build his church upon a rock, and why shouldn't I build my
cock o' hay on a rock?"

Owny, with all his rage, could not help laughing at the ridiculous
conceit. "By this and that, Andy," said he, "you're always sayin' or
doin' the quarest things in the counthry, bad cess to you!" So he laid
his whip upon his little hack instead of Andy, and galloped off.

Andy went over the next day to the neighbouring town, where Owny Doyle
kept a little inn and a couple of post-chaises (such as they were), and
expressed much sorrow that Owny had been deceived by the appearance of
the hay; "but I'll pay you the differ out o' my wages, Misther
Doyle--in throth I will--that is, whenever I have any wages to get: for
the Squire turned me off, you see, and I'm out of place at this
present."

"Oh, never mind it," said Owny. "Sure, it was the widow woman got the
money, and I don't begrudge it; and now that it's all past and gone, I
forgive you. But tell me, Andy, what put such a quare thing into your
head?"

"Why, you see," said Andy, "I didn't like the poor mother's pride
should be let down in the eyes o' the neighbours; and so I made the
weeshy bit o' hay look as dacent as I could--but, at the same time, I
wouldn't chate any one for the world, Misther Doyle."

"Throth, I b'lieve you wouldn't, Andy; but, 'pon my sowl, the next time
I go buy hay, I'll take care that Saint Pether hasn't any hand in it."

Owny turned on his heel, and was walking away with that air of satisfaction
which men so commonly assume after fancying they have said a good
thing, when Andy interrupted his retreat by an interjectional "Misther
Doyle?"

"Well," said Owny, looking over his shoulder.

"I was thinkin', sir," said Andy.

"For the first time in your life, I b'lieve," said Owny: "and what was
it you wor thinkin'?"

"I was thinkin' o' dhrivin' a chay, sir."

"And what's that to me?" said Owny.

"Sure I might dhrive one o' your chaises."

"And kill more o' my horses, Andy--eh? No, no, faix, I'm afeer'd o'
you, Andy."

[Illustration: The Reward of Humanity]

"Not a boy in Ireland knows dhrivin' betther nor me, any way," said
Andy.

"Faix, it's any way and every way but the way you ought you'd dhrive,
sure enough, I b'lieve: but, at all events, I don't want a post-boy,
Andy--I have Micky Doolin, and his brother Pether, and them's enough
for me.

"Maybe you'd be wantin' a helper in the stable, Misther Doyle?"

"No, Andy; but the first time I wa