“I am not goin’ to take her lavin’s, then,” retorted Roseen with spirit.  “Neither her jew’lry, her dresses, nor her husband will I have, so there!  That’s my answer, an’ you may tell him so.  He may go make up his match with somebody else for me.”  With a whisk of her skirts and a stamp of her foot, she returned to her butter.

“Come, come!” said Peter, knitting his brows.  “Come, come, come!” he repeated, in warning tones; “this won’t do, miss.”

Roseen tossed her head, and gave her roll of butter two or three little pats.

“If I bid you take Mr. Quinn, you’ll have to take him,” said Peter angrily.

“I won’t, then,” retorted Roseen, and she finished off one little roll and fell to preparing another.

“You owe everything in this wide world to me, I would have you remember,” cried Peter, stammering in his wrath; “if I was to turn you out o’ doors this minute, ye wouldn’t have a place to go to.”

“I would soon find a place,” said Roseen.  “I told ye that before I come here.”

Peter, finding the threat of no avail, changed his tactics, and assumed a wheedling tone.

“Listen, Roseen, like a good sensible girl.  Sure, ye know very well it’s me that holds the place of father an’ mother to you now, an’ it’s my duty to see you are settled an’ provided for.  Well, now, ye might sarch the world over an’ not find such a good man as Mr. Quinn, an’ a real gentleman, too, mind you.  Sure, it’s jumping with joy you ought to be.  An’ lookit here, Roseen, you are all the descendants I have, an’ if you do as I bid you, I’ll make me will after ye are married to Mr. Quinn, an’ leave the two ‘o you this place an’ everything in the wide world that I have.  There now!”

This tempting prospect was too much for Roseen.  She whisked round again so rapidly that she overturned a pan of cream; her cheeks were flaming, her eyes flashing with anger.

“I’ll be thankin’ ye not to talk to me that way, grandfather,” she cried.  “I declare it’s enough to vex a saint!  I won’t have Mr. Quinn, an’ wouldn’t if he gave me a carpet of gould to walk upon.  That’s me answer, an’ he needn’t be waitin’ for me, for I won’t have him.”

Peter Rorke shook his head sorrowfully.

“Ye’ll be bringin’ me white hairs with sorrow to the grave, the same as your father,” he remarked, oblivious of the fact that the poor fellow in question had only succeeded in laying low his own curly black ones.  “I declare me heart’s broke.  Ye had a right to have a bit more consideration for me, Roseen, after all I done for ye.  Did I ever give ye a cross word, now, since you come here?”

Roseen opened her eyes a little blankly, stricken with sudden remorse.  It was true her grandfather had ever treated her kindly since she had come to Monavoe, and indeed, after a certain queer fashion, the two had grown to be rather fond of each other.

“Haven’t I always given you everything you wanted?” pursued Peter, in a querulous tone; “everything in reason, anyhow.  Look at the beautiful blue tabinet dress I gave you—­sure there isn’t the like in the place—­and the new hat ye have, an’ kid gloves an’ all!  Sure, I never deny you anything!  An’ you up an’ give me them disrespectful answers, an’ refuse to do the only thing I ever axed ye!”