“Oh, you thief!” she replied; “don’t think you can play upon me.  I know your saycret.”

“An’ maybe, Dora,” he replied, “I have my saycrets.  Do you know who was inquirin’ for you to-day?”

“No,” she returned, “nor I don’t care either—­sorra bit.”

“I met James Cavanagh there below”—­he proceeded, still in a whisper, and he fixed his eyes upon her countenance as he spoke.  The words, however, produced a most extraordinary effect.  A deep blush crimsoned her whole neck and face, until the rush of blood seemed absolutely to become expressive of pain.  Her eye, however, did not droop, but turned upon him with a firm and peculiar sparkle.  She had been stooping with her mouth near his ear, as the reader knows, but she now stood up quickly, shook back her hair, that had been hanging in natural and silken curls about her blushing cheeks, and exclaimed:  “No—­no.  Let me alone Bryan;” and on uttering these words she hurried into another room.”

“Bryan, you’ve vexed Dora some way,” observed her sister.  “What did you say to her?”

“Nothing that vexed her, I’ll go bail,” he replied, laughing; “however, as to what I said to her, Shibby, ax me no questions an’ I’ll tell you no lies.”

“Becaise I thought she looked as if she was angry,” continued Shibby, “an’, you know, it must be a strong provocation that would anger her.”

“Ah, you’re fishin’ now, Shibby,” he replied, “and many thanks for your good intentions.  It’s a saycret, an’ that’s all you’re going to know about it.  But it’s as much as ’ll keep you on the look out this month to come; and now you’re punished for your curiosity—­ha!—­ha!—­ha!  Come, father, if we’re to go to Sam Wallace’s auction it’s time we should think of movin’.  Art, go an’ help Tom Droogan to bring out the horses.  Rise your foot here, father, an’ I’ll put on your spur for you.  We may as well spake to Mr. Fethertonge, the agent, about the leases.  I promised we’d call on Gerald Cavanagh, to—­an’ he’ll be waitin’ for us—­hem!”

His eye here glanced about, but Dora was not visible, and he accordingly seemed to be more at his ease.  “I think, father,” he added, “I must trate you to a pair of spurs some of these days.  This one, it’s clear, has been a long time in the family.”

“Throth, an’ on that account,” replied M’Mahon, “I’m not goin’ to part wid it for the best pair that ever were made.  No, no, Bryan; I like everything that I’ve known long.  When my heart gets accustomed to anything or to anybody”—­here he glanced affectionately at his wife—­“I can’t bear to part wid them, or to think of partin’ wid them.”

The horses were now ready, and in a brief space he and his son were decently mounted, the latter smartly but not inappropriately dressed; and M’Mahon himself, with his right spur, in a sober but comfortable suit, over which was a huge Jock, his inseparable companion in every fair, market, and other public place, during the whole year.  Indeed, it would not be easy to find two better representatives of that respectable and independent class of Irish yeomanry of which our unfortunate country stands so much in need, as was this man of high integrity and his excellent son.