“Sally, achora,” said Phelim, when he saw her in distress, “what’s the fun?  Where’s your father?”

“Oh, Phelim,” she replied, bursting into tears, “long runs the fox, but he’s cotch at last.  My father’s in gaol.”

Phelim’s jaw dropped.  “In gaol! Chorp an diouol, no!”

“It’s thruth, Phelim.  Curse upon this Whiteboy business, I wish it never had come into the counthry at all.”

“Sally, I must see him; you know I must.  But tell me how it happened?  Was it at home he was taken?”

“No; he was taken this mornin’ in the market.  I was wid him sellin’ some chickens.  What’ll you and Sam Appleton do, Phelim?”

“Uz!  Why, what danger is there to either Sim or me, you darlin’?”

“I’m sure, Phelim, I don’t know; but he tould me, that if I was provided for, he’d be firm, an’ take chance of his thrial.  But, he says, poor man, that it ‘ud break his heart to be thransported, lavin’ me behind him wid’ nobody to take care o’ me.—­He says, too, if anything ’ud make him stag, it’s fear of the thrial goin’ against himself; for, as he said to me, what ’ud become of you, Sally, if anything happened me?”

A fresh flood of tears followed this disclosure, and Phelim’s face, which was certainly destined to undergo on that day many variations of aspect, became remarkably blank.

“Sally, you insinivator, I’ll hould a thousand guineas you’d never guess what brought me here to-day?”

“Arrah, how could I, Phelim?  To plan some thin’ wid my fadher, maybe.”

“No, but to plan somethin’ wid yourself, you coaxin’ jewel you.  Now tell me this—­Would you marry a certain gay, roguish, well-built young fellow, they call Bouncin’ Phelim?”

“Phelim, don’t be gettin’ an wid your fun now, an’ me in affliction.  Sure, I know well you wouldn’t throw yourself away upon a poor girl like me, that has nothin’ but a good pair of hands to live by.”

“Be me sowl, an’ you live by them.  Well, but set in case—­supposin’—­that same Bouncin’ Phelim was willing to make you mistress of the Half Acre, what ’ud you be sayin’?”

“Phelim, if a body thought you worn’t jokin’ them—­ah, the dickens go wid you, Phelim—­this is more o’ your thricks—­but if it was thruth you wor spakin’, Phelim?”

“It is thruth,” said Phelim; “be the vestment, it’s nothin’ else.  Now, say yes or no; for if it’s a thing that it’s to be a match, you must go an’ tell him that I’ll marry you, an’ he must be as firm as a rock.  But see, Sally, by thim five crasses it’s not bekase your father’s in I’m marryin’ you at all.  Sure I’m in love wid you, acushla!  Divil a lie in it.  Now, yes or no?”

“Well—­throth—­to be sure—­the sorra one, Phelim, but you have quare ways wid you.  Now are you downright in airnest?”

“Be the stool I’m sittin’ on!”

“Well, in the name o’ Goodness, I’ll go to my father, an’ let him know it.  Poor man, it’ll take the fear out of his heart.  Now can he depind on you, Phelim?”