The Cooleen Bawn did not speak, but the tears ran down her cheeks.  “Good-night, sir,” she said.  “I am utterly incapable of thanking you as you deserve, and as I ought to thank you.  Good-night!”

She extended her small snowy hand to him as she spoke.  Reilly took it in his, and by some voluntary impulse he could not avoid giving it a certain degree of pressure.  The fact is, it was such a hand—­so white—­so small—­so soft—­so warm—­so provocative of a squeeze—­that he felt his own pressing it, he knew not how nor wherefore, at least he thought so at the time; that is to say, if he were capable of thinking distinctly of any thing.  But heaven and earth!  Was it true!  No delusion?  No dream?  The pressure returned! the slightest, the most gentle, the most delicate pressure—­the barely perceptible pressure!  Yes! it was beyond all doubt; for although the act itself was light as delicacy and modesty could make it, yet the spirit—­the lightening spirit—­which it shot into his bounding and enraptured heart could not be for a moment mistaken.

As she was running up the stairs she returned, however, and again approaching her father, said—­whilst Reilly could observe that her cheek was flushed with a feeling that seemed to resemble ecstasy—­“Papa,” said she, “what a stupid girl I am!  I scarcely know what I am saying or doing.”

“By the great Boyne,” replied her father, “I’ll describe him to you every night in the week.  I knew the curve—­the line of beauty—­would get into your head; but what is it, darling?”

“Will you and Mr. Reilly have tea in the drawing-room, or shall I send it down to you?”

“I am too comfortable in my easy chair, dear Helen:  no, send it down.”

“After the shock you have received, papa, perhaps you might wish to have it from the hand of your own Cooleen Bawn?”

As the old man turned his eyes upon her they literally danced with delight.  “Ah, Willy!” said he, “is it any wonder I should love her?”

“I have often heard,” replied Reilly, “that it is impossible to know her, and not to love her.  I now believe it.”

“Thank you, Reilly; thank you, Willy; shake hands.  Come, Helen, shake hands with him.  That’s a compliment.  Shake hands with him, darling.  There, now, that’s all right.  Yes, my love, by all means, come down and give us tea here.”

Innocent old man—­the die is now irrevocably cast!  That mutual pressure, and that mutual glance.  Alas! alas! how strange and incomprehensible is human destiny!

After she had gone upstairs the old man said, “You see, Willy, how my heart and soul are in that angelic creature.  The great object, the great delight of her life, is to anticipate all my wants, to study whatever is agreeable to me—­in fact, to make me happy.  And she succeeds.  Every thing she does pleases me.  By the grave of Schomberg, she’s beyond all price.  It is true we never had a baronet in the family, and it would gratify