“Didn’t I tell you, woman alive, that it was by accident, an’ that I wished to sarve the house, that we came at all.  Come, come, Ellish; don’t disgrace me afore my sisther’s bachelor an’ the sthrange boys that’s to the fore.  By this staff in my hand, I wouldn’t for the best cow in our byre be put to the blush afore thim; an’ besides, there’s a cleeveen (* a kind of indirect relationship) atween your family an’ ours.”

“Condy, avourneen, say no more:  if you were fed from the same breast wid me, I couldn’t, nor wouldn’t break my promise.  I wouldn’t have the sin of it an me for the wealth o’ the three kingdoms.”

“Beclad, you’re a quare woman; an’ only that my regard for you is great entirely, we would be two, Ellish; but I know you’re dacent still.”

He then left her and joined his friends in the little room that was appropriated for drinking, where, with a great deal of mirth, he related the failure of the plan they had formed for outwitting Peter and Ellish.

“Boys,” said he, “she’s too many for us!  St. Pettier himself wouldn’t make a hand of her.  Faix, she’s a cute one.  I palavered her at the rate of a hunt, an’ she ped me back in my own coin, with dacent intherest—­but no whiskey!—­Now to take a rise out o’ Pettier.  Jist sit where ye are, till I come back.”

He left them enjoying the intended “spree,” and went back to Ellish.

“Well, I’m sure, Ellish, if any one had tuck their book oath that you’d refuse my father’s son such a thrifle, I wouldn’t believe them.  It’s not wid Pettier’s knowledge you do it, I’ll be bound.  But bad as you thrated us, sure we must see how the poor fellow is, at an rate.”

As he spoke, and before Ellish had time to prevent him, he pressed into the room where Peter lay.

“Why, tare alive, Pether, is it in bed you are at this hour of the day?”

“Eh?  Who’s that—­who’s that? oh!”

“Why thin, the sarra lie undher you, is that the way wid you?”

“Oh!—­oh!  Eh?  Is that Condy?”

“All that’s to the fore of him.  What’s asthray wid you man alive?”

“Throth, Condy, I don’t know, rightly.  I went out, wantin’ my coat, about a week ago, an’ got cowld in the small o’ the back; I’ve a pain in it ever since.  Be sittin’.”

“Is your heart safe?  You have no smotherin’ or anything upon it?”

“Why thin, thank goodness, no; it’s all about my back an’ my inches.”

“Divil a thing it is but a complaint they call an alloverness ails you, you shkaimer o’ the world wide.  ‘Tis the oil o’ the hazel, or a rubbin’ down wid an oak towel you want.  Get up, I say, or, by this an’ by that, I’ll flail you widin an inch o’ your life.”

“Is it beside yourself you are, Condy?”

“No, no, faix; I’ve found you out:  Ellish is afther tellin’ me that it was a smotherin’ on the heart; but it’s a pain in the small o’ the back wid yourself.  Oh, you born desaver!  Get up, I say agin, afore I take the stick to you!”