“Well, then,” said Darby, “first, there is Paudeen Rafferty, of Dernascobe; Paudeen, sir, is, at the present spaking, badly given to drink, and he swears, and fights mortially, too, the hathen; but, then, he’s in darkness, sir, yet; and you know that the greater the sinner the greater the saint.  If Paudeen was dacently convarted he’d make a mighty fine Christian no doubt.  To be sure he has two wives, along wid his love for liquor and fightin’; but wouldn’t it be a good plan to bring them over, too, sir; the poor lost cratures, sunk, as they are, in hathenism and vociferation?”

“Very good, I have him down, Darby; we must struggle, however, to win him over and to induce him to give up his guilty connections.  Are they young, Darby!”

“Two of the best looking young women in the parish.”

“We must only see, then, if they can be rescued also; for that is a duty—­a pressing duty, certainly.”

“But I’m afeard, sir, it ‘ud take a ship load o’ Scripture to convart the three o’ them.”

“We shall try, however; nothing is to be despaired of under such circumstances, unless I am afraid the regeneration of that unhappy man M’Clutchy—­(eyes turned up).  Who next?”

“Why, you may set down Harry M’Murt, of Drinnska.  Harry’s an unsettled kind of fellow, or as they call him a Rake.  It would be an active charity to convert him—­and that could convert him for he has as many twists in him as an eel—­if it was only for the sake of gettin’ him to spake the truth.”

“Who else, Darby?”

“Put down Charley Casey, sir; and if you take my advice, you’ll set in at the convarsion of him while his famine lasts—­otherwise, he’s a bitter idolapher as ever welted an Orangeman; but against that, he has the stomach o’ three men—­and the best time to come at him wid the gospel is the present.  Bait it wid a flitch of bacon on the one side, and a collop o’ fresh meat on the other, now before the praties comes in, and you’re sure of him.”

“Any others, Dairby?—­but, indeed, as far as we have gone yet, the cases appear to me to be difficult ones.  However, there is joy in heaven, Darby, over one sinner—­and surely the greater the sin the greater the joy and the triumph.  Any others?”

“Mark down Molly Crudden, sir—­she would be a glorious catch if a word in saison could fasten on her.  She goes by the name of Funny Eye.  The poor woman is mother to a large family of childre, sir; and the worst of it is, that no two o’ them goies by the same name.  It would be a proud day that we could make sure of her, especially as Father Roche and Mr. M’Cabe, his curate, were obliged to give her up, and forbid her the parish; but Funny Eye only winks and laughs at them and the world.  She’s the last, sir—­but I’ll be on the look out, God willin’, for a few more desperate cases to crown our victory over the dev—­ahem! over Satan and the priests.”

“Well, then, let me see you, as I said, the day after to-morrow, and in the mean time—­peace, and joy, and victory be with you!”