In a few moments I heard the noise of a violent altercation and scuffle, and I was loudly called on. I hastened to the scene of contention, and found my wife holding Orohoo by the neck, and preventing his departure. “What’s all this?” I exclaimed. “This fellow,” said she, “when he was going, took a live coal out of the grate, and told me to take care of my children.” This he stiffly denied, until confronted by the servant, and I threatened to give him up to the police as an impostor, when he quailed, and acknowledged that he had said so, but that he meant no harm by it. “And sure,” said he, “there’s no harm in bidding you mind them; for if your cow was hurt, so may your children. You’re not treating me well,” he continued; “I came at the bidding of a friend to do you a good turn, and asked nothing for it, and now you’re putting me out; you’ll be glad to see me yet, though. But take my advice: never throw out your Sunday’s ashes until Tuesday morning, and always sweep your floor in from the door to the hearth.” And away he went. My heart now beat easy, for I thought we had fairly got rid of the fairy man; but I was to be still further mystified and bewildered. On examining the plate over which he had performed his incantations, we found the contents to be thick, yellow, and slimy, with a red sediment like globules of blood at the bottom. This seemed extraordinary, as I certainly watched him closely, and did not see him put any thing into the plate but milk, water, and salt. The month now drew near a close, and our bread was still butterless. This often caused the morsel to stick in the throat of my poor dear partner, who felt none of the scruples of conscience with which I was affected, and firmly believed, her cow was bewitched. “Here we are day after day losing, our substance, and might have it only for your squeamishness in not letting the fairy man finish his job.” Thus she would argue, and hesitated not to call me a fool, nay, a downright ass; and indeed my neighbours were much of the same opinion: one of them, a respectable farmer’s wife, was particularly pertinacious. “My Robin,” said she one evening, as they were harping on the old string, “my Robin was down in Sligo, and he heard that if you got the coulter of a plough, and made it red-hot in the fire, while you were churning the butter would come back; or if you chose to churn on Sunday morning before the lark sings, you will surely get it.” “Tempt me no more with your spells or Sabbath-breaking; I will have none of them,” said I, impatiently; “I will never barter my peace of mind for a pound of butter, if I should never eat a morsel.” But, in truth, my peace of mind was gone, for the continual urging and yammering I was subjected to made me heartily sick, and I inwardly resolved to sell the cow the first opportunity, and so end the matter.