him out, an' got ourselves
back to our farm! I had it partly from the noble Colonel's own lips,
an' the remainder from Mr. Moutray, that I met on my way home. But
there's more to come:--sure Jemmy has friends aquil to the Colonel
himself: an' sure he's at a Catholic boordin'-school, among gintlemen's
childhre, an' in a short time he'll be a priest in full ordhers."

We here draw a veil over the delight of the family. Questions upon
questions, replies upon replies, sifting and cross-examinations,
followed in rapid succession, until all was known that the worthy man
had to communicate.

Another simple scene followed, which, as an Irishman, I write with
sorrow. When the joy of the family had somewhat subsided, the father,
putting his hand in his coat-pocket, pulled out several large slices of
mutton.

"Along wid all, childhre," said he, "the Colonel ordhered me my dinner.
I ate plinty myself, an' slipped these slices in my pocket for you: but
the devil a one o' me knows what kind o' mate it is. An' I got wine,
too! Oh!--Well, they may talk, but wine is the drink! Bring me the ould
knife, till I make a fair divide of it among ye. Musha, what kind o'
mate can it be, for myself doesn't remimber atin' any sort, barrin'
bacon an' a bit o' slink-veal of an odd time?"

They all ate it with an experimental air of sagacity that was rather
amusing. None, however, had ever tasted mutton before, and consequently
the name of the meat remained, on that occasion, a profound secret to
M'Evoy and his family.* It is true, they supposed it to be mutton;
but not one of them could pronounce it to be such, from any positive
knowledge of its peculiar flavor.

* There are hundreds of thousands--yes, millions--of
the poorer classes in Ireland, who have never tasted
mutton!

"Well," said Dominick, "it's no matther what the name of it is, in
regard that it's good mate, any way, for them that has enough of it."

With a fervent heart and streaming eyes did this virtuous family offer
up their grateful prayers to that God whose laws they had not knowingly
violated, and to whose providence they owed so much. Nor was their
benefactor forgotten. The strength and energy of the Irish language,
being that in which the peasantry usually pray, were well adapted to
express the depth of their gratitude towards a man who had, as they
said, "humbled himself to look into their wants, as if he was like one
of themselves!"

For upwards of ten