“I don’t believe you, Tim O’Rorke,” said she, boldly; “but it’s just like you to make little of what’s another’s.”
“You have the family tongue if you haven’t their fortune,” said he, with a laugh. “Are you tired, coming so far?”
“Not a bit; I took the short cut by Lisnacare, and came down where the waterfall comes in winter, and it saved more than four miles of the road.”
“Ay, but you might have broken your neck.”
“My neck was safe enough,” said she, saucily.
“Perhaps you could trust your feet if you couldn’t your head,” said he, mockingly.
“I could trust them both, Tim O’Rorke; and maybe they’d both bring me farther and higher than yours ever did you.”
“There it is again; it runs in your blood; and there never was one of your name that hadn’t a saucy answer.”
“Then don’t provoke what you don’t like,” said she, with a quivering lip, for though quick at reply she was not the less sensitive to rebuke.
“Take a knife and scrape those carrots, and, when you’ve done, wash those radishes well.”