From this state he was aroused after about an hour by the pressure of something sharp and painful against his side, near the region of the heart, and on looking up, he discovered Bartle Flanagan standing over him with pitchfork in his hand, one end of which was pressed against his breast, as if he had been in the act of driving it forward into his body.  His face was pale, his dark brows frightfully contracted, and his teeth apparently set together, as if working over some fearful determination.  When Connor awoke, Flanagan broke out into a laugh that no language could describe.  The character of mirth which he wished to throw into his face, jarred so terrifically with his demoniacal expression when first seen by Connor, that, even unsuspecting as he was, he started up with alarm, and asked Flanagan what was the matter.  Flanagan, however, laughed on—­peal after peal succeeded—­he tossed the pitchfork aside, and, clapping both his hands upon his face, continued the paroxysms until he recovered his composure.

“Oh,” said he, “I’m sick, I’m as wake as a child wid laughin’; but, Lord bless us, after all, Connor, what is a man’s life worth whin he has an enemy near him?  There was I, ticklin’ you wid the pitchfork, strivin’ to waken you, and one inch of it would have baked your bread for life.  Didn’t you feel me, Connor?”

“Divil a bit, till the minute before I ris.”

“Then the divil a purtier jig you ever danced in your life; wait till I show you how your left toe wint.”

He accordingly lay down and illustrated the pretended action, after which he burst out into another uncontrollable fit of mirth.

“’Twas just for all the world,” said he, “as if I had tied a string to your toe, for you groaned an’ grunted, an’ went on like I dunna what; but, Connor, what makes you so sleepy to-day as well as on Monday last?”

“That’s the very thing,” replied the unsuspicious and candid young man, “that I wanted to spake to you about.”

“What! about sleepin’ in the meadows?”

“Divil a bit o’ that, Bartle, not a morsel of sleepin’ in the meadows is consarned in what I’m goin’ to mintion to you.  Bartle, didn’t you tell me, the day you hired wid my father, that you wor in love?”

“I did, Connor, I did.”

“Well, so am I; but do you know who I’m in love with?”

“How the divil, man, could I?”

“Well, no swerin’, Bartle; keep the commandments, my boy.  I’ll tell you in the mane time, an’ that’s more than you did me, you close-mouth-is-a-sign-of-a-wise-head spalpeen!”

“Did you ever hear tell of one Colleen dhas dhun as she’s called, known by the name Una or Oona O’Brien, daughter to one Bodagh Buie O’Brien, the richest man, barin’ a born gentleman, in the three parishes?”

“All very fair, Connor, for you or any one else to be in love wid her—­ay, man alive, for myself, if it goes to that—­but, but, Connor, avouchal, are you sure that sure you’ll bring her to be in love wid you?”