erything to me. Mike
informed me what horse was wrong, why the chestnut mare couldn't go out,
and why the black horse could. He knew the arrival of a new covey of
partridge quicker than the "Morning Post" does of a noble family from the
Continent, and could tell their whereabouts twice as accurately. But
his talents took a wider range than field sports afford, and he was the
faithful chronicler of every wake, station, wedding, or christening for
miles round; and as I took no small pleasure in those very national
pastimes, the information was of great value to me. To conclude this
brief sketch, Mike was a devout Catholic in the same sense that he was
enthusiastic about anything,--that is, he believed and obeyed exactly as
far as suited his own peculiar notions of comfort and happiness. Beyond
_that_, his scepticism stepped in and saved him from inconvenience; and
though he might have been somewhat puzzled to reduce his faith to a rubric,
still it answered his purpose, and that was all he wanted. Such, in short,
was my valet, Mickey Free, and who, had not heavy injunctions been laid on
him as to silence and discretion, would well have lightened my weary hours.

"Ah, then, Misther Charles!" said he, with a half-suppressed yawn at the
long period of probation his tongue had been undergoing in silence,--"ah,
then, but ye were mighty near it!"

"Near what?" said I.

"Faith, then, myself doesn't well know. Some say it's purgathory; but it's
hard to tell."

"I thought you were too good a Catholic, Mickey, to show any doubts on the
matter?"

"May be I am; may be I ain't," was the cautious reply.

"Wouldn't Father Roach explain any of your difficulties for you, if you
went over to him?"

"Faix, it's little I'd mind his explainings."

"And why not?"

"Easy enough. If you ax ould Miles there, without, what does he be doing
with all the powther and shot, wouldn't he tell you he's shooting the
rooks, and the magpies, and some other varmint? But myself knows he sells
it to Widow Casey, at two-and-fourpence a pound; so belikes, Father Roach
may be shooting away at the poor souls in purgathory, that all this time
are enjoying the hoith of fine living in heaven, ye understand."

"And you think that's the way of it, Mickey?"

"Troth, it's likely. Anyhow, I know its not the place they make it out."

"Why, how do you mean?"

"Well, then, I'll tell you, Misther Charles; but you must not be saying
anything about it afther, for