Thady, as I said, walked off to the priest’s cottage, to partake of the relics¹ of a goose, and seek counsel of his friend; but it was not Father John’s dinner hour yet, and he found no one in but Judy McCan. He walked into the priest’s little parlour, and sat down to wait for him, again meditating² on all the evils which hung over his devoted³ family, and sitting thus he at length fell fast asleep.

Here he slept for above an hour, when he was awakened⁴ by the door opening behind him, and in jumping up to meet Father John, as he thought, he encountered the lank⁵ and yellow features, much worn dress, and dirty, moist hand of Father Cullen.

“Were you sleeping, then, Mr. Thady, before Father McGrath’s fire? ‘deed, then, I dare say you’ve been walking a great sight, for you look jaded⁶. I’m not that fresh myself, for I’ve been away to Loch Sheen, to widow Byrne’s. Bad luck to the cratures, there’s nothing but sick calls now, and my heart’s broken with them, so it is.”

Thady’s only answer to this was, “How are you, Father Cullen?” He wished him back at Maynooth.

“Well, I hope Father McGrath isn’t far off thin,” and he looked at a watch nearly as big as a church clock, “for I’m very hungry, and, my! it’s only twenty minutes to six —”

This gave Thady the very unwelcome intelligence that Father Cullen meant to dine at the cottage.

“And now the pony⁷’s lamed⁸ undher me, I had to walk all the way to Loch Sheen, in the dirt and gutther.”

Thady’s mind was full of one object, and he could not interest himself about the curate’s misfortunes in the

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