The Argosy — page 343: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

** Kitlings for hss Reverence.”’ 327 The ring, the shnill colloquy and the incursion of Matty were all repeated an hour later, but the old dame now burst into her master’s presence with a basket on each arm, laughing quietly. It’s the priest’s Bridget an’ the minister’s Nancy, wi’ kitlings for your reverence.” All right, Matty. You know what to say for me. But see here: if more presents come don’t bring them to the study, or I shall be preaching about kittens next Sunday.” The sermon did not progress, for loud and discordant sounds reached the Rector’s ears, and he rang his bell sharply. ‘‘ What is that dreadful noise about, Matty ?” “ Troth, your reverence, it’s them kitlings fighting. The priest’s kitling an’ the minister's kitling does naething but fly at other. Twa wee divils !” ‘Ha! ha! That’s only natural, Matty: that might be expected. Call them Brian Boru and William Wallace, and let them finish their little difference out in the yard.” One morning Mr. Williamson received a letter which pleased him, and he summoned Matty and Ned to the breakfast parlour for a con- ference regarding it. “ An old schoolfellow and college friend proposes to pay me a visit. His sheets must be well aired ; he must have the best room, and we must lay in every delicacy of the season for him. He wonders if it is safe for him to venture among us; the papers give such a frightful account of Ireland. He hopes outrages are not common in my parish, Eh, Ned?” and the Rector’s eyes twinkled. The guest duly arrived, was warmly welcomed, and an excellent dinner was smoking on the table, to which he was doing justice, when Ned bustled into the dining-room exclaiming: “There’s no oyster sauce for the turbot, sir, because Brian Boru an’ William Wallace was murderin’ other in the yard, an’ Matty went to separate them, an’ the sauce was burnt.” “Eh, eh! That’s too bad! But I suppose it can’t be helped. Hand Mr. St. John the fish sauce and cayenne pepper.” Mr. St. John, a quiet, matter-of-fact Englishman, cast a surprised and startled glance at his host, but said nothing. He, however, merely toyed with his turbot. A roast replaced the fish, and Mr. Williamson began to carve, remarking that his friend’s long drive ought to have given him an appetite. A hubbub now reached their ears from without, and the shrill tones of Matty were audible in the passage. ‘Och, Ned, he’s dead ; the life’s beaten out o’ him. Brian has murdered him.” The English guest straightway laid down his knife and fork, his hair standing on end. ‘What's that Matty says?” asked the Rector, calmly, when Ned re-appeared in the dining-room. EOMRRIC OOO SS (GO) i