nd what was it?
The _Imitation_ in Greek, by a certain George Mayr, S. J. Wasn't this
nice? My pet book done into my favorite language! It was the happiest
Christmas I ever spent. _Quam bonus Israel Deus!_ So too said Father
Letheby. But I had some dim presentiment that all his well-merited
pleasure would not be quite unalloyed,--that some secret hand, perhaps a
merciful one, would pluck a laurel leaf or two from his crown. We had a
pleasant academic discussion after dinner about the honorable retention
of ancient Irish customs,--he quite enthusiastic about them, I rather
disposed to think that the abuses which invariably accompanied them made
their final extinction altogether advisable. We put our respective
theories in practice next morning with the most perfect consistency; for
Hannah drove indignantly from the door the wren-boys, just as they were
commencing:

"A thrate, a thrate, if of the best,
We hope in heaven your sowl will rest;
But if you give it of the small
It won't agree with our boys at all."

And, on his part, Father Letheby listened with intense delight to this
dithyrambic, which ushers in St. Stephen's day all over Ireland; and he
dispensed sundry sixpences to the boys with the injunction to be always
good Irishmen and to buy sweets.

That night, just as I was thinking of retiring, for I am an early riser,
I heard a gentle tap at the hall door, then a hurried colloguing in the
hall; and Hannah put in her head and whispered:--

"Lizzie is afraid, sir, that the priest is sick. Would you mind coming
down to see him?"

"God bless me! no," I said, quite alarmed. I followed the servant
rapidly and was ushered into Father Letheby's parlor, unexpected and
almost unannounced.

"What's the matter, sir?" he cried; "what's the matter?"

"Nothing particular," I replied. "'T is a rather fine night, is it not?"

"Lizzie must have sent for you?" he answered.

"Yes," I said, "she did. She thought you were unwell. Are you?"

He looked ill enough, poor fellow, and at these words he sank wearily
into a chair.

"I am afraid you're unwell," I repeated.

"I'm not unwell," he said, blubbering like a child, "but--but--my heart
is broken."

"Oh," I cried, "if that's all, it's easily mended. Come now, let's hear
all, and see if we can't put the pieces together."

"I wouldn't mind," he cried, standing up and striding along the little
room, his hands tightly clasped behind his back, "but the poor