Fardorougha, The Miser. William Carleton

her except they come down wid the cash?”

      “Oh, father!” exclaimed Connor, “father, father, to become a villain!”

      “Connor,” said his mother, rising up in a spirit of calm and mournful solemnity, “never heed; go to bed, achora, go to bed.”

      “Of coorse I'll never heed, mother,” he replied; “but I can't help sayin' that, happy as I was awhile agone, my father is sendin' me to bed with a heavy heart. When I asked your advice, father, little I thought it would be to do—but no matter; I'll never be guilty of an act that 'ud disgrace my name.”

      “No, avillish,” said his mother, “you never will; God knows it's as much an' more than you an' other people can do, to keep the name we have in decency.”

      “It's fine talk,” observed Fardorougha, “but what I advise has been done by hundreds that wor married an' happy afterwards; how—an—iver you needn't get into a passion, either of you; I'm not pressin' you,' Connor, to it.”

      “Connor, achree,” said his mother, “go to bed, an' instead of the advice you got, ax God's; go, avillish!”

      Connor, without making any further observation, sought his sleeping-room, where, having recommended himself to God, in earnest prayer, he lay revolving all that had occurred that night, until the gentle influence of sleep at length drew him into oblivion.

      “Now,” said his mother to Fardorougha, when Connor had gone, “you must sleep by yourself; for, as for me, my side I'll not stretch on the same bed wid you to-night.”

      “Very well, I can't help that,” said her husband; “all I can say is this, that I'm not able to put sinse or prudence into you or Connor; so, since you won't be guided by me, take your own coorse. Bodagh Buie's very well able to provide for them—; an' if he won't do so before they marry, why let Connor have nothing to say to her.”

      “I'll tell you what, Fardorougha, God wouldn't be in heaven, or you'll get a cut heart yet, either through your son or your money; an' that it may not be through my darlin' boy, O, grant, sweet Saver o' the earth, this night! I'm goin' to sleep wid Biddy Casey, an' you'll find a clane nightcap on the rail o' the bed; an', Fardorougha, afore you put it an, kneel down an' pray to God to change your heart—for it wants it—it wants it.”

      In Ireland the first object of a servant man, after entering the employment of his master, is to put himself upon an amicable footing with his fellow-servants of the other sex. Such a step, besides being natural in itself, is often taken in consequence of the esprit du corps which prevails among persons of that class. Bartle Flanagan, although he could not be said to act from any habit previously acquired in service, went to work with all the tact and adroitness of a veteran. The next morning, after having left the barn where he slept, he contrived to throw himself in the way of Biddy Duggan, a girl, who, though vain and simple, was at the same time conscientious and honest. On passing from the barn to the kitchen, he noticed her returning from the well with a pitcher of water in each hand, and as it is considered an act of civil attention for the male servant, if not otherwise employed, to assist the female in small, matters of the kind, so did Flanagan, in his best manner and kindest voice, bid her good-morning and offer to carry home the pitcher.

      “It's the least I may do,” said he, “now that I'm your fellow-servant; but before you go farther, lay down your burden, an' let us chat awhile.”

      “Indeed,” replied Biddy, “it's little we expected ever to see your father's son goin' to earn his bread undher another man's roof.”

      “Pooh! Biddy! there's greater wondhers in the world than that, woman alive! But tell me—pooh—ay, is there a thousand quarer things—but I say, Biddy, how do you like to—live wid this family?”

      “Why, troth indeed, only for the withered ould leprechaun himself, divil a dacenter people ever broke bread.”

      “Yet, isn't it a wondher that the ould fellow is what he is, an' he so full o' money?”

      “Troth, there's one thing myself wondhers at more than that.”

      “What, Biddy? let us hear it.”

      “Why, that you could be mane an' shabby! enough to come as a sarvint to ate the bread of the man that ruined yees!”

      “Biddy,” replied Flanagan, “I'm glad! you've said it; but do you think that I have so bad a heart as too keep revinge in against an inimy? How could I go to my knees at night, if I—no, Biddy, we must be Christians. Well! let us drop that; so you tell me this mother an' son are kind to you.”

      “As good-hearted a pair as ever lived.”

      “Connor, of course, can't but be very kind to so good-looking a girl as you are, Biddy,” said Bartle, with a knowing smile.

      “Very kind! good-looking! ay, indeed, I'm sure o' that, Bartle; behave! an' don't be gettin' an wid any o' your palavers. What 'ud make Connor be kind to the likes of me, that way?”

      “I don't see why you oughtn't an' mightn't—you're as good as him, if it goes to that.”

      “Oh, yis, indeed!”

      “Why, you know you'r handsome.”

      “Handsome,” replied the vain girl, tightening her apron-strings, and assuming a sly, coquettish look; “Bartle, go 'an mind your business, and let me bring home my pitchers; it's time the breakwist was down. Sich nonsense!”

      “Very well, you're not, thin; you've a bad leg, a bad figure, an' a bad face, an' it would be a terrible thing all out for Connor O'Donovan to fall in consate wid you.”

      “Well, about Connor I could tell you something;—me! tut! go to the sarra;—faix, you don't know them that Connor's afther, nor the collogin' they all had about it no longer ago than last night itself. I suppose they thought I was asleep, but it was like the hares, wid my eyes open.”