“We have,” replied the squire; “but his man Friday has got married to a Tipperary woman, and he’s now in quest of a desert, island for him and her to settle in.”

“I think, papa,” said Helen, “that if the principles of Sir Robert and his class were carried out, he would not have far to go to look for one.”

“Another hit, Bob, you dog—­another hit.  W’ell said, Helen—­well said, I say.  Crusoe, you villain, hold up your head, and thank God you’re christened.”

“Wid de help o’ Gad, shir, I was christhened afwhore, sure, by de priesht.”

This visit occurred about six weeks after the appointment of the new Viceroy to the Government of Ireland, and about five after the sheriff’s illness.

“Come, Whitecraft,” said the squire, “come and let us have lunch:  I’ll hold a crown I give you as good a glass of Burgundy as you gave me the other day, and will say done first.”

“Won’t Miss Folliard join us at lunch?” asked Whitecraft, looking to her for an assent.

“Why, I suppose so,” replied her father; “won’t you come, Helen?”

“You know, papa, I never lunch.”

“’Gad, and neither you do, Helen.  Come, Sir Robert, we will have a mouthful to eat, and something good to wash it down; come along, man. what the devil are you scrutinizing poor old Robinson Crusoe for?  Come along.  I say, the old chap is making the green-house thrive; he beats Malcomson.  Here.  Malcomson, you know Sir Robert Whitecraft, don’t you?”

“Hout, your honor, wha’ disna ken Sir Robert Whitecraft?  Isn’t his name far and near, as a braw defender o’ the faith, and a putter down o’ Papistry?”

“By the way, Malcomson,” said Sir Robert, “where did you get Robinson Crusoe, by which I mean that wild-looking man in the green-house?”

“Saul, sir, it’s a question I never speered at him.  He cam’ here as a gaberlunzie, and on stating that he was indoctrinated in the sceence o’ buttany, his honor garred me employ him.  De’il hae’t but the truth I’ll tell—­he’s a clever buttanist, and knows a’ the sceentific names aff hand.”

“So that’s all you know about him?” said Sir Robert.  “He has a devil of a beard, and is shockingly dressed.  Why doesn’t he shave?”

“Ou, just some Papistry nonsense,” replied the gardener; “but we hae naething to do wi’ that, sae lang’s we get the worth o’ our siller out o’ him.”

“Here’s a shilling, Malcomson,” said Sir Robert.

“Na, na, your honor; a shilling’s no for a man that understands the sceence o’ buttany:  a shilling’s for a flunky in livery; but as for me, I couldna conscientiously condescend upon less than ten o’ them, or may be a pund British, but I’m feart that’s contrair to your honor’s habits.”

“Well, then,” said Sir Robert, “I have no more silver, and so I leave you to the agreeable society of Robinson Crusoe.”