“Well, in troth,” she replied, “you are a quare man; but still it would be too bad to make you blush for no stronger raison than mere wather.  So, in the name o’ goodness, here’s a tumbler of grog,” she added, filling him out one on the instant, “and as you’re so modest, you must only drink it and keep your countenance; it’ll prepare you, besides, for the rasher and eggs; and, by the same token, here’s an ould candle-box that’s here the Lord knows how long; but, faix, now it must help to do the rasher.  Come then; if you are stronger than I am, show your strength, and pull it to pieces, for you see I can’t.”

It was one of those flat little candle-boxes made of deal, with which every one in the habit of burning moulds is acquainted.  Dandy took it up, and whilst about to pull it to pieces, observed written on a paper label, in a large hand, something between writing and print, “Mrs. Norton, Summerfield Cottage, Wicklow.”

“What is this?” said he; “what name is this upon it?  Let us see, ’Mrs. Norton, Summerfield Cottage, Wicklow!’ Who the dickens is Mrs. Norton?”

“Why, my present mistress,” replied Nancy; “Mr. Mainwaring is her second husband, and her name was Mrs. Norton before she married him.”

“Norton,” said Dandy, whose heart was going at full speed, with a hope that he had at length got into the right track, “it’s a purty name in troth.  Arra, Nancy, do you know was your misthress ever in France?”

“Ay, was she,” replied Nancy.  “Many a year maid to—­let me see—­what’s this the name is?  Ay!  Cullamore.  Maid to the wife of Lord Cullamore.  So I was tould by Alley Mahon, a young woman that was here on a visit to me.”

Dandy put the glass of grog to his mouth, and having emptied it, sprung to his feet, commenced an Irish jig through the kitchen, in a spirit so outrageously whimsical—­buoyant, mad, hugging the box all the time in his arms, that poor Nancy looked at him with a degree of alarm and then of jealousy which she could not conceal.

“In the name of all that’s wonderful,” she exclaimed, “what’s wrong—­what’s the matter?  What’s the value of that blackguard box that you make the mistake about in huggin’ it that way?  Upon my conscience, one would think you’re in a desolate island.  Remember, man alive, that you’re among flesh and blood like your own, and that you have friends, although the acquaintance isn’t very long, I grant, that wishes you betther than to see you makin’ a sweetheart of a tallow-box.  What the sorra is that worth?”

“A hundred pounds, my darlin’—­a hundred pounds—­bravo, Dandy—­well done, brave Dulcimer—­wealthy Nancy.  Faith, you may swear upon the frying-pan there that I’ve the cash, and sure ’tis yourself I was lookin’ out for.”

“I don’t think, then, that ever I resembled a candle-box in my life,” she replied, rather annoyed that the article in question came in for such a prodigality of his hugs, kisses, and embraces, of all shapes and characters.