“I mean, sirra, to become a Protestan—­I an’ my family, I’m Nickey Feasthalagh, that was in on suspicion o’ the burnin’ of Nugent’s hay; and by them five crasses I was as innocent of that as the child onborn, so I was.  Sure they couldn’t prove an me, becoorse I came out wid flying colors, glory be to God!  Here I am now, sir, an’ a right good Prodestan I’ll make when I come to understand it.  An’ let me whisper this, sirra, I’ll be dam useful in fairs and markets to help the Orangemen to lick ourselves, your honor, in a skrimmage or party fight, or anything o’ that kidney.”

“I am sorry, Nick Fistula, as you say your name is—­”

“Mickey, sirra.”

“Well, Nickey, or Nick, or whatever it may be, I am sorry to say that you won’t do.  You are too great an ornament to your own creed ever to shine in ours.  I happen to know your character—­begone.”

“Is Misthre Lucre widin?” asked a third candidate, whose wife accompanied him—­“if he is, maybe you’d tell him that one Barney Grattan wishes to have a thrifle o’ speech wid his honor.”

“Come in,” said the servant with a smile, after having acquainted his master.

The man and his wife accordingly entered, having first wiped their feet as they had been ordered.

“Well, my good man, what’s your business.”

“Rosha, will you let his honor know what we wor spakin’ about?  She’ll tell you, sir.”

“Plaise your honor,” said she, “we’re convarts.”

“Well,” said Mr. Lucre, “that is at least coming to the point.  And pray, my good woman, who converted you?”

“Faix, the accounts that’s abroad, sir, about the gintleman from Dublin, that’s so full of larnin’, your reverance, and so rich, they say.”

“Then it was the mere accounts that wrought this change in you?”

“Dhamnu orth a Rosha, go dhe shin dher thu?” said the husband in Irish; for he felt that the wife was more explicit than was necessary.  “Never heed her, sir; the crathur, your reverence, is so through other, that she doesn’t know what she’s sayin’, especially spakin’ to so honorable a gentleman as your reverence.”

“Then let us hear your version, or rather your conversion.”

“Myself, sir, does be thinkin’ a great deal about these docthrines and jinnyologies that people is now all runnin’ upon.  I can tell a story, sir, at a wake, or an my kailee wid a, neighbor, as well as e’er a man in the five parishes.  The people say I’m very long headed all out, and can see far into a thing.  They do, indeed, plaise your reverence.”

“Very good.”

“Did you ever hear about one Fin M’Cool who was a great buffer in his day, and how his wife put the trick upon a big bosthoon of a giant that came down from Munster to bother Fin?  Did you ever hear that, sir?”

“No; neither do I wish to hear it just now.”

“Nor the song of Beal Derg O’Donnel, sir, nor the ‘Fairy River,’ nor ‘the Life and Adventures of Larry Dorneen’s Ass,’ plaise your reverence.”