yarn from me, and a bushel or two of oats from Ned, and your riglar dues
along with all; but, avourneen, it's yourself that won't pay a penny
when you can help it."

"Salvation to me, but you'd skin a flint!"

"Well, if I would, I pay my debts first."

"You do?"

"Yes, troth, do I."

"Why then that's more than you'll be able to do long, plase the fates."

"If all my customers wor like your Reverence, it is."

"I'll tell you what it is, Nancy, I often threatened to take the
congregation from 'The Forth,' and I'll do it--if I don't, may I never
sup sorrow!"

Big with such a threat, Father Ned retired. The apprehensions of Nancy
on this point, however, were more serious than she was willing to
acknowledge. This dispute took place a few days before the night in
question.

Father Ned was a little man, with a red face, slender legs, and
flat feet; he was usually cased in a pair of ribbed minister's grey
small-clothes, with leggings of the same material. His coat, which was
much too short, rather resembled a jerkin, and gave him altogether an
appearance very much at variance with an idea of personal gravity or
reverence. Over this dress he wore in winter, a dark great-coat, with
high collar, that buttoned across his face, showing only the point, of
his red nose; so that, when riding or walking, his hat rested more upon
the collar of his coat than upon his head.

The curate was a tall, raw-boned young man, with high jutting
cheek-bones, low forehead, and close knees; to his shoulders, which were
very high, hung a pair of long bony arms, whose motions seemed rather
the effect of machinery than volition. His hair, which was a bad black,
was cropped close, and trimmed across his eye-brows, like that of a
Methodist preacher; the small-clothes he wore were of the same web which
had produced Father Ned's, and his body-coat was a dark blue, with black
buttons. Each wore a pair of gray woollen mittens.

"There, Pether," said Father Ned, as he entered, "hook my bridle along
with your own, as your hand is in--God save all here! Paddy Smith,
ma bouchal, put these horses in the stable, till we dry ourselves a
bit--Father Pether and I."

"Musha, but you're both welcome," said Nancy, wishing to wipe out the
effects of the last tift with Father Ned, by the assistance of the
stranger's punch; "will ye bounce, ye spalpeens, and let them to the
fire? Father Ned, you're dhreepin' with the rain; and, Father Pether,
avourneen, you