v piety."

But I'm running away from my narrative entirely, so I am. "You'll plase
to ordher up the housekeeper, then," says Father Tom to the Pope, "wid a
pint ov sweet milk in a skillet, and the bulk ov her fist ov butther,
along wid a dust ov soft sugar in a saucer, and I'll show you the way of
producing a decoction that, I'll be bound, will hunt the thirst out ov
every nook and corner in your Holiness's blessed carcidge."

The Pope ordhered up the ingredients, and they were brought in by the
head butler.

"That'll not do at all," says his Riv'rence, "the ingredients won't
combine in due proportion unless ye do as I bid yes. Send up the
housekeeper," says he, "for a faymale hand is ondispinsably necessary to
produce the adaption of the particles and the concurrence of the
corpus'cles, widout which you might boil till morning and never fetch
the cruds off ov it."

Well, the Pope whispered to his head butler, and by and by up there
comes an ould faggot ov a _Cuillean_, that was enough to frighten a
horse from his oats.

"Don't thry for to desave me," says his Riv'rence, "for it's no use, I
tell yes. Send up the housekeeper, I bid yes: I seen her presarving
gooseberries in the panthry as I came up: she has eyes as black as a
sloe," says he, "and cheeks like the rose in June; and sorra taste ov
this celestial mixthir shall crass the lips ov man or morteal this
blessed night till she stirs the same up wid her own delicate little
finger."

"Misther Maguire," says the Pope, "it's very unproper ov you to spake
that way ov my housekeeper: I won't allow it, sir."

"Honor bright, your Holiness," says his Riv'rence, laying his hand on
his heart.

"O, by this and by that, Misther Maguire," says the Pope, "I'll have
none of your insinivations; I don't care who sees my whole household,"
says he; "I don't care if all the faymales undher my roof was paraded
down the High Street of Room," says he.

"O, it's plain to be seen how little you care who sees them," says his
Riv'rence. "You're afeard, now, if I was to see your housekeeper, that
I'd say she was too handsome."

"No, I'm not!" says the Pope, "I don't care who sees her," says he.
"Anthony," says he to the head butler, "bid Eliza throw her apron over
her head, and come up here." Wasn't that stout in the blessed man? Well,
my dear, up she came, stepping like a three-year-old, and blushing like
the brake o' day: for though her apron was thrown over her head as she
cam