man that Protestantism is my forte, Mr. Reilly—­there’s where I’m strong, a touch of Hercules about me there, Mr. Reilly—­Willy, I mean.  Well, you are a thorough good fellow, Papist and all, though you—­ahem!—­never mind though, you shall see my daughter, and you shall hear my daughter; for, by the great Boyne, she must salute the man that saved her father’s life, and prevented her from being an orphan.  And yet see, Willy, I love that girl to such a degree that if heaven was open for me this moment, and that Saint Peter—­hem!—­I mean the Apostle Peter, slid to me, ‘Come, Folliard, walk in, sir,’ by the great Deliverer that saved us from Pope and Popery, brass money, and—­ahem!  I beg your pardon—­well, I say if he was to say so, I wouldn’t leave her.  There’s affection for you; but she deserves it.  No, if ever a girl was capable of keeping an old father from heaven she is.”

“I understand your meaning, sir,” replied Reilly with a smile, “and I believe she is loved by every one who has the pleasure of knowing her—­by rich and poor.”

“Troth, Mr. Reilly,” observed Andy, “it’s a sin for any one to let their affections, even for one of their own childer, go between them and heaven.  As for the masther, he makes a god of her.  To be sure if ever there was an angel in this world she is one.”

“Get out, you old whelp,” exclaimed his master; “what do you know about it?—­you who never had wife or child? isn’t she my only child?—­the apple of my eye? the love of my heart?”

“If you loved her so well you wouldn’t make her unhappy then.”

“What do you mean, you despicable old Papist?”

“I mean that you wouldn’t marry her to a man she doesn’t like, as you’re goin’ to do.  That’s a bad way to make her happy, at any rate.”

“Overlook the word Papist, Mr. Reilly, that I applied to that old idolater—­the fellow worships images; of course you know, as a Papist, he does—­ahem!—­but to show you that I don’t hate the Papist without exception, I beg to let you know, sir, that I frequently have the Papist priest of our parish to dine with me; and if that isn’t liberality the devil’s in it.  Isn’t that true, you superstitious old Padareen?  No, Mr. Reilly, Mr. Mahon—­Willy, I mean—­I’m a liberal man, and I hope we’ll be all saved yet, with the exception of the Pope—­ahem! yes, I hope we shall all be saved.”

“Throth, sir,” said Andy, addressing himself to Reilly, “he’s a quare gentleman, this.  He’s always abusing the Papists, as he calls us, and yet for every Protestant servant undher his roof he has three Papists, as he calls us.  His bark, sir, is worse than his bite, any day.”

“I believe it,” replied Reilly in a low voice, “and it’s a pity that a good and benevolent man should suffer these idle prejudices to sway him.”

“Divil a bit they sway him, sir,” replied Andy; “he’ll damn and abuse them and their religion, and yet he’ll go any length to serve one o’ them, if they want a friend, and has a good character.  But here, now we’re at the gate of the avenue, and you’ll soon see the Cooleen Bawn”