u call that, Peter Gill--what
would you call that?'

'Madness, begorra, or mighty near it!'

'No; it's just work--brain-work. As much above mere manual labour as
the intellect, the faculty that raises us above the brutes, is above
the--the--'

'Yes,' said Gill, opening the large volume and vaguely passing his hand
over a page. 'It's somewhere there about the Conacre!'

'You're little better than a beast!' said Kearney angrily.

'Maybe I am, and maybe I'm not. Let us finish this, now that we're about
it.'

And so saying, he deposited his other books and papers on the table, and
then drew from his breast-pocket a somewhat thick roll of exceedingly dirty
bank-notes, fastened with a leather thong.

'I'm glad to see some money at last, Peter,' cried Kearney, as his eye
caught sight of the notes.

'Faix, then, it's little good they'll do ye,' muttered the other gruffly.

'What d'ye mean by that, sir?' asked he angrily.

'Just what I said, my lord, the devil a more nor less, and that the money
you see here is no more yours nor it is mine! It belongs to the land it
came from. Ay, ay, stamp away, and go red in the face: you must hear the
truth, whether you like it or no. The place we're living in is going to
rack and ruin out of sheer bad treatment. There's not a hedge on the
estate; there isn't a gate that could be called a gate; the holes the
people live in isn't good enough for badgers; there's no water for the
mill at the cross-roads; and the Loch meadows is drowned with wet--we're
dragging for the hay, like seaweed! And you think you've a right to
these'--and he actually shook the notes at him--to go and squander them on
them "impedint" Englishmen that was laughing at you! Didn't I hear them
myself about the tablecloth that one said was the sail of a boat.'

'Will you hold your tongue?' cried Kearney, wild with passion.

'I will not! I'll die on the floore but I'll speak my mind.'

This was not only a favourite phrase of Mr. Gill's, but it was so far
significant that it always indicated he was about to give notice to
leave--a menace on his part of no unfrequent occurrence.

'Ye's going, are ye?' asked Kearney jeeringly.

'I just am; and I'm come to give up the books, and to get my receipts and
my charac--ter.'

'It won't be hard to give the last, anyway,' said Kearney, with a grin.

'So much the better. It will save your honour much writing, with all that
you have to do.'

'Do you want me to kick you o