“Thrue for you, sir,” says Phaddhy; “but as to going wanst a month, I'm afeard, your Rev'rence, if it would shorten my timper as it does Katty's, that we'd be bad company for one another; she comes home from confession, newly set, like a razor, every bit as sharp; and I'm sure that I'm within the truth when I say there's no bearing her.”
“That's because you've no relish for anything spiritual yourself, you nager you,” replied his Reverence, “or you wouldn't see her temper in that light—but, now that I think of it, where did you get that stuff we had at breakfast?”
“Ay, that's the sacret; but I knew your Rev'rence would like it; did Parrah More aiquil it? No, nor one of his faction couldn't lay his finger on such a dhrop.”
“I wish you could get me a few gallons of it,” said the priest; “but let us drop that; I say, Phaddhy, you're too worldly and too careless about your duty.”
“Well, Father Philemy, there's a good time coming; I'll mend yet.”
“You want it, Phaddhy.”
“Would three gallons do, sir?”
“I would rather you would make it five, Phaddhy; but go to your rosary.”
“It's the penitential psalms, first, sir,” said Phaddhy, “and the rosary at night. I'll try, anyhow; and if I can make off five for you, I will.”
“Thank you, Phaddhy; but I would recommend you to say the rosary before night.”