“Yes,” said he, “Connor is all you say, an’ more—­an’ more—­an’—­an’—­a rash act is the worst thing he could do.  It’s betther, Honor, to spake to him as I sed, about lettin’ the matther be known to Una’s family out of hand.”

“And thin, if they refuse, you can show them a ginerous example, by puttin’ them into a dacent farm.  Will you promise me that, Fardorougha?  If you do, all’s right, for they’re not livin’ that ever knew you to braak your word or your promise.”

“I’ll make no promise, Honor; I’ll make no promise; but let the other plan be tried first.  Now don’t be pressin’ me; he is a noble boy, and would, as you say, thravel round the earth to keep my little finger from pain; but let me alone about it now—­let me alone about it.”

This, though slight encouragement, was still, in Honor’s opinion, quite as much as, if not more, than she expected.  Without pressing him, therefore, too strongly at that moment, she contented herself with a full-length portrait of their son, drawn with all the skill of a mother who knew, if her husband’s heart could be touched at all, those points at which she stood the greatest chance of finding it accessible.

For a few days after this the subject of Connor’s love was permitted to lie undebated, in the earnest hope that Fardorougha’s heart might have caught some slight spark of natural affection from the conversation which had taken place between him and Honor.  They waited, consequently, with patience for some manifestation on his part of a better feeling, and flattered themselves that his silence proceeded from the struggle which they knew a man of his disposition must necessarily feel in working up his mind to any act requiring him to part with that which he loved better than life, his money.  The ardent temperament of Connor, however, could ill brook the pulseless indifference of the old man; with much difficulty, therefore, was he induced to wait a whole week for the issue, though sustained by the mother’s assurance, that, in consequence of the impression left on her by their last conversation, she was certain the father, if not urged beyond his wish, would declare himself willing to provide for them.  A week, however, elapsed, and Fardorougha moved on in the same hard and insensible spirit which was usual to him, wholly engrossed by money, and never, either directly or indirectly, appearing to remember that the happiness and welfare of his son were at stake, or depending upon the determination to which he might come.

Another half week passed, during which Connor had made two unsuccessful attempts to see Una, in order that some fixed plan of intercourse might be established between them, at least until his father’s ultimate resolution on the subject proposed to him should be known.  He now felt deeply distressed, and regretted that the ardor of his attachment had so far borne him away during their last meeting, that he had forgotten to concert measures with Una for their future interviews.