s of his
distance from the bog; he cannot draw his turf so easily, as when he
lived on that swamp below the lake; but I think the change ought to
recompense him for the inconvenience."

"He's a Ballyvourney man, your honour," said Sam, placidly, "and if you
couldn't bring the turf up to his door, and cut it for him, and stack
it, and carry a creel of it inside, to make the fire, he'd not be
content."

"Oh, that's it--is it?" said Sir Marmaduke, accepting an explanation he
was far from thoroughly understanding. "Then here's Jack Heffernan--what
does this fellow mean by saying that a Berkshire pig is no good?"

"He only means, your honour, that he's too good for the place, and wants
better food than the rest of the family."

"The man's a fool, and must learn better. Lord Mudford told me that he
never saw such an excellent breed, and his swine-herd is one of the
most experienced fellows in England. Widow Mul--Mul--what?" said
he, endeavouring to spell an unusually long name in the book before
him--"Mulla----"

"Mullahedert, your honour," slipped in Wylie, "a very dacent crayture."

"Then why won't she keep those bee-hives; can't she see what an
excellent thing honey is in a house--if one of her children was sick,
for instance?"

"True for you, sir," said Sam, without the slightest change of feature.
"It is wonderful how your honour can have the mind to think of these
things--upon my word, it's surprising."

"Samuel M'Elroy refuses to drain the field--does he?"

"No, sir; but he says the praties isn't worth digging out of dry ground,
nor never does grow to any size. He's a Ballyvourney man, too, sir."

"Oh, is he?" said Sir Marmaduke, accepting this as a receipt in full for
any degree of eccentricity.

"Shamus M'Gillicuddy--heavens what a name! This Shamus appears a very
desperate fellow; he beat a man the other evening, coming back from the
market."

"It was only a neighbour, sir; they live fornint each other."

"A neighbour! but bless my heart, that makes it worse."

"Sure, sir, it was nothing to speak of; it was Darby Lenahan said your
honour's bull was a pride to the place, and Shamus said the O'Donoghue's
was a finer baste any day; and from one word they came to another,
and the end of it was, Lenahan got a crack on the scull that laid him
Quivering on the daisies."

"Savage ruffian, that Shamus; I'll keep a sharp eye on him."

"Faix, and there's no need--he's a Ballyvourney man."

The old baronet