ys the way," she said, "if
a body got up in the world, there were plenty of envious spalpeens,
sure, to spite them for it;" which I took occasion to remark to Mrs.
Rafferty, was as true, as anything I had ever had the pleasure of
hearing her say.

Just then the cellar door swung open, and the great butter speculator,
Mr. Michael Rafferty, walked in. He nodded his head, and gave an uneasy
glance at the curtain, as much as to say "calicoes have ears." I
understood it, and told him we had been very discreet. Upon which he
said, "You see, they'll be afther staling my thrade, your ladyship, if
they know how I manage about the butther."

"Tell me how you do it, Michael," said I; "you know women have a right
to be curious.

"Well," said he, speaking in a confidential whisper, "your ladyship
knows there are plenty of little grocery shops round in these poor
neighborhoods, where they sell onions, and combs, and molasses, and
fish, and tape, and gingerbread, and rum. Most of them sell milk, (none
of the best, sure, but it does for the likes of us poor folks.) It
stands round in the sun in the shop windows, your ladyship, till it
gets turned, like, and when they have kept it a day or two, and find
they can't sell it," (and here Michael looked sharp at the calico
curtain,) "I buys it for two cents a quart, and puts it in that churn,"
(pointing to a dirty looking affair in the corner,) "and my old woman
and I make it into butter." And he stepped carefully across the cellar,
and pulled from _under the bed_, a keg, which he uncovered with a proud
flourish, and sticking a bit of wood in it, offered me a taste, "just
to thry it."

I couldn't have tasted it, if Michael had shot me; but I told him I
dare say he understood his trade and hoped he found plenty of
customers.

"I sell it as fast as I can make it," said he, putting on the cover and
shoving it back under the bed again.

"What do you do with the buttermilk?" said I.

He looked at Mrs. Rafferty, and she pointed to the bright, rainbow
ribbon on her cap.

"Sell it?" said I.

"Sure," said Michael, with a grin; "we are making money, your ladyship;
we shall be afther moving out of this cellar before long, and away from
the likes of them," (pointing in the direction of the curtain); "and,
savin' your ladyship's presence," said he, running his fingers through
his mop of wiry hair, "Irish people sometimes understhand dhriving a
thrade as well as Yankees;" and Michael drew him