“Hallo!” the squire shouted out, “what the devil! are you dead or asleep there?  Brady, you Papist scoundrel, why not open the gate?”

The porter’s wife came out as he uttered the words, saying, “I beg your honor’s pardon.  Ned is up at the Castle;” and whilst speaking she opened the gate.

“Ha, Molly!” exclaimed her master in a tone of such bland good nature as could not for a moment be mistaken; “well, Molly, how is little Mick?  Is he better, poor fellow?”

“He is, thank God, and your honor.”

“Hallo, Molly,” said the squire, laughing, “that’s Popery again.  You are thanking God and me as if we were intimate acquaintances.  None of that foolish Popish nonsense.  When you thank God, thank him; and when you thank me, why thank me; but don’t unite us, as you do him and your Popish saints, for I tell you, Molly, I’m no saint; God forbid!  Tell the doctorman to pay him every attention, and to send his bill to me when the child is properly recovered; mark that—­properly recovered.”

A noble avenue, that swept along with two or three magnificent bends, brought them up to a fine old mansion of the castellated style, where the squire and his two equestrian attendants dismounted, and were ushered into the parlor, which they found brilliantly lighted up with a number of large wax tapers.  The furniture of the room was exceedingly rich, but somewhat curious and old-fashioned.  It was such, however, as to give ample proof of great wealth and comfort, and, by the heat of a large peat fire which blazed in the capacious hearth, it communicated that sense of warmth which was in complete accordance with the general aspect of the apartment.  An old gray-haired butler, well-powdered, together with two or three other servants in rich livery, now entered, and the squire’s first inquiry was after his daughter.

“John,” said he to the butler, “how is your mistress?” but, without waiting for a reply, he added, “here are twenty pounds, which you will hand to those fine fellows at the hall-door.”

“Pardon me, sir,” replied Reilly, “those men are my tenants, and the sons of my tenants:  they have only performed towards you a duty, which common humanity would require at their hands towards the humblest person that lives.”

“They must accept it, Mr. Reilly—­they must have it—­they are humble men—­and as it is only the reward of a kind office, I think it is justly due to them.  Here, John, give them the money.”

It was in vain that Reilly interposed; the old squire would not listen to him.  John was, accordingly, dispatched to the hall steps, but found that they had all gone.

At this moment our friend Toni Steeple met the butler, whom he approached with a kind of wild and uncouth anxiety.

“Aha!  Mista John,” said he, “you tall man too, but not tall as Tom Steeple—­ha, ha—­you good man too, Mista John—­give Tom bully dinners—­Willy Reilly, Mista John, want to see Willy Reilly.”