d to speak with him. "To be sure," said Peter; "divil
resave the man in all Europe I'd do more for than the same gintleman, if
it was only on account of the regard he had for her that's gone. Come,
I'll go wid you in a minute."

He accordingly returned with the flask in his hand, saying, "I never
thravel widout a pocket-pistol, John. The times, you see, is not overly
safe, an' the best way is to be prepared!--ha, ha, ha! Och, och! It
houlds three half-pints."

"I think," observed the servant, "you had better not taste that till
after your return."

"Come away, man," said Peter; "we'll talk upon it as we go along: I
couldn't do readily widout it. You hard that I lost Ellish?"

"Yes," replied the servant, "and I was very sorry to hear it."

"Did you attind the berrin?"

"No, but my master did," replied the man; "for, indeed, his respect for
your wife was very great, Mr. Connell."

This was before ten o'clock in the forenoon, and about one in the
afternoon a stout countryman was seen approaching the gentleman's house,
with another man bent round his neck, where he hung precisely as a calf
hangs round the shoulders of a butcher, when he is carrying it to his
stall.

"Good Heavens!" said the owner of the mansion to his lady, "what has
happened to John Smith, my dear? Is he dead?"

"Dead!" said his lady, going in much alarm to the drawing-room window:
"I protest I fear so, Frank. He is evidently dead! For God's sake go
down and see what has befallen him."

Her husband went hastily to the hall-door, where he met Peter with his
burden.

"In the name of Heaven, what has happened, Connell?--what is the matter
with John? Is he living or dead?"

"First, plase your honor, as I have him on my shouldhers, will you tell
me where his bed is?" replied Peter. "I may as well lave him snug, as my
hand's in, poor fellow. The devil's bad head he has, your honor. Faith,
it's a burnin' shame, so it is, an' nothin' else--to be able to bear so
little!"

The lady, children, and servants, were now all assembled about the dead
footman, who hung, in the mean time, very quietly round Peter's neck.

"Gracious Heaven! Connell, is the man dead?" she inquired.

"Faith, thin, he is, ma'am,--for a while, any how; but, upon my credit,
it's a burnin' shame, so it is,"--

"The man is drunk, my dear," said her husband--"he's only drunk."

"--a burnin' shame, so it is--to be able to bear no more nor about six
glasses, an' the whiskey good,