“More than that, five times over; I’ll give him all I have.  An’ now when will we marry them?  Throth it was best to make things clear,” added the knave, “and undherstand one another at wanst.  When will we marry them?”

“Not till you say out openly and fairly the exact amount of money you’ll lay down on the nail—­an’ that before even a ring goes upon them.”

“Give it up, acushla,” said the wife, “you see there’s no screwin’ a promise out of him, let alone a penny.”

“What ’ud yees have me do?” said the old man, raising his voice.  “Won’t he have all I’m worth?  Who else is to have it?  Am I to make a beggar of myself to please you?  Can’t they live on your farm till I die, an’ thin it’ll all come to them?”

“An’ no thanks to you for that, Fardorougha,” said the Bodagh.  “No, no; I’ll never buy a pig in a poke.  If you won’t act generously by your son, go home, in the name of goodness, and let us hear no more about it.”

“Why, why?” asked the miser, “are yees mad to miss what I can leave him?  If you knew how much it is, you’d snap—­; but God help me! what am I sayin’?  I’m poorer than anybody thinks.  I am—­I am; an’ will starve among you all, if God hasn’t sed it.  Do you think I don’t love my son as well, an’ a thousand times better, than you do your daughter?  God alone sees how my heart’s in him—­in my own Connor, that never gave me a sore heart—­my brave, my beautiful boy!”

He paused, and the scalding tears here ran down his shrunk and furrowed cheeks, whilst he wrung his hands, started to his feet, and looked about him like a man encompassed by dangers that threatened instant destruction.

“If you love your son so well,” said John, mildly, “why do you grudge to share your wealth with him?  It is but natural and it is your duty.”

“Natural! what’s natural?—­to give away—­is it to love him you mane?  It is, it’s unnatural to give it away.  He’s the best son—­the best—­what do you mane, I say?—­let me alone—­let me alone—­I could give him my blood, my blood—­to sich a boy; but, you want to kill me—­you want to kill me, an’ thin you’ll get all; but he’ll cross you, never fear—­my boy will save me—­he’s not tired of me—­he’d give up fifty girls sooner than see a hair of his father’s head injured—­so do your best, while I have Connor, I’m not afraid of yees.  Thanks be to God that sent him!” he exclaimed, dropping suddenly on his knees—­“oh, thanks be to God that sent him to comfort an’ protect his father from the schames and villainy of them that ’ud bring him to starvation for their own ends!”

“Father,” said John, in a low tone, “this struggle between avarice and natural affection is awful.  See how his small gray eyes glare, and the froth rises white to his thin shrivelled lips.  What is to be done?”

“Fardorougha,” said the Bodagh, “it’s over; don’t distress yourself—­keep your money—­there will be no match between our childhre.”