A sweet light laugh, that rang with the melody of a musical bell, broke from Helen at this part of the description, in which, to tell the truth, she was joined by Reilly.  The old man himself, from sheer happiness and good-humor, joined them both, though utterly ignorant of the cause of their mirth.

“Aye, aye,” he exclaimed, “you may laugh—­by the great Boyne, I knew I would make you laugh.  Well, I’ll go on; his complexion is of a—­a—­no matter—­of a good standing color, at all events; his nose, I grant you, is as thin, and much of the same color, as pasteboard, but as a set-off to that it’s a thorough Williamite.  Isn’t that true, Helen?”

“Yes, papa; but I think King William’s nose was the worst feature in his face, although that certainly cannot be said of Sir Robert.”

“Do you hear that, Reilly?  I wish Sir Robert heard it, but I’ll tell him—­there’s a compliment, Helen—­you’re a good girl—­thank you, Helen.”

Helen’s face was now radiant with mirthful enjoyment, whilst at the same time Reilly could perceive that from time to time a deep unconscious sigh would escape from her, such a sigh as induced him to infer that some hidden care was at work with her heart.  This he at once imputed to her father’s determination to force her into a marriage with the worthy baronet, whom in his simplicity he was so ludicrously describing.

“Proceed, papa, and finish as you have begun it.”

“I will, to oblige and gratify you, Helen.  He is a little close about the knees, Mr. Reilly—­a little close about the knees, Willy.”

“And about the heart, papa,” added his daughter, who, for the life of her, could not restrain the observation.

“It’s no fault to know the value of money, my dear child.  However, let me go on—­close about the knees, but that’s a proof of strength, because they support one another:  every one knows that.”

“But his arms, papa?”

“You see, Reilly, you see, Willy,” said the squire, nodding in the direction of his daughter, “not a bad sign that, and yet she pretends not to care about him.  She is gratified, evidently.  Ah, Helen, Helen! it’s hard to know women.”

“But his arms, papa?”

“Well, then, I wish to goodness you would allow me to skip that part of the subject—­they are an awful length, Willy, I grant.  I allow the fact, it cannot be denied, they are of an awful length.”

“It will give him the greater advantage in over-reaching, papa.”

“Well, as to his arms, upon my soul Willy, I know no more what to do with them—­”

“Than he does himself, papa.”

“Just so, Helen; they hang about him like those of a skeleton on wires; but, on the other hand, he has a neck that always betokens true blood, long and thin like that of a racer.  Altogether he’s a devilish interesting man, steady, prudent, and sober.  I never saw him drink a third glass of—­”

“In the meantime, papa,” observed Helen, “in the enthusiasm of your description you are neglecting Mr. Reilly.”