“Well, certainly, Mike, I agree with you, these are hard things to tear ourselves away from.”
“Aren’t they now, sir? And then Miss Catherine, I’m taching her Irish!”
“Teaching her Irish! for Heaven’s sake, what use can she make of Irish?”
“Ah, the crayture, she doesn’t know better; and as she was always bothering me to learn her English, I promised one day to do it; but ye see, somehow, I never was very proficient in strange tongues; so I thought to myself Irish will do as well. So, you perceive, we’re taking a course of Irish literature, as Mr. Lynch says in Athlone; and, upon my conscience, she’s an apt scholar.”
“‘Good-morning to you, Katey,’ says Mr. Power to her the other day, as he passed through the hall. ‘Good-morning, my dear; I hear you speak English perfectly now?’
“‘Honia mon diaoul,’ says she, making a curtsey.
“Be the powers, I thought he’d die with the laughing.
“‘Well, my dear, I hope you don’t mean it,—do you know what you’re saying?’
“‘Honor bright, Major!’ says I,—‘honor bright!’ and I gave him a wink at the same time.
“‘Oh, that’s it!’ said he, ‘is it!’ and so he went off holding his hands to his sides with the bare laughing; and your honor knows it wasn’t a blessing she wished him, for all that.”