"If this illigant fire only keeps up, I'm thinking there'll be a
considerable difference afore long. The ways yees be twisting and
doubling them hands, as if ye had hold of some delightsome soap,
spaaks that yees have already discovered a difference. It is better
nor whisky, fire is, in the long run, providin' you don't swaller
it--the fire, that is."

"Even if swallowed, Teddy, fire is better than whisky, for fire burns
only the body, while whisky burns the soul," answered the minister.

"Arrah, that it does; for I well remimbers the last swig I took a'most
burnt a hole in me shirt, over the bosom, and they say that is where
the soul is located."

"Ah, Teddy, you are a sad sinner, I fear," laughingly observed Mrs.
Richter, at this extravagant allusion.

"A _sad_ sinner! Divil a bit of it. I haven't saan the day for twinty
year whin I couldn't dance at me grandmother's wake, or couldn't use a
shillalah at me father's fourteenth weddin'. Teddy _sad_? Well, that
is a--is a--a mistake," and the injured fellow further expressed his
feelings by piling on the fuel until he had a fire large enough to
have roasted a battalion of prize beeves, had they been spitted before
it.

Darkness at length fairly settled upon the wood and stream; the gloom
around became deep and impressive. The inevitable haunch of venison
was roasting before the roaring fire, Teddy watching and attending it
with all the skill of an experienced cook. While thus engaged, the