"Father Farrell," he said, still holding the priest's hand, "is this the note, the very note, the identical note, she sent me?"
"Yes, Emon; I would not deceive you about it. It is the very note; which, I fear," he added, "is not likely to be of much use to you."
"Why do you say that, Father Farrell? You shall one day see the contrary."
"Because you seem to me rather inclined to 'huxter it up,' as we say, than to make use of it. Believe me, that was not the intention it was sent with; oh, no, Emon; it was sent with the hope that it might be of some use, and not to be hoarded up through any morbid sentimentality."
"Give me one instead of it. Father Farrell, and keep this one until I can redeem it."
"I have not got another, Emon; pounds are not so plenty with me."
"And yet you would have persuaded me just now that it was your own and that you could afford to bestow it upon me!"
"Pardon me, Emon, I would not have persuaded you; I was merely silent upon the subject until your suspicions made you cross-examine me. I was then plain enough with you. I used no deceit; and I now tell you plainly that if you take this pound-note, you ought to use it; otherwise you will give her who sent it very just cause for annoyance."
"Then it shall be as she wishes and as you advise, Father Farrell. I cannot err under your guidance. I shall use it freely and with gratitude; but you need not tell her that I know who sent it."
"Do you think that I am an aumadhawn, Emon? The very thing she was anxious to avoid herself. I shall never speak to her, perhaps, upon the subject."