“Married, no; he tould me himself this momin’ that it’s not his intention ever to marry ’till he meets a purty girl to plaise him; he’ll keep a loose foot, he says, and an aisy conscience till then, he says; but the saicret is this, he never aits flesh mate of a Friday—­when he emit get it.  Indeed, I’m afeared he’s too good to be long for this world; but still, if the Lord was to take him, wouldn’t it be a proof that he had a great regard for him!”

Grace Davoren was flushed and excited with delight.  She was about eighteen, rather tall for her age, but roundly and exquisitely moulded; her glossy ringlets, as they danced about her cheeks and shoulders, were black as ebony; but she was no brunette; for her skin was milk white, and that portion of her bosom, which was uncovered by the simple nature of her dress, threw back a polished light like ivory; her figure was perfection, and her white legs were a finer specimen of symmetry than ever supported the body of the Venus de Medicis.  This was all excellent; but it was the sparkling lustre of her eyes, and the radiance of her whole countenance, that attracted the beholder.  If there was anything to be found fault with, it was in the spirit, not in the physical perfection, of her beauty.  There was, for instance, too much warmth of coloring and of constitution visible in her whole exquisite person; and sometimes her glances, would puzzle you to determine whether they were those of innocence or of challenge.  Be this as it may, she was a rare specimen of rustic beauty and buoyancy of spirit.

“O, Barney,” said she, “that’s the pleasantest news I heard this month o’ Sundays—­sich dancin’ as we’ll have! and maybe I won’t foot it, and me got my new shoes and drugget gown last week;” and here she lilted a gay Irish air, to which she set a-dancing with a lightness of foot and vivacity of manner that threw her whole countenance into a most exquisite glow of mirthful beauty.

“Granua,” said her mother, reprovingly, “think of yourself and what you are about; if you worn’t a light-hearted, and, I’m afeard, a light-headed, girl, too, you wouldn’t go on as you do, especially when you know what you know, and what Barney here, too, knows.”

“Ah,” said Barney, his whole manner immediately changing, “have you heard from him, poor fellow?”

“Torley’s gone to the mountains,” she replied, “and—­but here he is.  Well, Torley, what news, asthore?”

Her husband having passed a friendly greeting to Barney, sat down, and having taken off his hat, lifted the skirt of his cothamore (big coat) and wiped the perspiration off his large and manly forehead, on which, however, were the traces of deep care.  He did not speak for some time, but at length said: 

“Bridget, give me a drink.”

His wife took a wooden noggin, which she dipped into a churn and handed him.  Having finished it at a draught, he wiped his mouth with his gathered, palm, breathed deeply, but was still silent.