"The saints be good to us! There's a dale of ignorance in the world; but come now, tell me, what is it that makes you lave off your work, evry now an' thin, lookin', for all the world, as cute as a concaited gandher."
"Why, thin, Moll machree, I'll tell you; but you must promise not to make fun o' me, for it's your good that's iver foremost in me heart."
"The blessin's on your lovin' sowl! I know it is."
"Well, then, Moll, come an' sit near me, an' lave off polishin' up that owld copper kittle; for I want to spake mighty sarious to you. Haven't you noticed that big, slated house that's just builded up, fornenst our very nose?"
"Of coorse I have."
"Yes, but do you know who's livin' in it? Who, but young Phil Blake, that was as poor as a thranieen, an' as ragged as a mountain goat, in his ivry-day clothes, not more nor six months ago?"
"You don't say!"
"It's the mortial truth; didn't I see him awhile ago, struttin' up an' down the place, as proud as any other paycock, wid a blew coat on his back, covered over wid brass buttons, a'most as big as fryin' pans, enough to dazzle the eyes out of a Christian's head; an' he ordherin' the min about, as importint as you plaze. Phil Blake, of all fellows in the worrild, that niver had the ghost of a fippenny-bit to bless himself wid, to see him now, crammin' his fists into his breeches pockets, an jinkin' the goold an' the silver about, in the most aggravatin' way."
"But where did he get it all?"
"That's the chat—where? Guess, won't you?"