” he replied, “I am the cloud, and you are the thunder—there’s neither tea, nor potatoes, nor money to buy them.” “No money?—Where are your wages?” “The gentleman hadn’t silver or brass in his company,” said Lacy, “so now begin to scold.” “There, there,” screamed Susan, “you are always picking a quarrel with me, because you find me so easy with you. No wages! no tea!—and you to be sent home without a penny in your pocket.” She went on in this way for a long time; then looking at a parcel which lay carefully folded up, on a chair, her voice grew very sad, and she whined out,—“There! I’ve been working my poor fingers to the bone this live-long day! and I’ve turned my gown from top to bottom, till it looks as good as new; and I was going to ask Nancy Dillon to drink tea, and walk out among the neighbours, and all—but I am an unhappy creature, and you are a wicked, bad man to do so.” When, just as her voice was lost with crying and scolding, the door opened, and Connor came in. “I ask pardon,” said he, “for coming in so smart to ye: but I ran all the way, to ask ye to come and dine with us to-morrow—Wilson brought the money, and we shall have a bit of meat for you.” Susan dried her eyes, unfolded her stuff gown, and smiled. “Thank you kindly,” said Lacy, “but you have so many of your own.” “Never mind,” replied Connor—“the more the merrier; come early, and go to prayers with us.” CHAP. II. HOW pleasant is the Sabbath! and how good is God, who not only allows, but demands for the humblest of his creatures, a day of rest—the poor horse who dragged the heavy plough all the week, now crops the grass at his ease, or draws a mouthful of hay from the crib. The patient ass who drew many a basket of turf to the town, now rambles by the side of the road, and feeds on the thistles in the hedge. I hope there are no children so cruel as to teaze and torment him. “God is the Maker of all creatures,” said Michael Connor to his little boys, “and he will punish those who wantonly hurt even the poor ass.”