as to secure a few masses after my death, where is it?
And poor old Hannah? Well, she'll have it all after my death, and that
will make her doubly careful, and me--doubly miserable.

"Now," I said to Father Letheby, as he daintily balanced his spoon over
his cup, and I leisurely stirred the sugar in,--well, no matter, "I
don't like that coffee. It is not sociable. It makes you too cautious,
while we, under the potent and expanding influence of native
manufacture, are inclined to develop. Now, if you want to succeed in
life, give up that Turkish drug and do what all your predecessors did."

"I'm too Irish for that," he said, rather paradoxically, I thought. "I'm
afraid I should be talking about my ancestors, and asking some one to be
good enough to tread on the tail of my coat."

He knew well that I did not wish to interfere with his tastes.

"Well, however, think kindly of us who cling to old traditions. We too
had our day."

I was silent, thinking of old times.

"You never slept in a lime-kiln, I presume," said I, starting from a
long reverie.

"God forbid," he said with a start.

"Well, I did. It happened in this way. It was nearly ten o'clock at
night when I arrived at the door of the old pastor, to whose care I was
committed on my first mission. I knocked, and knocked, and knocked. No
answer. 'T was all the same. Father L---- had but one room and the
kitchen; and that room was parlor, library, drawing-room, bedroom, and
all. I dismissed the jarvey, left my portmanteau at the door, and
wandered out into the night. I dared not rouse up the farmers around. It
was the time of the White-boys, and I might get a charge of shot or a
thrust of a pike for my pains. The night was cold and starry. And after
wandering about for some time I came to a kiln. The men--the
lime-burners--were not long gone, and the culm was still burning. I went
in. The warmth was most grateful. I lay down quietly, took out my beads,
and whilst saying the Rosary I fell fast asleep. I awoke to hear: 'Come,
get out of this.' And, then, 'Good God! it is a priest.' Ah! well, how
times have changed! But think kindly of us old men. We too have borne
the burden and the heat,--the _pondus diei et aestus_."

A deep silence fell upon us both, broken only by the crackling of the
turf and wood fire, I busy with the past, and he sunk in his own
reflections. At length I said:--

"Would I trouble you to hand me down that 'Pars Verna' with the morocco
cov