“Weel, but the toast, man?”

“Oh, ay; troth, your nonsense would put any thing out of a man’s head.  Well, you see this comfortable room?”

“Ou, ay; an vara comfortable it is; ma faith, I wuss I had ane like it.  The auld squire, however, talks o’ buildin’ a new gertlen-hoose.”

“Well, then, fill your bumper.  Here’s to her that got me this room, and had it furnished as you see, in order that I might be at my aise in it for the remaindher o’ my life—­I mane the Cooleen Bawn—­the Lily of the Plains of Boyle.  Come, now, off with it; and if you take it from your lantern jaws! till it’s finished, divil a wet lip ever I’ll give you.”

The Scotchman was not indisposed to honor the toast; first, because the ale was both strong and mellow, and secondly, because the Cooleen Bawn was a great favorite of his, in consequence of the deference she paid to him as a botanist.

“Eh, sirs,” he exclaimed, after finishing | his bumper, “but she’s a bonnie lassie that, and as gude as she’s bonnie—­and de’il a higher compliment she could get, I think.  But, Andy, man, don’t they talk some clash and havers anent her predilection for that weel-farrant callan, Reilly?”

“All, my poor girl,” replied Cummiskey, shaking his head sorrowfully; “I pity her there; but the thing’s impossible—­they can’t be married—­the law is against them.”

“Weel, Andy, they must e’en thole it; but ‘am thinkin’ they’ll just break bounds at last, an’ tak’ the law, as you Irish do, into their am hands.”

“What do you mane by that?” asked Andy, whose temper began to get warm by the observation.

“Ah, man,” replied the Scotchman, “dinna let your birses rise at that gate.  Noo, there’s the filbert trees, ma friend, of whilk ane is male and the tither female; and the upshot e’en is, Andy, that de’il a pickle o’ fruit ever the female produces until there’s a braw halesome male tree planted in the same gerden.  But, ou, man, Andy, wasna yon she and that bonnie jaud, Connor, that we met the noo?  De’il be frae my laul, but I jalouse she’s aff wi’ him this vara nicht.”

“Oh, dear, no!” replied Cummiskey, starting; “that would kill her father; and yet there must be something in it, or what would bring them there at such an hour?  He and she may love one another as much as they like, but I must think of my mas-ther.”

“In that case, then, our best plan is to gie the alarm.”

“Hould,” replied Andy; “let us be cautious.  They wouldn’t go on foot, I think; and before we rise a ruction in the house, let us find out whether she has made off or not.  Sit you here, and I’ll try to see Connor, her maid.”

“Ah, but, Andy, man, it’s no just that pleasant to sit hei-e dry-lipped; the tankard’s, oot, ye ken.”

“Divil tankard the Scotch sowl o’you—­who do you suppose could think of a tankard, or any thing else, if what we suspect has happened?  It will kill him.”