"Well, Docthor," said Pat Frayne, when Biddy had been gone some time, on
which embassy she delayed longer than the priest's judgment, influenced
by the cravings of his stomach, calculated to be necessary,--"Well,
Docthor, I often pity you, for fasting so long; I'm sure, I dunna how
you can stand it, at all, at all."

"Troth, and you may well wonder, Pat; but we have that to support us,
that you, or any one like you, know nothing about--inward support,
Pat--inward support."

"Only for that, Father Ned," said Shane Fadh, "I suppose you could never
get through with it."

"Very right, Shane--very right: only for it, we never could do.--What
the dickens is keeping this girl with the eggs?--why she might be at Mr.
Morrow's, here, since. By the way, Mr. Morrow," he continued, laughing,
"you must come over to our church: you're a good neighbor, and a worthy
fellow, and it's a thousand pities you should be sent down."

"Why, Docthor," said Andy, "do you really believe I'll go downwards?"

"Ah, Mr. Morrow, don't ask me that question--out of the pale, you
know--out of the pale."

"Then you think, sir, there's no chance for me, at all?" said Andy,
smiling.

"Not the laste, Andy, you must go this way," said Father Ned, striking
the floor with the butt end of his whip, and winking--"to the lower
raigons; and, upon my knowledge, to tell you the truth, I'm sorry for