"By all that's excruciating, old Tom Gallagher."
Rory turned as pale as a turnip.
"And the confounded little coquette who bamboozled you to day," I continued, courageously, despite of Rory's dark frown, "and who conglomerated my reasoning faculties in the same way, was Miss Polly O'Connor."
It was now Rory's turn to have his mechanism bothered.
"What do you mean?" he whispered, tremblingly.
"I mean," said I, "that this very morning, Miss Polly O'Conner swore as binding an oath as ever flashed out of a pair of eyes, or was sealed upon a pair of lips, that I was to have the fee simple of her heart for life, and to settle the affair, we are to meet this evening, at eight o'clock, in Duffy's borieen, at the little stile leading into Murphy's lane."
"Just the spot, and just the time, by Jove, that I was to be there for the same purpose," cried Rory, gnashing his teeth in a biting rage.
For a few moments, we stood silently regarding each other, and at last, broke into a violent fit of laughter; it was what old Tom himself, confound his coppery heart, would call "the crisis;" we were cured—not immediately, however—the dangerous point was passed—time and low diet did the rest.
The inhuman little savage confessed, shortly after, that she had adopted that nefarious plan, in order that, by meeting together, we might—how, she didn't care—come to some explanation with regard to the duality of our attachment, and the double duplicity of our Tipperary Venus.
And now to return—it's a long way back, but never mind. I'm riding an old hack; few that's used to such journeys. To my first intention; that is, to illustrate the position in Fairydom of the Leprechaun.