"It's ready. Jemmy, you'll--Misther Burke, I mane--you'll pay for
Misther Hycy's mare."

"If I do--you'll live to see it, that's all. Give the boy his
breakwhist."

"Thank you, worthy father--much obliged for your generosity--

"'Oh, love is the soul of a nate Irishman
He loves all that's lovely, loves all that he can,
With his sprig of--'

Ah, Peety Dhu, how are you, my worthy peripatetic? Why, this daughter
of yours is getting quite a Hebe on our hands. Mrs. Burke,
breakfast--breakfast, madam, as you love Hycy, the accomplished." So
saying, Hycy the accomplished proceeded to the parlor we have described,
followed by his maternal relative, as he often called his mother.

"Well, upon my word and honor, mother," said the aforesaid Hycy, who
knew and played upon his mother's weak points, "it is a sad thing to see
such a woman as you are, married to a man who has neither the spirit nor
feelings of a gentleman--my word and honor it is."

"I feel that, Hycy, but there's no help for spilt milk; we must only
make the best of a bad bargain. Are you coming to your breakfast," she
shouted, calling to honest Jemmy, who still sat on the hob ruminating
with a kind of placid vexation over his son's extravagance--"your tay's
filled out!"

"There let it," he replied, "I'll have none of your plash to-day; I tuck