A gentle pressure on his arm, when he mentioned the word wealth, and he was silent.

“My darlin’ Margaret,” said he, “oh how unworthy I am of you!”

“Now,” said she, “lave me to manage this business my own way.  Your good sense will tell you when to spake; but whatever my father says, trate him with respect—­lave the rest to me.”

On entering, they found Murray and his wife in the little parlor—­the former smoking his pipe, and the latter darning a pair of stockings.

“Father,” said Margaret, “Art Maguire convoyed me home; but, indeed, I must say, I was forced to ask him.”

“Art Maguire.  Why, then, upon my sounds, Art, I’m glad to see you.  An’ how are you, man alive? an’ how is Frank, eh?  As grave as a jidge, as he always was—­ha, ha, ha!  Take a chair, Art, and be sittin’.  Peggy, gluntha me, remimber, you must have Art at your weddin’.  It’s now widin three days of the time I’m to know who he is; and upon my sounds, I’m like a hen on a hot griddle till I hear it.”

“You’re not within three days, father.”

“But I say I am, accordin’ to your own countin’.”

“You’re not within three hours, father;”—­her face ’glowed, and her whole system became vivified with singular and startling energy as she spoke;—­“no, you are not within three hours, father; not within three minutes, my dear father; for there stands the man,” she said, pointing to Art.  She gave three or four loud hysterical sobs, and then stood calm, looking not upon her father, but upon her lover; as much as to say, Is this love, or is it not?

Her mother, who was a quiet, inoffensive creature, without any principle or opinion whatsoever at variance with those of her husband, rose upon hearing this announcement; but so ambiguous were her motions, that we question whether the most sagacious prophet of all antiquity could anticipate from them the slightest possible clue to her opinion.  The husband, in fact, had not yet spoken, and until he had, the poor woman did not know her own mind.  Under any circumstances, it was difficult exactly to comprehend her meaning.  In fact, she could not speak three words of common English, having probably never made the experiment a dozen times in her life.  Murray was struck for some time mute.

“And is this the young man,” said he, at length, “that has been the mains of preventin’ you from being so well married often and often before now?”

“No, indeed, father,” she replied, “he was not the occasion of that; but I was.  I am betrothed to him, as he is to me, for five years.”

“And,” said her father, “my consent to that marriage you will never have; if you marry him, marry him, but you will marry him without my blessin’.”

“Jemmy Murray,” said Art, whose pride of family was fast rising, “who am I, and who are you?”

Margaret put her hand to his mouth, and said in a low voice—­

“Art, if you love me, leave it to my management.”