“That you don't,” broke in Bella, whose gratitude for many a passing word of kindness, as he met her of a morning, willingly seized upon the opportunity for acknowledgment.
“My daughter has often told me of the kind way you always spoke to her.”
“Think of that, now,” muttered Terry to himself; “and I saying all the while to my own heart, ''T is a proud man you ought to be to-day, Terry Driscoll, to be giving good-morning to Miss Kellett of Kellett's Court, the best ould blood in your own county.'”
“Your health, Driscoll,—your health,” cried Kellett, warmly. “Let your head be where it will, your heart's in the right place, anyhow.”
“Do you say so, now?” asked he, with all the eagerness of one putting a most anxious question.
“I do, and I 'd swear it,” cried Kellett, resolutely. “'Tis too clever and too 'cute the world's grown; they were better times when there was more good feeling and less learning.”
“Indeed—indeed, it was the remark I made to my sister Mary the night before last,” broke in Driscoll. “'What is there,' says I, 'that Miss Kellett can't teach them? They know the rule of three and What 's-his-name's Questions as well as I know my prayers. You don't want them to learn mensuration and the use of the globes?' 'I 'll send them to a school in France,' says she; 'it's the only way to be genteel.'”
“To a school in France?” cried Bella; “and is that really determined on?”
“Yes, miss; they 're to go immediately, and ye see that was the reason I walked out here in the rain to-night I said to myself, 'Terry,' says I, 'they 'll never say a word about this to Miss Kellett till the quarter is up; be off, now, and break it to her at once.'”
“It was so like your own kind heart,” burst out Bella.