“God bless who?”

“Mr. McClutchy.”

“The devil bless him! ha, ha, ha!  Doesn’t he harry the poor, an’ drive away their cows from them—­doesn’t he rack them an’ rob them—­harry them, rack them, rob them—­

     “Harry them, rack them, rob them,
     Rob them, rack them, harry them—­
     Harry them, rack them, rob them,
     Rob them, rack them, harry them.”

This he sung in an air somewhat like “Judy Callahan.”

“Ha, ha, ha!  Oh the devil bless him! and they say a blessin’ from the devil is very like a curse from God.”

The mother once more put up her hands to his face, but only with the intention of fondling and caressing him.  She tenderly stroked down his head, and patted his cheek, and attempted to win him out of the evil humor into which the sight of Darby had thrown him.  Darby could observe, however, that she appeared to be deeply troubled by the idiot’s conduct, as was evident by the trembling of her hands, and a perturbation of manner which she could not conceal.

“Raymond,” she said, soothingly, “won’t you be good for me, darlin’—­for your own mother, my poor helpless boy?  Won’t you be good for me?”

“I will,” said he, in a more placid voice.

“And you will not curse anybody any more?”

“No, mother, no.”

“And won’t you bless Mr. M’Clutchy, my dear child?”

“There’s a fig for him,” he replied—­there’s a fig for him.  Now!”

“But you didn’t bless him, my darlin’—­you didn’t bless him yet.”

As she spoke the words, her eye caught! his, and she perceived that it began to gleam and kindle.

“Well no,” said she hastily; “no, I won’t ask you; only hould your tongue—­say no more.”

She again patted his cheek tenderly, and the fiery light which began to burn in his eye, died gradually away, and no other expression remained in it but the habitual one of innocence and good-nature.

“No, no,” said she, shaking her head, and speaking as much to herself as to Darby; “I know him too well; no earthly power will put him out of his own way, once he takes it into his head.  This minute, if I had spoke another word about the blessin’, Mr. M’Clutchy would a got another curse; yet, except in these fits, my poor child is kindness and tendheress itself.”

“Well now,” said Darby, “that that’s over, can you tell me, Poll, what’s the news?  When were you in Dublin?”

“I’ve given that up,” replied Poll; “I’m too ould and stiff for it now.  As for the news, you ought to know what’s goin’ as well as I do.  You’re nearly as much on the foot.”

“No; nor if every head in the parish was ’ithin side o’mine, I wouldn’t know as much in the news line as you, Poll.”

“The news that’s goin’ of late, Darby, is not good, an’ you know it.  There’s great grumlin’ an’ great complaints, ever since.  Val, the lad, became undher agent; and you know that too.”