know we ought to
love our enemies."

"Very well," replied Father Anthony; "I have no objection to love our
enemies, provided they feed themselves. But surely to love and feed them
is rather too much of a good thing."

During this brief dialogue they had mixed each his tumbler of punch,
and after a pause of some minutes, during which the hardhearted parish
priest sighed deeply as he looked into the fire, he exclaimed--

"You know, Pettier, that I am opposed to a Protestant Established Church
in this country; and you know, besides, that I have gone farther in this
tithe affair than most of my brethren, and on that account I hope you
are not surprised at my opinions. Starve them out's my maxim. But still,
aftcher all, salvation to me, but it's a trying case to be without food,
and above all, to see your own children--"

"My own children," exclaimed the curate, with a smile.

"Ay, Pether," proceeded this benevolent hypocrite, forgetting
everything but the image that was before him--"Ay, in troth, your own
children--your own children, poor things, without a morsel to put
into their mouths; and your wife, Pether, that you love betther
than--than--aye, than a station dinner, a thousand times--sittin' with a
pale face and a breaking, or, maybe, a broken heart, looking on at their
privations and their miserable destitution, without being able to
render them the laist assistance. Bad luck to it, for a mammon of
unrighteousness, it's never in the way when it's wanted."

After he had concluded, he took out a red cotton pocket-handkerchief,
spotted at equal distances with white dice, and wiped away the tears
that had gushed to his eyes whilst he spoke.

"Pettier," said he, immediately, "finish your tumbler and go to bed; you
know we must be off to-morrow to station before six o'clock, and after
your bitther ride to-night you want rest, poor fellow."

When about a quarter of an hour had elapsed, and he had seen Peter
to bed, he went to the kitchen, and asked Katty, his housekeeper, who
always attended upon him and his curate, if she had done what he desired
her.

"It's done, your reverence," she replied, "but you'll never be able to
carry it."

"That's not your affair, Katty--do you hear now?"

"I do, your reverence."

"Very well, then, I tell you that's none of your affair,--the sorra bit.
I hope you did'nt let Barney go to bed?"

"Of coorse not, sir, when you bid me keep him up."

"Very well, then; and if either h