“Which way do we go?” inquired Andrew.
“Home,” was James’s brief reply.
“Oh, you take it at home?” said Andrew.
“I make it at home,” answered James.
“Well,” observed Andrew, “that’s very good of the woman that owns ye. Now, mine takes on so about a drop of any thing, that she’s as hard almost on the cordials as she used to be on the whisky.”
“My Mary helps to make mine,” observed James.
“And do you bottle it or keep it on draught?” inquired Andrew, very much interested in the “cordial” question.
James laughed very heartily at this, and answered,
“Oh, I keep mine on draught—always on draught; there’s nothing like having plenty of a good thing, so I keep mine always on draught;” and then James laughed again, and so heartily, that Andrew thought surely his real temperance cordial must contain something quite as strong as what he had blamed him for taking.
James’s cottage door was open, and as they approached it they saw a good deal of what was going forward within. A square table, placed in the centre of the little kitchen, was covered by a clean white cloth—knives, forks, and plates for the whole family, were ranged upon it in excellent order; the hearth had been swept, the house was clean, the children rosy, well dressed, and all doing something. “Mary,” whom her husband had characterised as “the patient,” was busy and bustling, in the very act of adding to the coffee, which was steaming on the table, the substantial accompaniments of fried eggs and bacon, with a large dish of potatoes. When the children saw their father, they ran to meet him with a great shout, and clung around to tell him all they had done that day. The eldest girl declared she had achieved the heel of a stocking; one boy wanted his father to come and see how straight he had planted the cabbages; while another avowed his proficiency in addition, and volunteered to do a sum instanter upon a slate which he had just cleaned. Happiness in a cottage seems always more real than it does in a gorgeous palace. It is not wasted in large rooms—it is concentrated—a great deal of love in a small space—a great, great deal of joy and hope within narrow walls, and compressed, as it were, by a low roof. Is it not a blessed thing that the most moderate means become enlarged by the affections?—that the love of a peasant within his sphere, is as deep, as fervent, as true, as lasting, as sweet, as the love of a prince?—that all our best and purest affections will grow and expand in the poorest worldly soil?—and that we need not be rich to be happy? James felt all this and more when he entered his cottage, and was thankful to God who had opened his eyes, and taught him what a number of this world’s gifts, that were within even his humble reach, might be enjoyed without sin. He stood—a poor but happy father within the sacred temple of his home; and Andrew had the warm heart of an Irishman beating in his bosom, and consequently shared his joy.