“Well, little Foley, you are a queer little devil, and a real brick. I wish I’d something to give you, but I can’t get at my pocket, as you know.”
“Sure, I wouldn’t take anything, thank your honour,” she answered, with amusing hauteur, “not if it was gold itself.”
He stared down hard into the serious, uplifted eyes, and asked—
“But are you not Pat Foley’s girl; the one I see with the red head peeping through the gate at Foley’s corner?”
“Yes, ye’ honour, I am so.”
“You have done a good job for me to-day: you know that I’d like to do something for you. What would you say to a nice big doll?”
“Is it a doll? No, no!” reddening, “nothing, nothing.”
“Then I’m in your debt, and I hate to be in any one’s debt. You’ve got my hat, I see; I can’t put it on just now.”
“No, sir, I’ll take it up this evening; ye may be wanting it.”