“Arrah, why, woman; what do they want but their skinful to eat and dhrink, and I'm sure we're able to allow them that, any way?” “Arrah, bad manners to me, but you're enough to vex a saint--'their skinful to eat and dhrink!'--you common crathur you, to speak that way of the clargy, as if it was ourselves or the laborers you war spaking of.” “Ay, and aren't we every bit as good as they are, if you go to that?--haven't we sowls to be saved as well as themselves?” “'As good as they are!'--as good as the clargy!! _Manum a yea agus a wurrah!_*--listen to what he says! Phaddhy, take care of yourself, you've got rich, now; but for all that, take care of yourself. You had betther not bring the priest's ill-will, or his bad heart upon us. You know they never thruv that had it; and maybe it's a short time your riches might stay wid you, or maybe it's a short time you might stay wid them: at any rate, God forgive you, and I hope he will, for making use of sich unsanctified words to your lawful clargy.” * My soul to God and the Virgin. “Well, but what do you intind to do?---or, what do you think of getting for them?” inquired Phaddy. “Indeed, it's very little matther what I get for them, or what I'll do either--sorrow one of myself cares almost: for a man in his senses, that ought to know better, to make use of such low language about the blessed and holy crathurs, that hasn't a stain of sin about them, no more than the child unborn!” “So you think.” “So I think! aye, and it would be betther for you that you thought so, too; but ye don't know what's before ye yet, Phaddhy--and now take warnin' in time, and mend your life.” “Why what do you see wrong in my life? Am I a drunkard? am I lazy? did ever I neglect my business? was I ever bad to you or to the childher? didn't I always give yez yer fill to ate, and kept yez as well clad as yer neighbors that was richer? Don't I go to my knees, too, every night and morning?” “That's true enough, but what signifies it all? When did ye cross a priest's foot to go to your duty? Not for the last five years, Phaddhy--not since poor Torly (God be good to him) died of the mazles, and that'll be five years, a fortnight before Christmas.” “And what are you the betther of all yer confessions? Did they ever mend yer temper, avourneen? no, indeed, Katty, but you're ten times worse tempered coming back from the priest than before you go to him.” “Oh! Phaddhy! Phaddhy! God look down upon you this day, or any man that's in yer hardened state--I see there's no use in spaking to you, for you'll still be the ould cut.”