“Phelim, you thief,” said the father, “what’s all that noise for?”

“Chrosh orrin!” (* The cross be about us!) said Molly Donovan, “is that tundher?”

“Devil carry these piatees,” exclaimed Phelim, raking them down with both hands and all his might, “if there’s any sittin’ at all upon them!  I’m levellin’ them to prevint Peggy, the darlin’, from slidderin’ an’ to give us time to be talkin’, somethin’ lovin’ to one another.  The curse o’ Cromwell an them!  One might as well dhrink a glass o’ whiskey wid his sweetheart, or spake a tinder word to her, on the wings of a windmill as here.  There now, they’re as level as you plase, acushla!  Sit down, you jewel you, an’ give me the egg-shell, till we have our Sup o’ the crathur in comfort.  Faith, it was too soon for us to be comin’ down in the world?”

Phelim and Peggy having each emptied the egg-shell, which among the poorer Irish is frequently the substitute for a glass, entered into the following sentimental dialogue, which was covered by the loud and entangled conversation of their friends about the fire; Phelim’s arm lovingly about her neck, and his head laid down snugly against her cheek.

“Now, Peggy, you darlin’ o’ the world—­bad cess to me but I’m as glad as two ten-pennies that I levelled these piatees; there was no sittin’ an them.  Eh, avourneen?”

“Why, we’re comfortable now, anyhow, Phelim!”

“Faith, you may say that—­(a loving squeeze).  Now, Peggy, begin an’ tell us all about your bachelors.”

“The sarra one ever I had, Phelim.”

“Oh, murdher sheery, what a bounce!  Bad cess to me, if you can spake a word o’ thruth afther that, you common desaver!  Worn’t you an’ Paddy Moran pullin’ a coard?”

“No, in throth; it was given out on us, but we never wor, Phelim.  Nothin’ ever passed betune us but common civility.  He thrated my father an’ mother wanst to share of half a pint in the Lammas Fair, when I was along wid them; but he never broke discoorse wid me barrin’, as I sed, in civility an’ friendship.”

“An’ do you mane to put it down my throath that you never had a sweetheart at all?”

“The nerra one.”

“Oh, you thief!  Wid two sich lips o’ your own, an’ two sich eyes o’ your own, an’ two sich cheeks o’ your own!  Oh,—­, by the tarn, that won’t pass.”

“Well, an’ supposin’ I had—­behave Phelim—­supposin’ I had, where’s the harm?  Sure it’s well known all the sweethearts, you had, an’ have yet, I suppose.”

“Be gorra, an’ that’s thruth; an’ the more the merrier, you jewel you, till, one get’s married.  I had enough of them, in my day, but you’re the flower o’ them all, that I’d like to spend my life wid”—­(a squeeze.)

“The sorra one word the men say a body can trust.  I warrant you tould that story to every one o’ them as well as to me.  Stop Phelim—­it’s well known that what you say to the colleens is no gospel.  You know what they christened you ‘Bouncin’ Phelim!”