“And, do you hear me, you bosthoon,” proceeded his reverence—this, however, he uttered sotto voce, from an apprehension lest the stranger should hear his benevolent purposes—“did you give the half crown to Widow Magowran, whose children, poor creatures, are lying ill of fever?”
Not a word to the stranger, who, however, overheard him.
“I did, plaise your reverence,” replied the huge servant.
“What did she say,” asked the other, “when you slipped it to her?”
“She said nothing, sir, for a minute or so, but dropped on her knees, and the tears came from her eyes in such a way that I couldn't help letting down one or two myself. 'God spare him,' she then said, 'for his piety and charity makes him a blessin' to the parish.' Throth, I couldn't help lettin' down a tear or two myself.”
“You couldn't now.” exclaimed the simple-hearted priest; “why, then, I forgive you the pigs, you great, good-natured bosthoon.”
The stranger now thought that he might claim some notice from his reverence.
“I fear, sir,” said he—
“And whisper, Mat,” proceeded the priest—paying not the slightest attention to him, “did you bring the creel of turf to poor Barney Farrell and his family, as I desired you?”
“I did, your reverence, and put a good heap on it for the creatures.”