“An affection of the heart, eh?”
“It bees; and it’s sthrange—there’s a very sthrange sarcumstance connected wid the same girril.”
“What is it?”
“It’s now good ten years since I last saw her, and I’ve niver once brought her to mind till this same minute.”
“You certainly could not have thought much of her.”
“I sartinly did; I’ve just thought of what it was that brought her to mind. It’s this ould coat.”
“And how should that do it?” inquired young Smith, who seemed about the only one who felt any interest in the matter.
“The last time I saw her she had on jist the same article; Ah! but she looked swate in it. She was diggin pataties at the time. It was the same that had the sphlendid fut for yees—none ov yer little cramped up nothin’—but a reg’lar stunner—as flat as a pancake. Ah! she was a girril.”
Another great sigh, showed how deep the Irishman’s feelings were regarding his almost forgotten love.
“And her ringlets—ah! if ye could but have seen them. They war’nt twisted up like a nagur’s, but long and graceful with jist the slightest twist to ’em, and as red as the fire in me own pipe.”