“Whisht, you darlin’!” he exclaimed.  “Sure you’ll have Bouncin’ Phelim to comfort you.  But now that he has shut the door, what—­hem—­I’d take it as a piece o’ civility if you’d open my eyes a little; I mane—­hem—­was it—­is this doin’ him, or how?  Are you—­hem—­do you undherstand me, Mrs. Doran?”

“What is it you want to know, Phelim?  I think everything is very plain.”

“Oh, the divil a plainer, I suppose.  But in the mane time, might one axe, out o’ mere curiosity, if you’re in airnest?”

“In airnest!  Arrah, what did I give you my money for, Phelim?  Well, now that everything is settled, God forgive you if you make a bad husband to me.”

“A bad what?”

“I say, God forgive you if you make a bad husband to me.  I’m afeard, Phelim, that I’ll be too foolish about you—­that I’ll be too fond of you.”

Phelim looked at her in solemn silence, and then replied—­“Let us trust in God that you may be enabled to overcome the weakness.  Pray to Him to avoid all folly, an’ above everything, to give you a dacent stock of discration, for it’s a mighty fine thing for a woman of your yea—­hem—­a mighty fine thing it is, indeed, for a sasoned woman, as you say you are.”

“When will the weddin’ take place, Phelim?”

“The what?” said Phelim, opening his brisk eye with a fresh stare of dismay.

“Why, the weddin’, acushla.  When will it take place?  I think the Monday afther the last call ’ud be the best time.  We wouldn’t lose a day thin.  Throth, I long to hear my last call over, Phelim, jewel.”

Phelim gave her another look.

“The last call!  Thin, by the vestment, you don’t long half as much for your last call as I do.”

“Arrah, Phoilim, did you take the—­the—­what you wor wantin’ awhile agone?  Throth, myself disremimbers.”

“Ay, around dozen o’ them.  How can you forget it?”

The idiot in the corner here gave a loud snore, but composed himself to sleep, as if insensible to all that passed.

“Throth, an’ I do forget it.  Now, Phelim, you’ll not go till you take a cup o’ tay wid myself.  Throth, I do forget it, Phelim darlin’, jewel.”

Phelim’s face now assumed a very queer expression.  He twisted his features into all possible directions; brought his mouth first round to one ear and then to the other; put his hand, as if in great pain, on the pit of his stomach; lifted one knee up till it almost touched his chin, then let it down, and instantly brought up the other in a similar manner.

“Phelim, darlin’, what ails you?” inquired the tender old nymph.  “Wurrah, man alive, aren’t you well?”

“Oh, be the vestment,” said Phelim, “what’s this at all?  Murdher, sheery, what’ll I do!  Oh, I’m very bad!  At death’s door, so I am!  Be gorra, Mrs. Doran, I must be off.”

“Wurrah, Phelim dear, won’t you stop till we settle everything?”